Part 8

“Not very well,” admitted Bill dryly. “You remember the day Tucson was killed?”

“---- right!” grunted Mike John. “Pablo and Tucson go to Antelope. Pablo go get money from Big Jim. Pablo pay Tucson in Antelope. Pablo come home bimeby. Nex’ day Tucson come home dead.”

“That’s how it was, eh?”

Bill grew thoughtful. There was not much of a clue in that.

“What Big Jim’s girl do here that day?” queried Mose.

“Is she Big Jim’s girl?” asked Slim.

“---- right. Big Jim marry her--mebbe.”

“Mebbe,” grinned Bill Smith.

“Why she come?” persisted Mose.

“You remember Tex Rowland?” asked Bill.

“---- right!”

“All right.”

Bill squatted on his heels and drew out his tobacco. The others squatted with him and watched his fingers as he deftly rolled a cigarette and handed the sack around the circle. Then:

“Tex Rowland write letter to that girl. You _sabe_?”

The two breeds nodded quickly.

“Tex Rowland give letter to Tucson Charley and tell him to give to girl. Tucson give letter to girl; _sabe_? She write on same letter and give back to Tucson Charley. She tell him to give it to Tex Rowland. Tucson Charley put letter in pocket. Then he drink too much and somebody kill him. Letter gone. That’s what girl was out here to get. She wanted the letter. Now you _sabe_?”

“Somebody take letter?” queried Mike John.

“Yeah!”

“Tex Rowland give Tucson Charley letter? Tex Rowland in town?”

Bill laughed softly--

“Looks like it, Mike.”

“You think Tex Rowland kill Tucson Charley?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Um-m-m.”

Mike John inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl slowly out of his wide nostrils. Then--

“If Tex Rowland give Tucson Charley letter--Tex Rowland kill Tucson Charley, so Tucson no tell where Tex hide.”

“By ----, that so!” Mose said explosively.

Bill got to his feet, a grin on his lips.

“Mike, have you got two good saddlehorses handy?”

“Two ---- good pinto. You want.”

“Bring ’em out, will yuh? We’ll slap our hulls on ’em, Slim. I reckon our broncs are about run to a frazzle.”

The two breeds trotted down to the corral where several painted horses were dozing in the shade, while Slim and Bill yanked the saddles off their sweat-stained animals and let them drift away loose.

“How in ---- did you know that Big Jim and Pablo had a quarrel, Bill?” queried Slim wonderingly.

“I didn’t. Those breeds are like children, Slim. I just had a hunch that they might have had a quarrel, but I didn’t ask Mike and Mose if they had; I said they had. If I’d ’a’ ask them the question, we’d never found out a thing.”

“Where are we goin’ now?” asked Slim.

“Back to Antelope, cowboy. When I get an idea I’ve got to run it plumb ragged, right away, or I might forget what it was.”

“All right, pardner,” grinned Slim. “Lemme in on the bloody details enough so I’ll _sabe_ when to yank m’ gun.”

“You’ll know when I do, Slim. Here’s the spotted broncs.”

* * * * *

The arrival of the sheriff and the two cowpunchers from the RMP caused plenty of excitement in Antelope. Biddy Toole shoved the doctor into a livery-rig, and they went out of town in a flurry of dust while the sheriff quickly swore in a posse to search the hills for Della Marsh.

The shooting of old Rory McPherson was only a detail compared with the kidnapping of Della Marsh. She was well-known in Antelope, and the sheriff had no trouble of getting more riders than he needed to fill up his posse. In fact, there were several independent detachments started out on their own hook, impatient to put a hangman’s knot under the left ear of the man, or men, who would steal a woman.

Big Jim was not in town, having left an hour or two previously for his ranch. McHague and Failing were there, but making no move to assist in the search. Failing was still half-drunk. The dogs had been locked in a store-room at the hotel, where ever and anon they lifted their voices in wailing lamentations.

Slim and Bill met the sheriff and posse a few miles out of town, but only stopped long enough to ask the sheriff the exact spot where old Rory had been found, before galloping into town and leaving their horses at the Fashion hitch-rack.

The town seemed deserted. There was no one, except the bartender and a couple of drunken old bar-flies, in the Fashion, and the bartender welcomed some one to talk to, bewailing the fact that he was too fat to straddle a horse and join the posse.

Failing and McHague started to come into the place, but McHague caught sight of Bill Smith and changed his mind. Failing came on in and joined them at the bar.

