The Man From Bar-20, Clarence E. Mulford [distant reading TXT] 📗

on his back, the old Remington in one hand and Colonel Bowie lying along the other, its handle up his sleeve and the keen point extending beyond his fingers.

A coyote might have heard him moving, but th task was beyond human ears; and after a few minutes he stopped suddenly and sniffed. The faint odor of a fire told him that he was getting close to a camp, and a moment later a distant flare lit up the treetops in the canyon proper. Looking down he noticed the buckle of his belt, thought that it was too bright, and wrapped a bandanna handkerchief around it. Slipping the sixshooter into its holster he moved forward again, bent over, going swiftly and silently, his feet avoiding twigs, branches, and pebbles as though he had eyes in his toes. Rounding the southern Twin he melted into the darkness at the side of a bowlder and peered cautiously over the rock.

A great, crackling fire sent its flames towering high in the air from a little clearing at the lower end of a path which went up the side of the butte and became lost in the darkness. Examining the scene with shrewd, keen, and appraising eyes, he waited patiently. A burst of fire darted from the top of the northern Twin and a strange voice jeered softly in the distance. From the top of the southern butte came an answering jeer in a voice which he instantly recognized.

“Treed, by G-d!” he chuckled gleefully. “Reckon he’ll be tickled to see me. Wonder how long he’s been up there?”

A piece of wood curved into the circle of illumination and landed on the blazing fire, sending a stream of sparks soaring up the mesa wall.

“There’s Number Two,” soliloquized Luke cheerfully, “feedin’ th’ fire an’ watchin’ th’trail. Cuss him for a fool I Some of them sparks will get loose, an I hell will be a nice, quiet place compared to this canyon. Well, now I got to rustle around an’ locate ‘em all; an’ this ain’t no place or time for no shootin’, neither.”

Half an hour later Fleming tossed more wood on the fire and settled back to fight mosquitoes. A glittering streak shot through the air and he crumpled without a sound. A shadow moved and a silent form wriggled through the brush and among the bowlders and retrieved the knife, took the dead man’s weapons and wriggled back again. It slipped noiselessly across the canyon, searched along the base of the northern Twin, found the wide, up-slanting trail and flitted along it, pausing frequently to look, sniff, and listen. Reaching the top of the butte, it wriggled from bowlder to bowlder, ridge to ridge, systematically covering every foot of the plateau, and steadily working nearer the southern rim.

Holbrook yawned, stretched, and yawned again. He picked up his rifle and scowled into the canyon, where the fire engaged his critical attention.

“That lazy cuss is lettin’ it burn too low,” he growled. “Wonder if he’s asleep!” He laughed and shook his head. “Nope; don’t believe even Art could sleep down there, with them mosquitoes pesterin’ him. This suits me, right herel”

He looked around uneasily. “I do so much layin’ around out here in daytime that I can’t sleep nights,” he grumbled, not willing to admit that he felt uneasy. “Funny how a man’s nerres will get hummln’ when he’s on a job like this. It shore is monotonous.” Looking around agdn, he shifted so that he could see part of the mesa top behind him, and tried to shake off the premonition of evil which persisted in haunting him.

“How many cows you thieves sold so far?” called a voice from the other buttc.

“Nowhere near as many as we’re goin’ to get,” retorted Holbrook, laughing. “Changin’ yore mind?” he jeered.

“Not me; I wouldn’t work with no teethin’ infants. I’d rather work alone. I associates with men, I do.”

“You’ll ‘sociate with dead men purty soon,” sneered Holbrook. “We got you just where we—” the words choked into a gurgle and a lean, vague figure moved slowly forward from behind a ridge,

“What’s th’ matter?” ironically demanded the man on the southern Twin. “Swaller yore cigarette? That’s a good thing. You want to practice swallerin’ hot things because tomorrow yo’re goin’ to swaller a snub-nosed Special.” Pausing, Johnny waited expectantly for an answer, but receiving none, he grunted cheerfully. “All r’ght; go to blazes!”

The fire burned lower and lower and Johnny became suspicious. If the rustler on the other butte hoped to keep him engaged in snappy conversation when the fire grew low, there was no telling what the man in the canyon might do; so he crept to the top of the trail and peered down it, scanning the wall intently, half expecting to glimpse some swift, shadowy movement; but his alertness was not rewarded.

“Wonder how long Hoppy or Red would loaf on a game like this,” he grinned, “if they was down there! But there ain’t many of their breed runnin’ around.”

An hour passed and the fire was a mass of glowing embers, now and then relieved by a spasmodic burst of flame, which flickered up and died. Across the little clearing a shadowy form moved slowly backward, chuckling softly. If there were any more rustlers around, one of them certainly would have investigated why the fire was allowed to die; and Luke felt quite confident that he had accounted for all of them who were in the vicinity. Still, he argued, nothing was a certainty which depended upon circumstantial evidence, and he did not relax his caution as he moved away.

Johnny, straining his eyes in trying to discover signs of enemies on the trail, suddenly stiffened, listening eagerly with every nerve taut. Again came the voice, barely audible. Moving to the outer edge of the butte he peered over cautiously, well knowing that he could see nothing.

“Tell Red his pants wear well!” floated up to him out of the canyon.

Johnny moved a little and leaned farther over after a glance at the black sky assured him that he would not be silhouetted for a marksman below.

”’ Does William, Junior, chew tobacco?’ “persisted the whisper.

Johnny wriggled back and sat bolt upright, incredulous, doubting his senses. “What th’ devil!” he muttered. “Am I loco?”

