Flaming Feud, page 3
The occupant of the cabin slipped the cards into a coat pocket as Fiddlefoot's form darkened the doorway. "Well, well, well!" he hailed, with a geniality that ill-matched the bleakness of his appraising glance. "A visitor! Step right in, my dear sir!"
Fiddlefoot drew a deep breath, "You ain't — Butch Mulloy?"
"Indeed not!" smiled the other, "Creighton-Caldwell is the name—hyphened."
Still eying the rat dubiously, Fiddlefoot eased inside, "You rod this spread?"
"I won the Barred M," returned the Englishman lightly, "from one Butch Mulloy, in a poker game. He used a marked deck, I dealt from the bottom." Amusement danced in his cynical eyes.
Fiddlefoot eyed him curiously, trying to figure this fast-talking dude. "You win the rat, too?" he queried.
"David? No, I raised him in Yuma. An ideal companion in solitude, unassuming and never argumentative."
"Yuma!" The rider's eyebrows raised. This pilgrim with the casual voice and mocking eyes was either a colossal liar or a cool crook.
"Yes, my foot slipped—at a most unopportune moment," The Dude's voice tightened. "And Rock Hansen pushed me—into hell. Two years—17,472 lonely hours. That, my friend, leaves scars on a man's soul." Bitterness dripped from every word.
"Now Lady Luck makes Rock your neighbor!"
"Luck!" echoed the Englishman, "Do you think —" Then, as though he realized that he had said too much, he checked. The lazy smile again wreathed his features, his voice loosened,"Forgive me for whining to you, a stranger. The wound is still raw!"
He pushed back the box upon which he was seated and rose. "Would you fancy a spot of breakfast?"
"With the rat?"
"Oh, I forgot David!" He snapped his fingers. The rat scurried across the table, ran up his right pant leg and disappeared into an outside pocket of his tweed coat. Almost instantly, its nose thrust out and it regarded Fiddlefoot with bright little pink eyes.
"I'll be doggoned!" ejaculated the rider. He dropped down on a bench beside the table, watching the amazing Englishman as he stuffed more wood into the sheet-iron stove and set the frying pan to the heat, and pondered his words.
"So you won the Barred M," he commented, spooning brown sugar into his coffee.
"With seventy-five head of cattle, including two bulls, range count. That's what Mulloy claimed—the crook!" Creighton-Caldwell crossed the dirt floor, slid fried eggs and crisp bacon onto a clean plate, set a bag of store crackers beside it. "For two entire days I've hunted far and wide, and can't find one."
"This is a big country," returned Fiddlefoot, between mouthfuls, "Maybe they strayed back into the hills."
"Perhaps," agreed the Englishman doubtfully.
"You gonna stick to the cow business?"
"As long as it serves my purpose."
"What purpose?"
"That, my friend, comes under the category of personal business," came back the Dude coolly. Fiddlefoot grinned lamely in acknowledgment of the rebuke. The white rat popped out of the Englishman's pocket and ran nimbly up upon his shoulder, where it sat contentedly.
The blocky rider cleaned up his plate, moved away from the table and built a cigarette. The longer he considered this unusual pilgrim, the more puzzled he became. The Englishman's casual voice broke into his thoughts, "I assume you are riding the grub line, as they term it?"
"How would you know?"
Creighton-Caldwell nodded at his pony outside, "The brand is unfamiliar. No one would ride here except punchers from local ranches, hunting strays."
"So what?"
"I can use your services for a week or so, to find Butch's alleged herd and clean up this filthy joint."
He turned at the sound of a moving pony. Through the doorway, Fiddlefoot glimpsed Weary's form, as the puncher slid tiredly off a buckskin. The animal was as lean as himself, but it looked a whole lot faster.
The tall rider ducked low to pass through the doorway. He straightened, his eyes popped as he focused the rat on the Englishman's shoulder. "Freeze!" he snapped, and his gun came out with a speed that gave Fiddlefoot thought.
"Hold it!" drawled the Dude. "Pocket-David!" In a flash, the rat disappeared.
Weary stared in perplexity, pulling the lobe of a long ear. "It must be the sun," he muttered, "It sure ain't licker. I coulda sworn I lamped a rat on yore shoulder, pard—a rat in a white shirt."
"You did!" The Englishman snapped his fingers and a white head peeked out of a coat pocket.