“Lots of excitement in the old town,” he observed. “I never seen folks get so excited over anythin’ in my life.”

“Mebbe you ain’t lived very long,” said Bill slowly. “Anythin’ is liable to happen to yuh, if yuh live long enough. Are you McHague’s hired man?”

“I’m employed by the prison--not by McHague.”

“What’s your job around the prison?” asked Slim.

“Oh, kinda general work. I take care of the dogs most of the time. I’m a trainer of bloodhounds. Whatcha drinkin’?”

They named their choice and the conversation lagged for a while. Then Bill Smith got another idea:

“Bloodhounds must be kinda queer critters, Failing. They ain’t noways savage, are they?”

“Nossir. Bloodhounds are the kindest thing yuh ever seen.”

“Well,” Bill laughed softly, “what’s to stop a man from just adoptin’ one when they’re after him?”

“You sure could, if they were turned loose; but we work ’em on a leash all the time.”

“Oh, that’s the idea, eh? And they can trail anybody by just sniffin’ somethin’ that the person has wore, can’t they?”

“They sure can. Them two dogs are the best you ever seen. I’ve got ’em locked up in that little buildin’ back of the hotel. Can’t take a chance with dogs as valuable as them two. Whatcha drinkin’?”

Bill winked at Slim, and when Failing was not looking they poured their drinks into a cuspidor. Round after round of drinks followed that one, until Failing became goggle-eyed and boastful. Slim and Bill became more sober, while the bartender spoke feelingly of ---- fools, who would pay good money for whisky and not drink it. But Failing did not pay any attention. He was having a good time.

“I sure reckon that you’ve got a fine pair of dogs,” agreed Bill Smith, after Failing had almost exhausted his vocal cords in describing some of their feats.

“I didn’t think so much about ’em, at the time,” he explained. “Dogs are just dogs to me, don’tcha know it? But after listenin’ to you, I’d sure like to see ’em ag’in.”

“Well, ----, come on!” gurgled Failing, shoving himself away from the bar. “I’ll show ’em to yuh. I c’n tell yuh lo’s of things ’bout dogs. I’m--I’m shome dogger, y’betcha.”

“Oh, that’s understood,” said Bill. “You’re a wizard. I betcha you know a lot more about dogs than the dogs know about themselves.”

“I don’t wan’ to brag, y’understand,” explained Failing. “I’m modesht, I am; but--c’mon.”

They followed him across the street, assisting him in keeping right side up. There was no sign of McHague, for which Bill was grateful. Failing led them to the rear of the hotel and fumbled with a key until Slim took it away from him and unlocked the door.

The two bloodhounds proceeded to climb all over their keeper and he sat down in the middle of the floor, slapping weakly at them. Slim shut the door behind them, laughing at the drunken Failing trying to protect himself from the dogs.

Then Failing gave it up as a bad job, stretched out on the floor and proceeded to snore raucously. The two dogs sat down on their haunches and looked sadly at him. They merely glanced at Bill, as he snapped the leashes on to their collars, but seemed willing to follow him.

“What’s the idea?” asked Slim.

“We’re goin’ to swipe these dogs, Slim. We’ll likely have to pack ’em in our arms when we get on our broncs.”

“I getcha,” snorted Slim. “We use ’em to trail Della, eh?”

Bill hesitated. There was one thing he had overlooked.

“We’ve got to have somethin’ that she wore, Slim.”

“By golly, that’s right, Bill! Say, she used to work at that little female’s hat-store just down the street, and mebbe they’ve got somethin’ there. You wait here, while I take a look.”

Slim was back in a few minutes, highly elated.

“I got her old apron,” he grinned. “The little female wanted to talk about it, but I didn’t have time. Now what do we do?”

“Get out of town. I hope to gosh that nobody sees us.”

They locked the door behind them, leaving Failing snoring peacefully. The dogs were willing to go fast, but the two cow-punchers snubbed them up close and went carefully back to the street.

There was no one in sight; so they hurried over to the hitch-rack and untied their horses. Both animals objected strenuously to having the bloodhounds hoisted upon them, but the two men were not concerned with the likes and dislikes of the two pinto horses.

As they swung into their saddles some one yelled at them from down the street, and they turned to see McHague running toward them from the hotel, waving his arms.

“Aw, ----!” snorted Slim, shifting the dog’s weight to his left hand and arm. “I s’pose I’ll have to kill this jigger.”

“There’s Big Jim ridin’ in,” chuckled Bill Smith, nodding toward the lower end of the street. “----, we might as well have advertised our departure.”

