"Who told you that?" demanded Lanky, with sudden interest.
"Th' feller Lewis sent up in yore place."
"What?" shouted both in one voice, and Lanky gave a terse description of
Butch Lynch. "That him?"
"That's him," answered Buck. "But he was alone. He 'll be in soon,
'long with Bill an' Red--which way did you come?" he demanded eagerly.
"Why, that was through his section--bet he saw you an' pulled out!"
Skinny reached for his rifle: "I'm goin' to see," he remarked.
"I 'm with you," replied Buck.
"Me, too," asserted Lanky, but he was pushed back.
"You stay here," ordered Buck. "He might ride in. An' you 've got to
send Bill an' Red after us."
Lanky growled, but obeyed, and trained his rifle on the door. But the
only man he saw was Red, whose exit was prompt when he had learned the
facts.
Down on the south section Bill, unaware of the trend of events, looked
over the little pasture that nestled between the hills and wondered
where the small herd was. Up to within the last few days he always had
found it here, loath to leave the heavy grass and the trickling spring,
and watched over by "Old Mosshead," a very pugnacious steer. He scowled
as he looked east and shook his head. "Bet they 're crowdin' on th'
Weasel's section, too. Reckon I 'll go over and look into it. He 'll
be passin' remarks about th' way I ride sign." But he reached the river
without being rewarded by the sight of many of the missing cows and he
became pugnaciously inquisitive. He had searched in vain for awhile
when he paused and glanced up the river, catching sight of a horseman
who was pushing across at the ford. "Now, what's th' Weasel doin' over
there?" he growled. "An' what's his hurry? I never did put no trust in
him an' I 'm going to see what's up."
Not far behind him a tall, lean man peered over the grass-fringed bank
of a draw and watched him cross the river and disappear over the further
bank. "Huh!" muttered Skinny, riding forward toward the river. "That
_might_ be one of Peters' punchers; but I 'll trail him to make shore."
Down the river Red watched Bill cross the stream and then saw a stranger
follow. "What th' h--l!" he growled, pushing on. "That's one of 'em
trailin' Bill!" and he, in turn, forded the river, hot on the trail of
the stranger.
Bill finally dismounted near the mesa, proceeded on foot to the top of
the nearest rise, and looked down into the canyon at a point where it
widened into a circular basin half a mile across. Dust was arising in
thin clouds as the missing cows, rounded up by three men, constantly
increased the rustlers' herd. To the northwest lay the mesa, where the
canyon narrowed to wind its tortuous way through; to the southeast lay
the narrow gateway, where the towering, perpendicular cliffs began to
melt into the sloping sides of hills and changed the canyon into a
swiftly widening valley. The sight sent the puncher running toward the
pass, for the herd had begun to move toward that outlet, urged by the
Weasel and his nervous companions.
Back in the hills Skinny was disgusted and called himself names. To
lose a man in less than a minute after trailing him for an hour was more
than his sensitive soul could stand without protest. Bill had
disappeared as completely as if he had taken wings and flown away. The
disgusted trailer, dropping to all-fours because of his great height,
went ahead, hoping to blunder upon the man he had lost.
Back of him was Red, whose grin was not so much caused by Skinny's
dilemma, which he had sensed instantly, as it was by the inartistic
spectacle Skinny's mode of locomotion presented to the man behind.
There was humor a-plenty in Red's make-up and the germ of mischief in
his soul was always alert and willing; his finger itched to pull the
trigger, and the grin spread as he pondered over the probable antics of
the man ahead if he should be suddenly grazed by a bullet from the rear.
"Bet he 'd go right up on his head an' kick," Red chuckled--and it took
all his will power to keep from experimenting. Then, suddenly, Skinny
disappeared, and Red's fretful nature clawed at his tropical vocabulary
with great success. It was only too true--Skinny had become absolutely
lost, and the angry Bar-20 puncher crawled furiously this way and that
without success, until Skinny gave him a hot clew that stung his face
with grit and pebbles. He backed, sneezing, around a rock and wrestled
with his dignity. Skinny, holed up not far from the canyon's rim, was
throwing a mental fit and calling himself outrageous names. "An' he's
been trailin' _me_! H--l of a fine fool I am; I 'm awful smart today, I
am! I done gave up my teethin' ring too soon, I did." He paused and
scratched his head reflectively. "Huh! _This_ is some populous region,
an' th' inhabitants have pe-culiar ways. Now I wonder who's trailin'
him? I 'm due to get cross-eyed if I try to stalk 'em both."
