The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod Raine
dispatched on a fast horse for help.
Late in the afternoon he brought back with him Doctor Lee, and half an hour after sunset Yorky and Slim galloped up. They were for settling the matter out of hand by stringing the convict Struve up to the nearest pine, but they found the ranger so very much on the spot that they reconsidered.
“He’s my prisoner, gentlemen. I came in here and took him—that is, with the help of my friend Siegfried. I reckon if you mill it over a spell, you’ll find you don’t want him half as bad as we do,” he said mildly.
“What’s the matter with all of us going in on this thing, lieutenant?” proposed Yorky.
“I never did see such a fellow for necktie parties as you are, Yorky. Not three weeks ago, you was invitin’ me to be chief mourner at one of your little affairs, and your friend Johnson was to be master of ceremonies. Now you’ve got the parts reversed. No, I reckon we’ll have to disappoint you this trip.”
“What are you going to do with him?” asked Yorky, with plain dissatisfaction.
“I’m going to take him down to Gimlet Butte. Arizona and Wyoming and Texas will have to scrap it out for him there.”
“When, you get him there,” Yorky said significantly.
“Yes, when I get him there,” answered the Texan blandly, carefully oblivious of the other’s implication.
The moon was beginning to show itself over a hill before the Texan and Siegfried took the road with their captive. Fraser had carelessly let drop a remark to the effect that they would spend the night at the Dillon ranch.
His watch showed eleven o’clock before they reached the ranch, but he pushed on without turning in and did not stop until they came to the Howard place.
They roused Alec from sleep, and he cooked them a post-midnight supper, after which he saddled his cow pony, buckled on his belt, and took down his old rifle from the rack.
“I’ll jog along with you lads and see the fun,” he said.
Their prisoner had not eaten. The best he could do was to gulp down some coffee, for he was in a nervous chill of apprehension. Every gust of wind seemed to carry to him the patter of pursuit. The hooting of an owl sent a tremor through him.
“Don’t you reckon we had better hurry?” he had asked with dry lips more than once, while the others were eating.
He asked it again as they were setting off.
Howard looked him over with rising disgust, without answering. Presently, he remarked, apropos of nothing: “Are all your Texas wolves coyotes, Steve?”
He would have liked to know at least that it was a man whose life he was protecting, even though the fellow was also a villain. But this crumb of satisfaction was denied him.
Chapter XVII.
On the Road to Gimlet Butte
“We’ll go out by the river way,” said Howard tentatively. “Eh, what think, Sig? It’s longer, but Yorky will be expecting us to take the short cut over the pass.”
The Norwegian agreed. “It bane von chance, anyhow.”
By unfrequented trails they traversed the valley till they reached the cañon down which poured Squaw Creek on its way to the outside world. A road ran alongside this for a mile or two, but disappeared into the stream when the gulch narrowed. The first faint streaks of gray dawn were lightening the sky enough for Fraser to see this. He was riding in advance, and commented upon it to Siegfried, who rode with him.
The Norwegian laughed. “Ay bane t’ink we do some wadin’.”
They swung off to the right, and a little later splashed through the water for a few minutes and came out into a spreading valley beyond the sheer walls of the retreat they had left. Taking the road again, they traveled faster than they had been able to do before.
“Who left the valley yesterday for Gimlet Butte, Sig?” Howard asked, after it was light enough to see. “I notice tracks of two horses.”
“Ay bane vondering. Ay t’ink mebbe West over——”
“I reckon not. This ain’t the track of his big bay. Must ‘a’ been yesterday, too, because it rained the night before.”
For some hours they could see occasionally the tracks of the two horses, but eventually lost them where two trails forked.
“Taking the Sweetwater cutout to the Butte, I reckon,” Howard surmised.
They traveled all day, except for a stop about ten o’clock for breakfast, and another late in the afternoon, to rest the horses. At night, they put up at a ranch house, and were in the saddle again early in the morning. Before noon, they struck a telephone line, and Fraser called up Brandt at a ranch.
“Hello! This Sheriff Brandt? Lieutenant Fraser, of the Texas Rangers, is talking. I’m on my way to town with a prisoner. We’re at Christy’s, now. There will, perhaps, be an attempt to take him from us. I’ll explain the circumstances later.... Yes.... Yes.... We can hold him, I think, but there may be trouble.... Yes, that’s it. We have no legal right to detain him, I suppose.... That’s what I was going to suggest. Better send about four men to meet us. We’ll come in on the Blasted Pine road. About nine to-night, I should think.”
As they rode easily along the dusty road, the Texan explained his plan to his friends.
“We don’t want any trouble with Yorky’s crowd. We ain’t any of us deputies, and my commission doesn’t run in Wyoming, of course. My notion is to lie low in the hills two or three hours this afternoon, and give Brandt a chance to send his men out to meet us. The responsibility will be on them, and we can be sworn in as deputies, too.”
They rested in a grassy draw, about fifteen miles from town, and took the trail again shortly after dark. It was an hour later that Fraser, who had an extraordinary quick ear, heard the sound of men riding toward them. He drew his party quickly into the shadows of the hills, a little distance from the road.
They could hear voices of the advancing party, and presently could make out words.
“I tell you, they’ve got to come in on this road, Slim,” one of the men was saying dogmatically. “We’re bound to meet up with them. That’s all there is to it.”
“Yorky,” whispered Howard, in the ranger’s ear.
They rode past in pairs, six of them in all. As chance would have it, Siegfried’s pony, perhaps recognizing a friend among those passing, nickered shrilly its greeting. Instantly, the riders drew up.
“Where did that come from?” Yorky asked, in a low voice.
“From over to the right. I see men there now See! Up against that hill.” Slim pointed toward the group in the shadow.
Yorky hailed them. “That you, Sig?”
“Yuh bane von good guesser,” answered the Norwegian.
“How many of you are there?”
“Four, Yorky,” Fraser replied.
“There are six of us. We’ve got you outnumbered, boys.”
Very faintly there came to the lieutenant the beat of horses’ feet. He sparred for time.
“What do you want, Yorky?”
“You know what we want. That murderer you’ve got there—that’s what we want.”
“We’re taking him in to be tried, Yorky. Justice will be done to him.”
“Not at Gimlet Butte it won’t. No jury will convict him for killing Jed Briscoe, from Lost Valley.