McHague was still coming, swearing at them for being a pair of thieves. The two pintos twisted and whirled around, anxious to run.

_Wham!_

Slim’s bullet splatted into the dust in front of McHague, and went _pouee-e-eing_ down the street. McHague stopped so quick that he almost fell on his face. Slim threw up his gun again, but McHague did not wait to see where the next shot would strike.

He whirled and went galloping down the street, losing his hat at the first jump. Slim yipped softly and sent another bullet straight down the street, over McHague’s head. McHague gave one long leap ahead, ducked sidewise and fairly fell over the sidewalk into an alley.

Then the two cowpunchers whirled their pinto mounts around and went galloping out of town, hanging on to the bloodhounds, which threatened to leave them at every jerk of the running horses.

“Yuh missed him both shots, Slim,” yelled Bill, as they swept out through the hills.

“Practise makes perfect,” laughed Slim joyously. “Mebbe I won’t miss him next time.”

Big Jim lost no time in riding up to McHague, who was sitting up in the alley, swearing bitterly. His pants were split at the knees and both of his hands were filled with splinters from the old sidewalk.

“They stole my hounds!” he howled at Big Jim. “That ---- friend of Tex Rowland’s swiped my dogs, so I couldn’t use ’em in trailin’ Tex. By ---- I’ll send ’em both up for this.”

Big Jim did not sympathize with McHague, who talked rather disjointedly about what he was going to do. Finally he bewailed the fact that the sheriff was out hunting for a kidnapper and that there was nobody to rescue his dogs.

“What in ---- are you talking about?” demanded Big Jim.

“Didn’t you hear about it?” queried McHague. “An old jigger named McPherson got shot and they can’t find his daughter. The whole ---- town, including the sheriff, is huntin’ for her.”

Big Jim grunted, swung off his horse and strode into the saloon, where he secured the rest of the information from the bartender, who was more than willing to tell all he knew. Big Jim’s jaw tightened as he turned and strode outside.

McHague was waiting outside for him. Big Jim considered him for a moment. Then:

“Go to the livery-stable and get a horse and saddle!” he barked. “Tell ’em to give you a good horse. Ask the stable-man to lend you a pair of chaps, too.”

McHague trotted toward the stable while Big Jim went into the bank, and came out in a minute carrying two rifles in scabbards. He swung on to his horse, rode down to the stable and helped McHague get ready. A few moments later they galloped out of Antelope, heading toward the northern part of the range.

VIII

It was fairly late in the afternoon when Slim and Bill found the spot where old Rory McPherson had been shot. The sheriff and posse had been there judging from the horse-tracks in the dusty road. Both men were almost exhausted from holding the dogs in their arms.

They dismounted and let the dogs sniff at Della’s old apron. Quickly they circled, nosing in the dust, while both men held a leash tightly. After a moment they worked off the side of the road, whining softly.

“The trail was just about ten feet long,” said Slim sadly, as the dogs converged and began circling again.

“She got off her horse, walked this far and got on again,” declared Bill. “But it looks like she went east. My ---- that’s an awful country to hunt anybody in.”

“But she can’t ride a horse very far into the Wild Horses,” observed Slim hopefully. “She’ll either walk or be carried by somethin’ besides a horse. What’ll we do, Bill?”

“Pack these ---- dogs as far as we can ride and then let ’em hunt for tracks. It’s goin’ to be dark before we can get very far and it looks like a storm.”

Thunder-heads were piling up back of the Wild Horses, but were yet too far away for the two cowpunchers to estimate the path of the storm. They picked up their dogs and rode straight toward the mountains.

“I’ve been up in them mountains in a storm,” said Bill, as he squinted narrowly at the clouds. “There’s a lot of mineral in them cliffs--iron, I reckon--and the way that old lightnin’ can splatter around up there is a caution to cats.”

“You’ve been up there?” queried Slim wonderingly.

Bill Smith bit his lip and shifted the weight of his dog. He had forgotten that Bill Smith was a stranger to that country. He glanced at Slim who was looking straight at him.

“On the other side of the range, Slim,” he said. “They’re the same on both sides.”

“Oh, yeah!”

Slim nodded, but Bill knew that the explanation had not been satisfactory. Several times during that ride toward the mountains, Bill noticed that Slim looked curiously at him.

It was almost dark when they reached the foot of the cliffs, where the mass of slide-rock precluded any further riding on horseback. They dismounted and tied the horses in a jack-pine thicket where they would be protected from rain and wind.