"Jehoshaphat!" sighed Weary, sinking on his heels against the wall, "Now I seen everything."
"Meet Mr. Hyph—" began Fiddlefoot.
"Frederick Creighton-Caldwell," threw in the Dude negligently, "or, more familiarly, Freddy."
"Ramrod of the Barred M," concluded the rider.
"Freddy is hiring, he done lost a parcel of cows and craves 'em rounded up. Le's ramble!"
"I'll accompany you!" put in the Dude. "Just a few minutes gentlemen, while I police up." He pinned a towel around his waist, poured hot water into a pan, carefully rinsed the breakfast dishes and set them methodically upon a shelf. This done, he swabbed off the cracked oilcloth that was tacked to the table top and swept the floor with a bundle of twigs, tied to a stick. The two riders strolled outside.
"I've seen pilgrims, but never one like this," mused Weary. "He plays crooked cards, pins on an apron and nurses a white rat. What would yuh do with a jasper like thet—slip petticoats on the hombre and marry him off?"
"Don't let Freddy fool yuh," warned Fiddlefoot. "He's slick."
The three rode north, circled westward through the Black Hills and threaded the canyons and gullys of the malpais, riding the ridges and combing the draws, until they had worked south to the headwaters of West Fork-without a sign of hoof or horn.
"Ain't we on Boxed H range?" queried Weary.
"My range extends south and embraces Bitter Spring," explained the Englishman. He wiped off the sweat and dust that grimed his face with a dirty handkerchief that had been spotlessly white when he started out, for the sun was high and the flats a furnace.
"Boxed H claims the spring—and needs it."
Creighton-Caldwell stuffed the handkerchief into a pocket with a slow smile. "Mulloy assigned me the deed to the quarter-section upon which the spring is located."
"It's still Boxed H water," growled Weary. "Rock Hansen grabbed thet spring way back, and when Rock grabs he don't let go."
"Is that so?" challenged the Englishman.
Chapter 4
Four dust plumes curled lazily off the plain ahead, moving obliquely towards them. Four black dots came into view, dipping in and out of sight as they crossed the grey sweep of the swales. Gradually, a rider with three laden burros, canvas-covered loads bulking upon their cross-bucks, became plain.
"Lamped thet jasper in town," declared Weary, squinting across the sun drenched flats. "He spread word he was a prospector, working a claim in the hills with his pards. Them gents must hev appetites like elephants, seeing thet's the second load he packed out in a month." His guileless gaze strayed to Fiddlefoot.
At their approach, the packer drew rein, cocked a leg across his saddlehorn and leisurely built a smoke. He was a thick-set fellow, with a ragged, tobacco-stained mustache. Coarse, iron-grey hair curled from beneath his shapeless sombrero and his eyes held the eternal alertness Fiddlefoot had come to know too well—an alertness peculiar to men beyond the law.
The cigarette made, he hooked his right thumb in a sagging gunbelt, an inch or so above his iron.
"Howdy mister!" greeted Weary, politely."Gophering much gold out of them thar hills?"
"You'd be surprised!" came back the other, his tone noncommittal.
"You lamped seventy-four cows and two bulls in yore travels, alone or in company?"
"What brand?"
"Barred M."
The packer studied them with unmoved features, but the close-watching Fiddlefoot could have sworn ironic amusement glimmered in his eyes. "Nope," he drawled. He swung his brush-scarred chap clear of the horn, kneed his pony into motion. "So-long!"
Fiddlefoot followed the bobbing forms of the burros with thoughtful eyes. It didn't add up—a hard case in prospector's guise, with the soft hand of a gunman, packing enough supplies for a dozen men, twice a month.
"Don't you think," inquired Creighton-Caldwell, gripping the horn and easing his body out of the saddle with a pained expression, "it would be an excellent idea to return to the ranch. I'm a little saddle-sore and I have an infernal thirst."
Weary reached for his waterbag.
"Not that kind of thirst!" said the Dude, with quick reproach.
They wheeled northward again and for awhile jogged along in silence. Fiddlefoot kept tabs on the packer's dust until it died across the plain, then he pulled rein. "I got a notion I kin locate thet stock," he declared wheeling.
"Stakin' a claim?" inquired Weary blandly.
"Thereabouts."
When his companions pulled away, Fiddlefoot sought the shade of a soto bush, eased the calico's cinches, spilled a little water from his bag and held it to the pony's muzzle. After which he hunkered beside the bush. He wanted no tell-tale dust to telegraph to the soft-handed prospector that he was on his trail.