A bullet, fired from an unexpected direction, removed the skin from the
tip of Skinny's nose and sent a shock jarring clean through him. "Is
that him, th' other feller, or somebody else?" he fretfully pondered,
raising his hand to the crimson spot in the center of his face. He did
not rub it--he rubbed the air immediately in front of it, and was
careful to make no mistake in distance. The second bullet struck a rock
just outside the gully and caromed over his head with a scream of
baffled rage. He shrunk, lengthwise and sidewise, wishing he were not
so long; but he kept on wriggling, backward. "Not enough English," he
muttered. "Thank th' Lord he can't masse!"
The firing put a different aspect on things down in the basin. The
Weasel crowded the herd into the gap too suddenly and caused a bad jam,
while his companions, slipping away among the bowlders and thickets,
worked swiftly but cautiously up the cliff by taking advantage of the
crevices and seams that scored the wall. Climbing like goats, they
slipped over the top and began a game of hide and seek over the
bowlder-strewn, chaparral-covered plateau to cover the Weasel, who
worked, without cover of any kind, in the basin.
Red was deep in some fine calculations of angles when his sombrero slid
off his head and displayed a new hole, which ogled at him with Cyclopean
ferocity. He ducked, and shattered all existing records for the crawl,
stopping finally when he had covered twenty yards and collected many
thorns and bruises. He had worked close to the edge of the cliff and as
he turned to circle back of his enemy he chanced to glance over the rim,
swore angrily and fired. The Weasel, saving himself from being pinned
under his stricken horse, leaped for the shelter of the cover near the
foot of the basin's wall. Red was about to fire again when he swayed
and slipped down behind a bowlder. The rustler, twenty yards away,
began to maneuver for another shot when Skinny's rifle cracked viciously
and the cattle thief, staggering to the edge of the cliff, stumbled,
fought for his balance, and plunged down into the basin. His companion,
crawling swiftly toward Skinny's smoke, showed himself long enough for
Red to swing his rifle and shoot offhand. At that moment Skinny caught
sight of him and believed he understood the situation. "You Conners or
Cassidy?" he demanded over the sights. Red's answer made him leap
forward and in a few moments the wounded man, bandaged and supported by
his new friend, hobbled to the rim of the basin in time to see the last
act of the tragedy.
The gateway, now free of cattle, lay open and the Weasel dashed for it
in an attempt to gain the horses picketed on the other side. He had
seen George plunge off the cliff and knew that the game was up. As he
leaped from his cover Skinny's head showed over the rim of the cliff and
his bullet sang shrilly over the rustler's head. The second shot was
closer, but before Skinny could try again Red's warning cry made him
lower the rifle and stare at the gateway.
The Weasel saw it at the same time, slowed to a rapid walk, but kept on
for the pass, his eyes riveted malevolently on the youth who had
suddenly arisen from behind a bowlder and started to meet him.
"It's easy to get him now," growled Skinny, starting to raise the rifle,
a picture of Lanky's narrow escape coming to his mind.
"Bill's right in line," whispered Red, leaning forward tensely and
robbing his other senses to strengthen sight. "They 're th' best in th'
Southwest," he breathed.
Below them Bill and the Weasel calmly advanced, neither hurried nor
touching a gun. Sixty yards separated them--fifty--forty--thirty--"G--d
A'mighty!" whispered Skinny, his nails cutting into his calloused palms.
Red only quivered. Twenty-five--twenty. Then the Weasel slowed down,
crouching a little, and his swinging hands kept closer to his thighs.
Bill, though moving slowly, stood erect and did not change his pace.
Perspiration beaded the faces of the watchers on the cliff and they
almost stopped breathing. This was worse than they had expected--forty
yards would have been close enough to start shooting. "It's a pure case
of speed now," whispered Red, suddenly understanding. The promised
lesson was due--the lesson the Weasel had promised to give Bill on the
draw. Accuracy deliberately was being eliminated by that cold-blooded
advance. Fifteen yards--ten--eight--six--five--and a flurry of smoke.
There had been no movement to the eyes of the watchers--just smoke, and
the flat reports, that came to them like two beats of a snare drum's
roll. Then they saw Bill step back as the Weasel pitched forward. He
raised his eyes to meet them and nodded. "Come on, get th' cayuses. We
gotta round up th' herd afore it scatters," he shouted.
Red leaned against Skinny and laughed senselessly. "Ain't he a d--d
fool?"
Skinny stirred and nodded. "He shore is; but come on. I don't want no
argument with _him_."