“It’s a ---- of a hopeless proposition,” observed Bill sadly. “All we can do is to skirt the slides and hope to ---- that these million-dollar hounds will pick up a scent. If it rains hard they won’t be no good to us, ’cause rain will wash out the scent.”

“Miles and miles of it, too,” said Slim hopelessly. “Mebbe we better give it up as a bad job, Bill.”

Bill squinted at the sky which was already overcast. A rumble of thunder came to their ears, but from a great distance. Bill turned and held out his hand to Slim as he said:

“Give me your dog, Slim. You stay here with the horses and wait for me to come back.”

“You aim to go it alone, Bill?” asked Slim.

“Sure.”

“Uh-huh.” Slim scratched the back of his head and spat reflectively. “You know this girl, Bill?”

“I’ve seen her. Why do yuh ask that, Slim?”

“Well,” Slim shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “You ain’t stuck on her, are yuh, Bill?”

“Mebbe,” Bill smiled softly.

“Me, too,” nodded Slim. “I’ve knowed her a long time, Bill. I reckon I’ve--but yuh see, she’s still stuck on Tex Rowland. We ain’t got a ghost of a chance--we ain’t. Yo’re a good lookin’ sort of a jigger, Bill; but that won’t help yuh none.”

Bill laughed softly and slapped Slim on the back.

“We won’t cut in on Tex Rowland, will we?” queried Slim. “I want her and you want her, but we’ll give Tex a square deal, won’t we, Bill?”

Bill Smith’s eyes softened as he looked into Slim’s honest face. Slim had confessed his love for Della Marsh, but was willing to stand aside for a man he believed to be hiding away from the law; a man he had helped send to prison.

“I just told yuh that so yuh’d know how I stood, Bill,” said Slim slowly.

“All right, pardner,” agreed Bill. “You’re a square-shooter and I’m with yuh. Now, let’s go and find her.”

They gave the hounds another scent of the calico apron before they started off across the slide-rock, traveling north. It was hard going. The light grew more dim each minute and the high walls of the cliffs were like inky towers, reaching into the sky.

The wind whipped into a gale, but as yet there was no rain. It screamed around the cliffs, and the night blotted out the landscape until neither of them was able to see the dogs which clambered over the rocks a few feet ahead of them, still pulling hard on their leash.

High-heeled boots are hardly the proper foot-gear for rocky traveling, even in daylight, and both men were almost exhausted after a mile of slipping and sliding. The storm was nearer now, but the lightning glare was broken by the high cliffs which threw them in the dense shadow.

Then Slim bumped into Bill and grasped him by the arm. They halted together, shielding their faces from the drift of rain which had just blown in. Another glare of lightning lighted up the world beyond them; a glare that held long enough for Bill to see why Slim had stopped him.

Just beyond them, and not over a hundred yards away, was a man on a pinto horse riding parallel with them. They could see him humped in his saddle, forcing the horse against the storm.

The flash faded, leaving them staring into inky blackness. For several moments they stood still, waiting for the next flash which showed the rider still going ahead. The thunder roared like the discharge of a mighty cannon and the rocks jarred heavily.

The two cowpunchers started on; but now they swung to the left and got out of the slide-rock where the traveling was better, but where the force of the storm almost blew them off their feet.

It was impossible to converse except by shouting into each other’s ears. The lightning did not show them the rider now, but they knew he must be still ahead of them; so they put down their heads and staggered on. It was raining harder now and they were getting drenched.

Through a jack-pine thicket they forced their way, skirting the slide-rock, stumbling over rocks, tearing their clothes on the branches of down-timber. Suddenly another flash of lightning sent its blinding glare down across the slopes, and both men stopped short. Just a few feet away stood the pinto, its rump turned toward the wind and rain, its head hanging down.

There was no sign of the rider. Bill and Slim moved close together, edging their way over to the pinto, which stood stock-still and let them make an examination.

“Tied to a snag!” Bill yelled his information into Slim’s ear. “Swing to the right! He must ’a’ gone toward the cliffs.”

They left the pinto and headed back into the land of slide-rock. The lightning gave them intermittent illumination, but between flashes the world was a vast, inky void. The rocks sloped upward, slippery with rain; but the two men and the dogs managed to make a certain progress, however painful.

They halted against the side of the protecting cliffs out of the force of the wind and tried to take stock of their surroundings. They were able to carry on a conversation here. The cliffs still jarred from the thunder, but the storm was working its way down the slopes into Antelope.