After awhile he moved to where his pony was cropping and tightened cinches. Swinging into the saddle, he threw a quick glance across the simmering flats. His brow furrowed at sight of a fast-moving dust trailer, rising like thin smoke to the northward. As he watched with mounting aggravation, the forms of horse and rider materialized beneath it, quivering through the currents of heated air. It was Weary, on his leggy buckskin, burning up the trail.
"Wal, what's itching you now?" inquired Fiddlefoot with rankling irritation, when the lanky rider pulled his hard-breathing mount down at his stirrup.
"Figgered I'd side yuh," explained Weary patiently. "Hadda set the Dude in sight of home first. Can't afford tuh lose him as well as the cows. Thet gent's my meal ticket."
"I don't need no siding on this trip," Fiddlefoot told him shortly.
The tall puncher sighed and gazed dreamily into distance.
The fuming Fiddlefoot curbed his impatience. He was playing for bigger stakes than the Limey's cows, and this good-intentioned, gangling cowpoke could wreck his plans. He had to get beyond reach of the law before his real identity became known. This was his big chance—to tie in with the rustlers.
"Weary!" he urged, throwing all the earnestness he could muster into his voice, "You're all wool and a yard wide, but I crave to play this hand alone."
"Two guns talk louder'n one!" expostulated the gawky cowpoke plaintively.
"Aw, punch the breeze!"
"No sirree!" declared Weary firmly.
"Wal, trail along!" barked Fiddlefoot, "And don't squawk ef you end up buzzard bait."
Weary's doleful features creased in a delighted grin. "Ain't no good pickin's on my bones!"
They cut the trail of the packer and followed it at an easy pace. The sharp hoof prints of the small-footed burros were plain in the sandy ground. The tracks wound up out of the valley, into the hills. Beyond the hills, the two riders bored into a somber wasteland, heat-hardened and wind-scoured, an arid region of dry washes, patched alkali and clumped beargrass.
Slowly now, with the sinking sun in their eyes, they walked their ponies through a chaos of canyons and riven gulches. Sign had apparently petered out, but Weary showed unsuspected skill as a tracker. Leading now, his tall form jackknifed across the buckskin's withers, he moved steadily ahead. Occasionally, he pulled rein, slid out of leather and quested around like a long, lean greyhound sniffing for scent. "My gran'maw, on paw's side wore moccasins," he explained whimsically to Fiddlefoot.
The man from across the Border was thinking—hard. He could only play the part of Jack Small just so long, how long depended upon Lady Luck. Any day, the Cattlemen's Protective might send another man into the valley. Then he was through. And they'd probably tack an indictment for the murder of Small onto the warrant that was already out for him. He was riding a narrow and tricky trail. One slip and he'd dance on thin air, with a rope around his neck. Alone, he could talk turkey with the rustlers. With Weary around, that was out. Mentally, he damned the meddling cowpoke.
As the shadow grew longer and the sun sank behind the Dragoons, even Weary was licked. Baffled, the pair rode out upon a high bench and sat their ponies, gazing westward. Before them stretched a vast, darkening vista of butte and pinnacle, seamed by writhing canyon and gaping gulch. A desolate wasteland bathed in a delicate rosy haze that slowly changed to soft scarlet, deepened into maroon, purpled as the sun dropped lower.
Silently, they watched, as night blanketed the barrens. Suddenly Weary touched his companion's arm and pointed into the darkened void. Fiddlefoot whistled softly as he sighted a tiny red glow, pricking through the gathering darkness like a smouldering cigarette butt. "Campfire!" he ejaculated.
This was his last chance to shuck the cowpoke who had stuck to him like a mustard plaster. He reined round to face the tall puncher, set easy in the saddle beside him.
"Weary," he said bluntly, "you done a mighty fine job, now skeedaddle! Maybe the Limey's cows are down there, maybe not. It's my job to find out, thet's what I'm paid for. Hit for the ranch and tell the Dude I'll be in before sunup."
"Ef I pulled out on a pard at the first whiff of gunsmoke," drawled the other, with patient doggedness, "I could never look a coyote in the eye agen."
Fiddlefoot swore softly beneath his breath, and tried again, "Maybe I figure running a sandy over the jaspers. Maybe I'll make a play to join 'em. You wouldn't want to tie in with a bunch of brand-blotchers now, would yuh?"
