SURROUNDED
Above, a pale, hot sky with only a wisp of cloud; below, a semi-arid
"pasture," scant in grass, seamed by tortuous gullies and studded with
small, compact thickets and bulky bowlders. A wall of chaparral,
appearing solid when viewed from a distance, fenced the pasture, and
rising boldly from the southwest end of the clearing a towering mass
of rock flung its rugged ramparts skyward. Nature had been in a sullen
mood when this scene had been perpetrated and there was no need of men
trying to heighten the gloomy aspect by killing each other. Yet they
were trying and had been for a week, and they could have found no
surroundings more in keeping with their occupation.
Minute clouds of smoke spurted from the top of the wall and from the
many points of vantage on the pasture to hang wavering for an instant
before lazily dissipating in the hot, close air. In such a sombre
setting men had elected to joke and curse and kill, perhaps to die;
men hot with passion and blood-lust plied rifles with deliberate
intent to kill. On one side there was fierce deep joy, an exultation
in forcing the issue, much as if they had tugged vainly at a leash and
suddenly found themselves free. They had been baited, tricked, robbed,
and fired upon and now, their tormentors penned before them, there
would be no cessation in their efforts to wipe out the indignities
under which they had chafed for so long a time.
On the other side, high up on a natural fortress which was considered
impregnable, lay those who had brought this angry pack about them.
There was no joy there, no glad eagerness to force the battle, no
jokes nor laughter, but only a grim desperation, a tenacious holding
to that which the others would try to take. On one side aggression; on
the other, defence. Fighters all, they now were inspired by the
merciless end always in their minds; they were trapped like rats and
would fight while mind could lay a plan or move a muscle. Of the type
which had out-roughed, out-fought for so long even the sturdy, rough
men who had laid the foundation for an inland empire amid dangers
superlative, they knew nothing of yielding; and to yield was to die.
It was survivor against survivor in an even game.
"Ah, God!" moaned a man on the mesa's lofty rim, staggering back
aimlessly before he fell, never to rise again. His companions regarded
him curiously, stolidly, without sympathy, as is often the case where
death is constantly expected. Dal Gilbert turned back to his rifle and
the problems before him. "So you've gone, too. An' I reckon we'll
follow"--such was Chet Bates' obituary.
In a thicket two hundred yards south of the mesa Red Connors worked
the lever of his rifle, a frown on his face. "I got him, all right. Do
you know who he is?"
"No; but I've seen him in Eagle," replied Hopalong, lowering the
glasses. "What's worrying me is water--my throat's drying awful."
"You shouldn't 'a forgot it," chided Red. "Now we've got to go without
it all day."
Hopalong ducked and swore as he felt of his bleeding face. "Purty
close, that!"
"Mind what yo're doing!" replied Red. "Get off my hand."
"This scrap is shore slow," Hopalong growled. "Here we've been doing
this for a whole week, all of us shot up, an' only got two of them
fellers."
"Well, yo're right; but there ain't a man up there that ain't got a
few bullet holes in him," Red replied. "But it is slow, that's shore."
"I've got to get a drink, an' that's all about it," Hopalong asserted.
"I can crawl in that gully most of th' way, an' then trust a
side-hopping dash. Anyhow, I'm tired of this place. Johnny's got th'
place for _me_."
"You better stay here till it's dark, you fool."
"Aw, stay nothing--so long," and Hopalong, rifle in hand, crawled
towards the gully. Red watched the mesa intently, hoping to be able to
stop some of the firing his rash friend was sure to call forth.
Twenty minutes passed and then two puffs of smoke sailed against the
sky, Red replying. Then half a dozen puffs burst into sight. A faint
shout came to Red's ears and he smiled, for his friend was safe.
As Hopalong gained the chaparral he felt himself heartily kicked and,
wheeling pugnaciously, looked into Buck Peters' scowling face. "Yo're
a healthy fool!" growled the foreman. "Ain't you got no sense at all?
Hereafter you flit over that pasture after dark, d'y hear!"
"He's th' biggest fool I ever saw, an' th' coolest," said a voice in
the chaparral at the left.
"Why, hullo, Meeker," Hopalong laughed, turning from Buck. "How do you
like our little party now?"