“‘We was scared he’d die,’” continued the canyon.

Taking another good look down the threatening trail, Johnny wriggled to the edge and again looked down.

”’ Pete paid Red th’ eight dollars,’ “said the chasm, a little louder and with a note of irritation.

“Who th’ devil are you?” demanded Johnny loudly.

“Not so loud. Luke Tedrue,” whispered the darkness. “How many of them skunks are around here?”

“Yo’re a liar!” retorted Johnny angrily. “An’ a fool!”

“Go to th’ devil!” snapped the canyon.

“Come around in daylight an’ I’ll send you to him!” growled Johnny. “Think I’m a fool?”

There was no answer, and, fearful of a trick, Johnny wriggled back to his snug cover at the head of the trail, finding that the fire had become only a dull, red mass of embers which gave out almost no light.

“You shore got me guessin’,” he grumbled; “but I reckon mebby I’m guessin’ purty good, at that You just try it, cuss you!”

Luke explored the canyon again to make assurance doubly sure, and again approached the great wall.

“‘Does William, Junior, chew tobacco? ’” he demanded.

Johnny squirmed, but remained where he was. “You can’t fool me!” he shouted peevishly.

“Reckon not; yo’re as wise as a jackass, a dead one,” said Luke. “You stubborn fool, listen to this: ‘Don’t look for no word from me. I’m goin’ west, to try it from back of Twin Buttes. They’ve drove me out.” The voice was plainer now. “How many of ‘em are out here?”

Johnny grinned suddenly, for in the increase in the power of the voice he recognized a friend.

“Hello, Luke, you old skunk!” he called, laughing. “Glad to see you. There’s four been hangin’ around but there’s only two now, or three at th’ most. Look out for ‘em. Goin’ to try to come up?”

“No, not a-tall,” replied Luke. “There’s enough of our outfit up there now. I only found two of th’ thieves, but th’ third may be hid som’ers well back, ‘though I’ve shore hunted a-plenty.”

“Found two?”

“Yep; one down here, an’ t’other up there. Colonel Bowie pushed ‘em over th’ Divide. Comin’ down?”

“When that fire’s out.”

“How’d they come to drive you up there?”

“I come up myself. Couldn’t watch while I slept; an’ I had to sleep. Now that there’s two of us it’s all right.”

“You called th’ turn. Get yore traps together an’ I’ll fix th’ fire. Where’s yore cayuse?”

“Up here. Don’t bother with th’ fire. Be right down.”

Half an hour later Johnny reached the bottom of the trail and paused.

“Red’s pants,’ “said a humorous voice.

“Come on, Luke. We’ll hold up somewhere an’ get th’ relief shift when it comes out from th’ ranch.”

“Shore. Where’s th’ ranch?”

“‘Bout three miles west; an’ it’s a cussed fine one, too.”

“All right; get movin’. I want to dry out these pants. They must be all cotton from th’ way they feel. We’ll go back a ways an’ start a fire.”

“No, we won’t; too dangerous,” growled Johnny decidedly. “We got this game won right now if we don’t let ‘em know there’s two of us.”

Luke grinned in the dark. “Suits me. You wait here a minute,” he said, disappearing. When he returned he grunted with keen satisfaction, for Fleming’s trousers felt snug and warm. “How many are left?” he asked, leading the way toward his hidden pack.

“Quigley, Purdy, Gates, an’ th’ cook.”

“Them names don’t surprise me,” grunted Luke.

“How’d you get so wet?”

“Swimmin’,” growled Luke.

“Yore shirt feels dry.”

“It is, around th’ shoulders; but th’ tail feels like th’ devil. But it’s wool, all through.”

“Was you trailin’ Ackerman an’ Long Pete?”

“Nope; didn’t trail nobody a-tall. How many cows they got?”

“Plenty, d—n ‘em!” growled Johnny.

“What you been doin’ up here all this time; an’ how many have you got?”

“Three; I’ve been busy.”

“Why, you had time to get ‘em all.”

“Didn’t dare do any shootin’ till I had to,” replied Johnny. “Didn’t want ‘em to know I was up here. A gun makes a lot of noise.”

Luke chuckled grimly. “Shore! That’s what I allus said; an’ that’s why I use Colonel Bowie. He don’t even whisper.”

Johnny snorted with disgust. “Huh! I ain’t knifin’ or shootin’ from ambush. There’s some things I won’t do!”

“Uppish, huh?” chuckled Luke. “Well, young man, mebby ambushin’ ain’t yore style, but I feels free to remark that it’s mine in any game like this. Them pants feel good. That river’s gettin’ colder every year.”

“River!” ejaculated Johnny, pausing in his surprise. “What river?”

“Deepwater, of course. How many rivers do you reckon we got out here?”

“Th’ devil!” muttered Johnny. “Say! When did you leave th’ ranch?”

“‘Bout three o’clock. I’d ‘a’ been here sooner, only I hoofed it from th’ river. Cayuses can’t go where a man can; they make a lot of noise, an’ a man sticks up too cussed prominent in a saddle. They ain’t worth a cuss in this kind of country when trouble’s afoot.”

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” grunted Johnny.

“Pull up; here we are,” said Luke, stopping and bending over some rocks, which he rolled aside. “Rocks are reg’lar telltales. They has a dark side an’ a light side; an’ th’ deeper they’re set in th’ ground, th’ bigger th’ dark side is. When you want to cache with ‘em, you picks them that sets on th’ ground; an’ you don’t turn ‘em wrong side up, neither. Then a little sand used right will fix things