TROUBLE AT RED GULCH
The second bird was liberated at noon, and was quickly on its way,
observed eagerly by the girls of the Overland unit and their
companions of the Circle O ranch. The pigeon did not seem to deviate
a hair’s breadth from the line followed by the first bird.
“Isn’t it wonderful to be a bird and go where the wind listeth?”
murmured Emma Dean.
“It would be, but they don’t,” answered Miss Briggs laughingly.
“Wind is the pigeon’s enemy and unless it is with them they have to
fight it, and in doing so are frequently lost. I happen to know some
things about carrier pigeons, for I have seen them work and heard
much about them in France. Once a pigeon becomes lost and has to
come down, he loses his ambition, or his confidence, or
something—at least something seems to have gone out of him, and,
even if he returns at all, he seldom can be depended upon to make
another flight. I venture to say that not all the birds we are
sending out will reach their loft.”
“So long as the boys see the majority of them we do not care,” said
Nora. “Oh, I hope they do.”
The boys did—that is, Hippy, Sam and Pete saw the second bird going
over and watched it until it flew out of sight. Now they knew that
they were on the right trail. The five o’clock bird was the last one
seen by any of the men, and it was Lieutenant Wingate who discovered
it. The bird was flying so low that it seemed to be skimming the
tops of the slender mountain pines. Observing this Hippy hurried on
to join Sam Conifer, whom he found in about half an hour.
“Go easy from now on, Sam,” he cautioned.
“You know somethin’?” demanded the guide.
“The bird that just went over was flying very low. That indicates
that he has located his cote and is reaching for it. I do not
believe it can be more than a mile or two away from here. Shall I
take the lead now?”
“No! I’ll take it myself,” snapped the guide. Sam was irritable, but
Hippy laid it to the guide’s wound and his weakened condition. As a
matter of fact it was neither. Sam’s nerves were on edge and his
rheumatic fingers were “crinkling,” for he could almost feel the
feel of a gun in his right hand.
“Very well. I shall keep up close to you, just the same,” announced
Hippy. “If you come upon something you’ll need assistance. The men
at the rear are instructed not to shoot until they are positive
about what they are shooting at, so there is not much danger of
their firing at us.”
Sam answered with a grunt and started on. Half an hour later he
halted to wait for his companion to come up to him.
“What is it?” whispered Hippy.
“I got er whiff o’ smoke. Mebby it’s the makin’s o’ a forest fire,
an’ mebby ’tain’t. We’ll leave the ponies heah an’ go on afoot. Ye
better wait an’ tell ’em so they don’t blunder on an’ spoil the
game.”
The “game”! What a game it was, a game of life and death, thought
Lieutenant Hippy Wingate, as he tethered the mustangs at one side of
the trail and sat down to rest and wait.
It was about this time that Stacy Brown was taking his departure
from the cabin of the mountain ruffians, not dreaming that a friend
was so near at hand. In the meantime Sam had begun moving forward
slowly, making scarcely a sound, so light were his footsteps, the
right hand nervously twitching over the protruding butt of his
revolver.
The guide brought up sharply with his whiskers standing out at an
angle, and listened attentively. He had heard a human laugh, and Sam
knew quite well that it could not be behind him, for his companions
were not in a laughing mood that evening. He picked his way forward
a little farther and again halted and listened.
A shout startled him and his muscles tensed. It was a shout of
anger, at first sounding as though from a distance, then all at once
near at hand. Stacy Brown’s escape had been discovered, and the
mountain ruffians were running about in search of him, but by this
time the boy was some distance away. When it was discovered that one
of the ponies was missing the rage of the rustlers knew no
restraint, and each was seeking for an excuse to place the
responsibility on his companions.
“Somethin’ goin’ on over thar, but I’m dad-busted if I knows what
it’s all ’bout,” muttered Sam.
Two shots rang out almost as one, and the old gunman knew what that
meant. Two rustlers had fired, but one had been a fraction of a
second quicker than the other, and one probably was out of the
fight, for there were no more shots, and the voices of the rustlers
became more subdued.
Sam Conifer moved up a little closer. Lieutenant Wingate, too, had
heard the shots and was growing restless, but dared not leave his
position until Tom, Two-Gun and Idaho came up.
By this time Conifer had discovered the cabin. Fortunately for his
purposes, all the rustlers were now in the cabin excitedly
discussing the escape of their prisoner, and considering what they
had better do. It was the opinion of the wiser ones that Brown never
would be able to find the place again, which was probably true, and
that the other prisoner was still in their possession. It was
decided, therefore, to keep a sharp lookout and collect all the
money from the Overlanders that they possibly could, then dispose of
the man they still held. It would not do to let that man get away.
As it developed later the two rustlers who had shot at each other
had missed, whereupon their companions intervened and peace was
restored, as Sam Conifer learned a few moments later from such
snatches of conversation as he could catch.
The old guide crept up the granite slope a noiseless shadow, and as
he neared the open door of the cabin he crouched with every faculty
on the alert, his right hand twitching, eyes slowly searching the
faces of the men under the light of a lantern swinging from a beam
in the center of the room. Sam raised himself erect and glided
noiselessly to the door. There he stood for a full minute, his gaze
shifting from one to another of the men gathered there and finally
coming to rest on the dark, swarthy face of one who looked to be a
Mexican, and whose attitude and peremptory speech plainly showed
that he was the leader of the party.
“I’ve been thinkin’. The boy’ll be home prob’ly some time in the
morning, but he can’t be ’lowed to git thar. We’ve got to put a man
on his trail with a light, bad as it be to do thet, an’ run him down
afore he gits thar. Bad-Eye, it’s up to you to do the job, an’ if ye
do it right, the boy’ll be a dead dude by mornin’. If he ain’t I’ll
go git him myself, fer he ain’t no good.”
“I reckon ye lie!”
It was a thunderbolt, hurled at them by Sam Conifer from the
doorway, and half a dozen hands flew to as many revolver holsters.
“Put ’em back!”
The command was uttered with an incisiveness that cut like a
keen-edged blade, and the hands of the mountain ruffians sagged away
from their holsters ever so little.
“I’ve got somethin’ to say to ye cayuses fust. After I gits finished
ye kin shoot. Ye’r a fine bunch of mavericks, ain’t ye?” drawled
Sam.