"I'm getting tired of it, an' it's some costly for me," grumbled the
H2 foreman. "Bet them skunks in Eagle have cleaned out every head I
owned." Then he added as an afterthought: "But I don't care a whole
lot if I can see this gang wiped out--_Antonio_ is th' coyote _I'm_
itching to stop."
"He'll be stopped," replied Hopalong. "Hey, Buck, Red's shore
thirsty."
"He can stay thirsty, then. An' don't you try to take no water to him.
You stay off that pasture during daylight."
"But it was all my fault--" Hopalong began, and then he was off like a
shot across the open, leaping gullies and dodging around bowlders.
"Here you!" roared Buck, and stopped to stare, Meeker at his side. A
man was staggering in circles near a thicket which lay a hundred yards
from them. He dropped and began to crawl aimlessly about, a good
target for the eager rifles on the mesa. Bullets whined and shrilled
and kicked up the dust on the plain, but still the rushing Bar-20
puncher was unhit. From the mesa came the faint crackling of rifle
fire and clouds of smoke hovered over the cover sheltering Red
Connors. Here and there over the pasture and along the chaparral's rim
rifles cracked in hot endeavor to drive the rustlers from their
positions long enough to save the reckless puncher. Buck and Meeker
both were firing now, rapidly but carefully, muttering words of hope
and anxiety as they worked the levers of their spurting guns. Then
they saw Hopalong gain the prostrate man's side, drag him back to
cover, and wave his arm. The fire from the mesa was growing weaker and
as it stopped Hopalong, with the wounded man on his back, ran to the
shelter of a gully and called for water.
"He's th' best man in this whole country!" cried Meeker, grabbing up a
canteen and starting to go through the chaparral to give them water.
"To do that for one of _my_ men!"
"I've knowed that for nigh onto fifteen years," replied Buck.
Near the Eagle trail Billy Williams and Doc Riley lay side by side,
friendly now.
"I tell you we've been shooting high," Doc grumbled. "It's no cinch
picking range against that skyline."
"Hey! Look at Hopalong!" cried Billy, excitedly. "Blamed idiot--why,
he's going out to that feller. Lord! Get busy!"
"That's Curtis out there!" ejaculated Doc, angrily. "They've got him,
d--n 'em!"
"My gun's jammed!" cursed Billy, in his excitement and anger standing
up to tear at the cartridge. "I allus go an'--" he pitched sideways to
the sand, where he lay quiet.
Doc dropped his rifle and leaped to drag his companion back to the
shelter of the cover. As he did so his left arm was hit, but he
accomplished his purpose and as he reached for his canteen the Bar-20
pessimist saved him the trouble by opening his eyes and staring
around. "Oh, my head! It's shore burning up, Doc!" he groaned. "What
th' devil happened that time, anyhow?"
"Here; swaller this," Doc replied, handing him the canteen.
"Who got me?" asked Billy, laying the vessel aside.
"How do I know? Whoever he was he creased you nice. His friends got me
in th' arm, too. You can help me fix it soon."
"Shore I will! We can lick them thieves, Doc," Billy expounded without
much interest. "Yessir," he added.
"You make me tired," Doc retorted. "You talking about being careful
when you stand up in plain sight of them fellers like you just did."
"Yes, I know. I was mad, an' sort of forgot about 'em being able to
shoot at me--but what happened out there, anyhow?"
Doc craned his neck. "There's Cassidy now, in that gully--Meeker's
just joined him. Good men, both of 'em."
"You bet," replied Billy, satisfied. "Yessir, we can lick 'em--we've
got to."
On the west side of the mesa, back in the chaparral and out of sight
of the rustlers, Pie Willis lay face down in the sand, quiet. Near him
lay Frenchy McAllister, firing at intervals, aflame with anger and a
desire to kill. Opposite him on the mesa, a scant three hundred yards
away, two rustlers gloated and fired, eager to kill the other puncher,
who shot so well.
"That other feller knows his business, Elder," remarked Nevada as a
slug ricochetted past his head. "Wonder who he is."