“Who in ---- was on that pinto?” queried Slim.

“I dunno,” said Bill pantingly, “but I’ll bet he ain’t up here for his health. The question is: Where did he go? It’s a cinch he didn’t go down-hill. Let’s pesticate along here, Slim.”

“All right. I’ll betcha these here dogs won’t be worth no thousand dollars when we get through with ’em. I’ve stepped on mine seven times.”

“They’re sure as ---- a patient animal,” laughed Bill. “If I ever want a dog that don’t care what happens to ’em, I’ll get me a bloodhound. C’m’on.”

Slowly they worked their way along the side of the cliff. It was difficult traveling, because they could not tell when a mis-step might drop them off into a fissure or on to a lower level. At times they were against the wall of rock, and at another they were forced to move away to circle an obstruction.

They had traveled possibly fifty yards and were working their way around a shelf of rock, when Slim’s voice arose in anger:

“C’m’on, you danged flop-eared mongrel! Where do yuh think yo’re goin’, anyway?”

“What’s the matter with him?” yelled Bill, who was slightly in the lead.

“Anchored, b’gosh! Whoa, you darned fool!”

The dog was pulling back on the leash and Slim almost fell down in turning around on a slippery rock. Bill came back and they went up to the dog. The other hound whined and managed to tangle the leash around Bill’s legs in its eagerness to get in on the situation.

“My dog’s hit a trail!” exclaimed Slim. “C’m’on, Bill!”

Bill untangled the leash and the hound immediately shot in past Slim.

“I wish t’ gosh I could see somethin’,” complained Slim. “I can feel this darned dog, but I can’t see him. I tell yuh he’s got a trail.”

“Mine’s got the fever, too!” exclaimed Bill. “Go to it, pup!”

Slowly they worked their way into what seemed to be a narrow passageway into the cliffs. At times they could feel the right-hand walls and again they would collide with those on the left side.

The dogs swung to the right for a distance and then to the left. The thunder had almost died away in the distance now and there was little sound, except the gurgle of running water off the rocks and the scrape of their boots, as they wended their way into a place where neither of them had ever been.

“It’s gettin’ wider out here,” said Slim, as they halted for a few moments. “I can feel it, Bill. That must ’a’ been a narrow gorge through there, don’tcha think?”

“Sure felt like it. Is your dog doin’ any pullin’ now?”

“Not so much. He sure was smellin’ somethin’ though. This must ’a’ been where the pinto rider came through. I’ll be danged if I like this idea of runnin’ blind in this place. Yuh never can tell what you’ll fall into. Didja ever see such a storm in your life? Honest to gosh, I got scared of that lightnin’.”

It was dark and dismal in there now, and a cold wind began to blow through their wet clothes. Both of the hounds were casting about, trying to locate a trail which had probably been washed out in the downpour of rain.

“We hit that trail where it was protected from the rain,” said Bill thoughtfully. “Now we’ve got to go by guess and by gosh.”

“Looks like it,” agreed Slim wearily, sloshing in his wet boots. “I don’t mind goin’, if I’ve got somewhere to go.”

* * * * *

They were staring into the black world ahead of them when suddenly there appeared a tiny light. It was impossible for them to tell what it was or how far it was away.

“Now that beats ----!” muttered Slim. “Looks like a light in a house; but there ain’t----!”

“It went out for a moment,” interrupted Bill. “There, it’s on again. It’s a light in a house, Slim; and somebody walked between the light and us.”

“But what house?” complained Slim. “There ain’t no house up here.”

“There she goes!” grunted Bill.

“By gosh, it is a house!” exploded Slim. “They done pulled down the curtain.”

“It’s a house all right,” muttered Bill. “I think they put out the light instead of pullin’ down a curtain. Let’s see if we can find a place to hang up for the night. I’ve got a idea that said house wouldn’t be a-tall friendly to us, Slim. It’s in a place where honest men wouldn’t pick for a home; and the best thing we can do is to wait until mornin’ before doin’ a lot of investigatin’. I reckon it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“You sure handled my idea to a gnat’s whisker,” agreed Slim. “But I dunno where we’ll find a bood-wah in these rocks. My gosh, this country sure has been laundered to the queen’s taste.”

They moved slowly on, feeling their way along, but working their way to the right of where they had seen the lighted window. Suddenly Slim gave a grunt of satisfaction.

“Found a place,” he said. “Bumped my head on it, too. Feels kinda dry.”