The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand
grew serious.
“We’ll take a chance that you may be right. At least we can ride down the river bank and see if there are any fresh tracks in the sand. If Silent started this morning I have an idea he’ll head across the river and line out for the railroad.”
In twenty minutes their breakfast was eaten and they were in the saddle. The sun had not yet risen when they came out of the willows to the broad shallow basin of the river. In spring, when the snow of the mountains melted, that river filled from bank to bank with a yellow torrent; at the dry season of the year it was a dirty little creek meandering through the sands. Down the bank they rode at a sharp trot for a mile and a half until Black Bart, who scouted ahead of them at his gliding wolf-trot, came to an abrupt stop. Dan spoke to Satan and the stallion broke into a swift gallop which left the pony of Tex Calder labouring in the rear. When they drew rein beside the wolf, they found seven distinct tracks of horses which went down the bank of the river and crossed the basin. Calder turned with a wide-eyed amazement to Dan.
“You’re right again,” he said, not without a touch of vexation in his voice; “but the dog stopped at these tracks. How does he know we are hunting for Silent’s crew?”
“I dunno,” said Dan, “maybe he jest suspects.”
“They can’t have a long start of us,” said Calder. “Let’s hit the trail. Well get them before night.”
“No,” said Dan, “we won’t.”
“Why won’t we?”
“I’ve seen Silent’s hoss, and I’ve ridden him. If the rest of his gang have the same kind of hoss flesh, you c’n never catch him with that cayuse of yours.”
“Maybe not today,” said Calder, “but in two days we’ll run him down. Seven horses can’t travel as two in a long chase.”
They started out across the basin, keeping to the tracks of Silent’s horses. It was the marshal’s idea that the outlaws would head on a fairly straight line for the railroad and accordingly when they lost the track of the seven horses they kept to this direction. Twice during the day they verified their course by information received once from a range rider and once from a man in a dusty buck-board. Both of these had sighted the fast travelling band, but each had seen it pass an hour or two before Calder and Dan arrived. Such tidings encouraged the marshal to keep his horse at an increasing speed; but in the middle of the afternoon, though black Satan showed little or no signs of fatigue, the cattle-pony was nearly blown and they were forced to reduce their pace to the ordinary dog-trot.
CHAPTER XVII
THE PANTHER’S PAW
Evening came and still they had not sighted the outlaws. As dark fell they drew near a house snuggled away among a group of cottonwoods. Here they determined to spend the night, for Calder’s pony was now almost exhausted. A man of fifty came from the house in answer to their call and showed them the way to the horse-shed. While they unsaddled their horses he told them his name was Sam Daniels, yet he evinced no curiosity as to the identity of his guests, and they volunteered no information. His eyes lingered long and fondly over the exquisite lines of Satan. From behind, from the side, and in front, he viewed the stallion while Dan rubbed down the legs of his mount with a care which was most foreign to the ranges. Finally the cattleman reached out a hand toward the smoothly muscled shoulders.
It was Calder who stood nearest and he managed to strike up Daniels’s extended arm and jerk him back from the region of danger.
“What’n hell is that for?” exclaimed Daniels.
“That horse is called Satan,” said Calder, “and when any one save his owner touches him he lives up to his name and raises hell.”
Before Daniels could answer, the light of his lantern fell upon Black Bart, hitherto half hidden by the deepening shadows of the night, but standing now at the entrance of the shed. The cattleman’s teeth clicked together and he slapped his hand against his thigh in a reach for the gun which was not there.
“Look behind you,” he said to Calder. “A wolf!”
He made a grab for the marshal’s gun, but the latter forestalled him.
“Go easy, partner,” he said, grinning, “that’s only the running mate of the horse. He’s not a wolf, at least not according to his owner—and as for being wild—look at that!”
Bart had stalked calmly into the shed and now lay curled up exactly beneath the feet of the stallion.
The two guests received a warmer welcome from Sam Daniels’ wife when they reached the house. Their son, Buck, had been expected home for supper, but it was too late for them to delay the meal longer. Accordingly they sat down at once and the dinner was nearly over when Buck, having announced himself with a whoop as he rode up, entered, banging the door loudly behind him. He greeted the strangers with a careless wave of the hand and sat down at the table. His mother placed food silently before him. No explanations of his tardiness were asked and none were offered. The attitude of his father indicated clearly that the boy represented the earning power of the family. He was a big fellow with broad, thick wrists, and a straight black eye. When he had eaten, he broke into breezy conversation, and especially of a vicious mustang he had ridden on a bet the day before.
“Speakin’ of hosses, Buck,” said his father, “they’s a black out in the shed right now that’d make your eyes jest nacherally pop out’n their sockets. No more’n fifteen hands, but a reg’lar picture. Must be greased lightnin’.”
“I’ve heard talk of these streaks of greased lightnin’,” said Buck, with a touch of scorn, “but I’ll stack old Mike agin the best of them.”
“An’ there’s a dog along with the hoss—a dog that’s the nearest to a wolf of any I ever seen.”
There was a sudden change in Buck—a change to be sensed rather than definitely noted with the eye. It was a stiffening of his body—an alertness of which he was at pains to make no show. For almost immediately he began to whistle softly, idly, his eyes roving carelessly across the wall while he tilted back in his chair. Dan dropped his hand close to the butt of his gun. Instantly, the eyes of Buck flashed down and centered on Dan for an instant of keen scrutiny. Certainly Buck had connected that mention of the black horse and the wolf-dog with a disturbing idea.
When they went to their room—a room in which there was no bed and they had to roll down their blankets on the floor—Dan opened the window and commenced to whistle one of his own wild tunes. It seemed to Calder that there was a break in that music here and there, and a few notes grouped together like a call. In a moment a shadowy figure leaped through the window, and Black Bart landed on the floor with soft padding feet.
Recovering from his start Calder cursed softly.
“What’s the main idea?” he asked.
Dan made a signal for a lower tone.
“There ain’t no idea,” he answered, “but these Daniels people—do you know anything about them?”
“No. Why?”
“They interest me, that’s all.”
“Anything wrong?”
“I guess not.”
“Why did you whistle for this infernal wolf? It makes me nervous to have him around. Get out, Bart.”
The wolf turned a languid eye upon the marshal.
“Let him be,” said Dan. “I don’t feel no ways nacheral without havin’ Bart around.”
The marshal made no farther objections, and having rolled himself in his blankets was almost immediately asleep and breathing heavily. The moment Dan heard his companion draw breath with a telltale regularity, he sat up again in his blankets. Bart was instantly at his side. He patted the shaggy head lightly, and pointed towards the door.
“Guard!” he whispered.
Then