"Wonder _where_ he is," growled Elder, firing at a new place. "He's
been shifting a lot. Anyhow, we got one. There's so much smoke down
there I can't seem to place him. Mebby--" he fell back, limp, his
rifle clattering down a hundred feet of rock.
Nevada looked at him closely and then drew back to a more secure
position. "We're even, stranger, but we ain't quits, by a good deal!"
He swore. _Zing-ing-ing!_ "Oh, you know I moved, do you!" he gritted.
"Well, how's _that_!" _Spat_! a new, bright leaden splotch showed on
the rock above his head and hot lead stung his neck and face as the
bullet spattered. "I'll get you yet, you coyote!" he muttered,
changing his position again. "Ah, _h--l_!" he sobbed and dropped his
rifle to grasp his right elbow, shattered by a Winchester .45. Pain
shot through every fibre of his body and weakened him so he could not
crawl for shelter or assistance. He swayed, lost his balance and
swayed further, and as his side showed beyond the edge of his rocky
rampart he quivered and sank back, helpless, pain-racked, and bleeding
to death from two desperate wounds.
"We was--tricked--up here!" he moaned. "That must--be Red--Connors out
there. Ah!" _Spat! Chug! Spat!_ But Nevada did not hear them now.
Down in the chaparral, Frenchy, getting no response to his shots,
picked up his glasses and examined the mesa. A moment later he put
them back in the case, picked up his rifle and crawled towards his
companion.
"Pie!" he called, touching the body. "Pie, old feller! I got 'em both
for you, Pie--got 'em--" screened by the surrounding chaparral he
stood up and shook a clenched fist at the sombre, smoke-wreathed pile
of rock and shouted: "An' they won't be all! Do you hear, you thieves?
_They won't be all!_"
Lying in a crack on the apex of a pinnacle of rock a hundred yards
northwest of the mesa Johnny Nelson cursed the sun and squirmed around
on the hot stone, vainly trying to find a spot comparatively cool,
while two panic-stricken lizards huddled miserably as far back in the
crack as they could force themselves. Long bright splotches marked the
stone all around the youthful puncher and shrill whinings came to him
out of the air, to hurtle away in the distance ten times as loud and
high-pitched. For an hour he had not dared to raise his head to aim,
and his sombrero, which he had used as a dummy, was shot full of
holes. Johnny, at first elated because of his aerial position, now
cursed it fervently and was filled with disgust. When he had begun
firing at sunrise he had only one man to face. But the news went
around among the rustlers that a fool had volunteered to be a target
and now three good shots vied with each other to get the work over
with quickly, and return to their former positions.
"I reckon I can squirm over th' edge an' drop down that split," Johnny
soliloquized, eying a ragged, sharp edge in the rock close at hand.
"Don't know where it goes to, or how far down, but it's cool, that's
shore."
He wriggled over to it, flattened as much as possible, and looked over
the edge, seeing a four-inch ledge ten feet below him. From the ledge
it was ten feet more to the bottom, but the ledge was what interested
him.
"Shore I can--just land on that shelf, hug th' wall an' they can't
touch me," he grinned, slipping over and hanging for an instant until
he stopped swinging. The rock bulged out between him and the ledge,
but he did not give that any thought. Letting go he dropped down the
face of the rock, shot out along the bulge and over his cherished
ledge, and landed with a grunt on a mass of sand and debris twenty
feet below. As he pitched forward to his hands he heard the metallic
warning of a rattlesnake and all his fears of being shot were knocked
out of his head by the sound. When he landed from his jump he was on
the wrong side of the crevice and among hot lead. Ducking and dodging
he worked back to the right side and then blew off the offending
rattler's head with his Colt. Other rattlers now became prominent and
Johnny, realizing that he was an unwelcome guest in a rattlesnake den,
made good use of his eyes and Colt as he edged towards the mouth of
the crevice. Behind him were rattlers; before him, rustlers who could
and would shoot. To say that he was disgusted is to put it mildly.
"Cussed joint!" he grunted. "This is a measly place for me. If I stay
I get bit to death; if I leave I get shot. Wonder if I can get to that
ledge--ugh!" he cried as the tip of a rattler's tail hung down from it
for an instant. "Come on! Bring 'em all out! Trot out th' tarantulas,
copper heads, an' Gilas! Th' more th' merrier! Blasted snake
hang-out!"