"Ef the company suits you, it suits me," Weary assured him indifferently.
"It's easier to shuck you," snapped Fiddlefoot, with ill-concealed impatience, "than a shadow."
"My maw," began the long cowpoke, in dreamy reminiscence, "alwus said I was the most obstinate young cuss she—"
Fiddlefoot's sense of humor smothered his irritation. He gave up, grinned. "Doggone it, you're as pesky as a pant's rat. Ef thet's how you feel, tag along!"
They dropped down from the bench and began to work their way westward through a tangle of canyons. Questing, they circled and doubled, following the bouldery courses of long-dry washes, traversing gloomy ravines, crossing barren benches.
Abruptly as they pulled out of the gloom of a narrow gulch, a head and shoulders, crowned by a sombrero, was silhouetted against the moonlight on a rise ahead. Scarce daring to breathe, Fiddlefoot checked his pony, backed into shadow. "Lamp thet jasper?" he muttered.
Weary nodded, slid silently down and handed up his reins.
"What's on yore mind?" demanded Fiddlefoot.
"Thet's a lookout," said the cowpoke dolefully, "I'll go git him."
"Like hell you will!"
"Pard," Weary unbuckled his spurs and hung them on the horn. "My maw always called me her little Apache." With that he soundlessly slid away.
For a full half hour, Fiddlefoot fretted in the gulch, ears attuned for a yell of alarm or the blare of gunfire. But the silence that lay on the solitudes, heavy as a shroud, was unbroken. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Weary was standing at his stirrup. "Thrown and hawgtied," he drawled. Together they moved out into the soft caress of the moonlight. Weary led the way through a narrow gap that yawned in a ragged cliff wall. For a hundred paces or more they walked their ponies through a high-walled corridor of rock, pitch-black save for a wedge of luminous sky tight-pressed between the rimrock overhead. The walls slanted away and they stared into a wide, moon-bathed canyon, girt by steep cliffs. The floor of the canyon was blotched with cows. To one side, perhaps a half-mile distant, a campfire glowed through thin chapparral and men moved around it.
"Jeez!" murmured Weary, eying the beef. "These gents ain't no pikers."
"Let's take a gander at the brands," said Fiddlefoot, playing up to his role of Association detective. Hugging the left-hand wall, away from the fire, they drifted slowly past bunches of steers. All bore the stamp brand of the Boxed H.
A faint shout carried across from the rustler's camp. "We're liable tuh be boxed up tighter'n bugs in a bottle." drawled Weary, "ef they relieve thet guard—and wise up."
Without further words, they wheeled and retraced their trail towards the narrow neck of the hideaway.
As they emerged from the darkened corridor that formed the mouth of the canyon, Fiddlefoot, in the lead, felt his pony stumble, stop short. He touched the calico with the spur. The animal side-stepped nervously. A quick oath escaped Fiddlefoot—a rope was stretched, breast high, across the entrance. Too late, he ducked low. A loop sighed softly through the air, dropped gently over his head and shoulders. Before he could throw it off, it jerked taut, pinioning his arms. Helpless, he saw Weary yanked out of the saddle. Then he kicked free of the stirrups as his body was hauled relentlessly sideways. He hit the ground with a boneshaking jar. Rawhide bit into his wrists. His arms were wrenched back and lashed behind his back.
"Wal, you mavericks, yore done corralled!" boomed a burly rider. "Roll along, little dogies!" A kick in the ribs brought Fiddlefoot to his feet. Herded by taunting horsemen, the pair legged back into the canyon.
More riders were hunkered around the fire, renegade stamped plain on every one. Faces blank, they eyed the two prisoners. One rose to his feet, a tall hard-bitten young fellow with flaming red hair that took Fiddlefoot's thoughts back to the girl in the Longhorn.
"So yuh rounded up the sidewinders, Butch!" he observed, bleak gaze on the captives.
Fiddlefoot eyed the burly rustler who had rodded their captors at the canyon mouth. So this was Butch Mulloy!
He was a big slouch of a man who moved with an easy swagger. A sheathed knife hung from his belt and a gun was thonged to each leg. His chin was stubbled black with sprouting beard and a chaw of tobacco bulged one jaw. An amiable grin played around his mouth, but it did not hide the savage twist of his lips. There was nothing about him that the blocky rider liked, particularly his eyes, too sharp and set too close together.