He glanced about him rapidly, apprehensively, and shivered. "No more
of this for Little Johnny! I'll chance th' sharp-shooters," he yelled,
and dashed out and around the pile so quickly as to be unhit. But he
was not hit for another reason, also. Skinny Thompson and Pete Wilson,
having grown restless, were encircling the mesa by keeping inside the
chaparral and came opposite the pinnacle about the time Johnny
discovered his reptilian neighbors. Hearing the noise they both
stopped and threw their rifles to their shoulders. Here was a fine
opportunity to lessen the numbers of the enemy, for the rustlers,
careless for the moment, were peering over their breastwork to see
what all the noise was about, not dreaming that two pairs of eyes
three hundred yards away were calculating the range. Two puffs of
smoke burst from the chaparral and the rustlers ducked out of sight,
one of them hard hit. At that moment Johnny made his dash and caused
smiles to flit across the faces of his friends.
"We might 'a knowed it was him!" laughed Skinny. "Nobody else would be
loco enough to pick out that thing."
"Yes; but now what's he doing?" asked Pete, seeing Johnny poking
around among the rocks, Colt in hand.
"Hunting rustlers, I reckon," Skinny replied. "Thinks they are
tunnelling an' coming up under him, I suppose. Hey! Johnny!"
Johnny turned, peering at the chaparral.
"What are you doing?" yelled Skinny.
"Hunting snakes."
Skinny laughed and turned to watch the mesa, from which lead was
coming.
"Can you cover me if I make a break?" shouted Johnny, hopefully.
"No; stay where you are!" shouted Pete, and then ducked.
"Stop yelling and move about some or you'll get us both hit," ordered
Skinny. "Them fellers can _shoot_!"
"Come on; let's go ahead. Johnny can stay out there till dark an' hunt
snakes," Pete was getting sarcastic. "Wonder if he reckons we came
here to get shot at just to hunt snakes!"
"No; we'll help him in," Skinny replied. "You'll find th' rattlers
made it too hot for him up there. Start shooting."
Johnny hearing the rapid firing of his friends, ran backwards, keeping
the pinnacle between him and his enemies as long as he could. Then,
once out of its shelter, he leaped erratically over the plain and
gained a clump of chaparral. He now had only about a hundred yards to
go, and Johnny could sprint when need was. He sprinted. Joining his
friends the three disappeared in the chaparral and two disgusted
rustlers helped a badly wounded companion to the rough hospital in the
hut at the top of the mesa trail.
Johnny and his friends had not gone far before Johnny, eager to find a
rustler to shoot at, left them to go to the edge of the chaparral and
while he was away his friends stumbled on the body of Pie Willis.
Johnny, moving cautiously along the edge of the chaparral, soon met
Buck and Hopalong, who were examining every square foot of the mesa
wall for a way up.
"Hullo, Johnny!" cried Hopalong. "What you doing here? Thought you was
plumb stuck on that freak rock up north."
"I was--an' _stuck_, for shore," grinned Johnny. "That rock is a nest
of snakes, besides being a fine place to get plugged by them fellers.
An' hot!"
"How'd you get away?"
"Pete an' Skinny drove 'em back an' I made my get-away. They're in th'
chaparral somewhere close," Johnny replied. "But why are you
telescoping at th' joker? Think you see money out there?"
"Looking for a place to climb it," Hopalong responded. "We're
disgusted with this long-range squibbing. You didn't see no breaks in
th' wall up where you was, did you?"
"Lemme see," and Johnny cogitated for a moment. Then his face cleared.
"Shore I did; there's lots of cracks in it, running up an' down, an' a
couple of ledges. I ain't so shore about th' ledges, though--you see I
was too busy to look for ledges during th' first part of th' seance,
and I dassn't look during th' last of it. There was three of 'em
a-popping at me!"
"Hey, Johnny!" came a hail; "Johnny!"
"That's Pete an' Skinny--Hullo!" Johnny shouted.
"Come here--Pie Willis is done for!"
"What?"
"Pie--Willis--is--done--for!"
The three turned and hastened towards the voice, shouting questions.
They found Skinny and Pete standing over the body and sombreros came
off as the foreman knelt to examine it. Pie had been greatly liked by
the members of the outfit he had lately joined, having been known to
them for years.
"Clean temple shot," Buck remarked, covering the face and arising.
"There's some fine shots up on that rock. Well, here's another reason
why we've got to get up there an' wipe 'em out quick. Pie was a white
man, square as a die and a good puncher--I wouldn't have asked for a
better pardner. You fellers take him to camp--we're going to find a
way to square things if there is one. No, Pete, you an' Johnny carry
him in--Skinny is going with us."
Buck, Hopalong, and Skinny returned to the edge of the pasture and the
foreman again swept the wall through his glasses. "Hey! What's that? A
body?"
Hopalong looked. "Yes, two of 'em! I reckon Pie died game, all right."
"Well, come on--we've got to move along," and Buck led the way north,
Skinny bringing up the rear. Next to Lanky Smith, at present nursing
wounds at the ranch, Skinny was the best man with a rope in the Bar-20
outfit and the lariat he used so deftly was one hundred and fifty feet
in length, much longer than any used by those around the mesa. Buck
had asked him to go with them because he wished to have his opinion as
to the possibility of getting a rope up the mesa wall.
When they came opposite the rock which had sheltered Johnny they
sortied to see if that part of the mesa was guarded, but there was no
sign of life upon it. Then, separating, they dashed to the midway
cover, the thicket, which they reached without incident. From there
they continued to the pinnacle and now could see every rock and seam
of the wall with their naked eyes. But they used the glasses and after
a few minutes' examination of the ledges Hopalong turned to his
companions. "Just as Johnny said. Skinny, do you reckon if you was
under them to-night that you could get yore rope fast to th' bottom
one?"
"Shore; that's easy. But it won't be no cinch roping th' other,"
Skinny replied. "She sticks out over th' first by two feet. It'll be
hard to jerk a rope from that narrow foothold."
"Somebody can hang onto you so you can lean out," Buck replied. "Pete
can hold you easy."
"But what'll he hold on to?"
Hopalong pointed. "See that spur up there, close to th' first ledge?
He can hitch a rope around that an' hang to th' rope. I tell you it's
_got_ to be done. We can't lose no more men in this everlasting
pot-shooting game. We've got to get close an' clean up!"
"Well, I ain't saying nothing different, am I?" snapped Skinny. "I'm
saying it'll be hard, an' it will. Now suppose one of them fellers
goes on sentry duty along this end; what then?"
"We'll solve that when we come to it," Hopalong replied. "I reckon if
Red lays on this rock in th' moonlight that he can drop any sentry
that stands up against th' sky at a hundred yards. We've got to try
it, anyhow."
"_Down!_" whispered Buck, warningly. "Don't let 'em know we're here.
Drop that gun, Hoppy!"
They dropped down behind the loose bowlders while the rustler passed
along the edge, his face turned towards the pinnacle. Then, deciding
that Johnny had not returned, he swept the chaparral with a pair of
glasses. Satisfied at length that all was well he turned and
disappeared over a rocky ledge ten feet from the edge of the wall.
"I could 'a dropped him easy," grumbled Hopalong, regretfully, and
Skinny backed him up.
"Shore you could; but I don't want them to think we are looking at
this end," Buck replied. "We'll have th' boys raise th' devil down
south till dark an' keep that gang away from this end."
"I reckon they read yore mind--hear th' shooting?" Skinny queried.
"That must be Red out there--I can see half of him from here,"
Hopalong remarked, lowering his glasses. "Look at th' smoke he's
making! Wonder what's up? Hear th' others, too!"
"Come on--we'll get out of this," Buck responded. "We'll go to camp
an' plan for to-night, an' talk it over with th' rest. I want to hear
what Meeker's going to do about it an' how we can place his men."
"By thunder! If we _can_ get up there, half a dozen of us with Colts,
an' sneak up on 'em, we'll have this fight tied up in a bag so quick
they won't know what's up," Skinny remarked. "You can bet yore life
that if there's any way to get a rope up that wall I'll do it!"