Flaming Feud, page 5
He banged down his glass. "Gordammit, Le's go get 'em!" He swung around. The rustler's table was empty, but the batwings were still swinging. The foreman hit for the street at a half run, Fiddlefoot tailing him. They banged out into the gloom of the canopied plankwalk. Three riders were pulling away from the rail. At Winter's shout they sank the steel home. Dust boiled and pebbles flew as hooves speeded into a swift tattoo.
It was close upon noon, next day, when Weary and the deputy ambled in, well sprinkled with trail dust. Fiddlefoot rose from where he had been hunkered in front of the livery barn, whiling time away splicing a broken rein. "Locate yore rustlers?" he inquired affably.
"Kin yuh find hair on a frog?" Weary beat the dust off his pants. "Thet canyon was as empty as my pockets."
"You shoulda stayed in town," grinned Fiddlefoot, and told of his meeting with Butch Mulloy.
"Hear thet, Frosty?" Weary turned disgustedly to the deputy. "We git saddle-sores and the brand-blotters set cozy in The Longhorn, swillin' licker."
The deputy grunted, and loosed a latigo.
"Well, leastways," continued the tall puncher, with moody consolation, "I collected a clew." He nodded at a cowhide, loose-rolled behind the deputy's cantle. "They kin work the Boxed H brand inter the prettiest Window Sash you ever set eyes on. Wal I guess we gotta report to the boss—and his white rat."
When the two riders approached the Barred M, it was evident that something was afoot. A spring wagon stood outside the cabin and a paunchy, blue-shirted fellow was hooking up the traces of a four-horse team. Fiddlefoot placed him at first glance, it was the swamper from The Longhorn Saloon. Curiously, he eyed the contents of the wagon. Fence posts were stacked in the bed. Beside them lay two rolls of barbed wire, picks, shovels and a bulky roll of canvas that looked like a tent. A big wooden chuck box was set in the rear.
"Fencing yore range?" he inquired, as the Dude stepped out of the cabin, carrying a double-barrelled shotgun. "Or is this how you hunt quail?"
"Merely fencing part of my property," explained Creighton-Caldwell, with a brief smile. "I am taking possession of Bitter Springs."
"You figure Rock will stand for you fencing his water?" asked Fiddlefoot curiously.
"My water," corrected the Dude. "If he attempts to destroy my fence, or eject me forcibly, I have grounds for a suit, and I shall certainly press my claim for adequate damages. Further, I may state that I have the active support of a prominent citizen of Adobe."
"Nick Dardon!"
The Englishman smiled again, but made no comment. He changed the subject, "You were unsuccessful in your attempt to find the cows, I presume?"
"We most found a rope," put in Weary.
"A rope!"
"Let it pass!" begged the lanky puncher, "It ain't among my pleasant memories."
Weary gazed dismally after the departing wagon and horseman, "There goes my job, prancing off jest like he was going to a picnic—the loco Limejuicer! Staking off Bitter Spring—stakin' a claim on Boothill!"
"Ef he's got a legal right to the spring," observed Fiddlefoot reflectively, "he can make it stick."
"When yore planted, you can't make nothing stick," declared his companion. "Le's poke around, mebbe we kin dig up some chuck."
For the balance of the day they endured the emptiness of the mouldering ranch. When the sun climbed the next morning, they hunkered on the shady side of the cabin, speculating upon the Englishman's fate. "I'd lay a million dollars, ef I had a million dollars," declared Weary, expectorating morosely at a darting chuckwalla, "thet the Limey is buzzard bait."
"Wal, le's go see!" suggested Fiddlefoot, irked by inaction.
"Something tells me we'll be heading into trouble." The tall puncher gloomed at the heat haze that lay on the flats. "Sensible men would set right here, peaceable." He straightened, stretched, "But who craves to be sensible?" So they saddled their ponies and dropped south.
A dust cloud, sparkling in the sunlight as though specked with a myriad diamonds, hung over Bitter Spring.
"Gee Willikens!" yelped Weary, as they pulled close. "Lamp thet!"
A few hundred paces from the mouth of the draw in which the spring was located, they pulled rein. Across the draw stretched a taut three-wire fence, anchored to stout stakes. At one end was a narrow gap that gave entrance, now closed by a rude gate. Against the wire pressed a bellowing herd of several hundred thirsty cows, swathed in rising dust churned up by their sharp hooves. The air was filled with their anguished protest as they surged to and fro, horns clacking, striving ineffectually to break through to the familiar water. Further up the draw, on the other side of the wire, rose a bell tent. In front of the tent, the shotgun cradled under one arm, stood Creighton-Caldwell, peering at his visitors through the intervening dust fog.
Reassured, the Dude set down his gun, hastened over the boulders of the draw and unhooked the looped wire that held the gate. "So you decided to join me," he observed, "The moral effect is bound to be excellent."
"Me set on this hot spot!" came back Weary vehemently, "Not on yore tintype! I'm pulling out at sunup. We figgered the buzzards had picked yore bones clean and jest dropped in tuh stick 'em in a badger hole." He stepped down. His bantering tone took on a sober note, "See here, Limey, you can't get away with this. Rock's plugged men f'r less. Cut thet wire and vamoose afore he wises up."
Creighton-Caldwell shrugged, "My legal rights are incontestable."
"Where's the wagon and hawses?" inquired Fiddlefoot, looking around.
"The teamster returned to Adobe after erecting the fence, with my assistance."
"I gamble he got outa here so fast his axles smoked," grunted Weary. He glanced anxiously across the darkening plain. "He showed good sense and I gotta good notion to tail him."
"Le's stick around and chouse the coyotes away from Freddy," suggested Fiddlefoot. "He's got plenty chuck and we kin pull out at sunup."
"You can't leave too early f'r me," said Weary resignedly. "And when do we see this chuck?"
Weary, a heavy sleeper, was usually reluctant to crawl out of his soogans, but scarcely had false dawn shown luminous against the eastern sky when he was up and around. Rumbling waves of protest from the growing press of cows outside the wire rolled up the draw. In the gloom, Weary smoothed the blanket across his buckskin and dropped the saddle in place. Fiddlefoot coaxed life into the fire, dipped the coffeepot into one of the pools below the spring.
"Le's get outa here!" urged the tall puncher, eyeing the darkened flats uneasily.
Fiddlefoot grinned. "You act like you got ants in yore pants. Sure we'll drift, after a pot of dip."
"Ef I had the brains of a bumblebee, I'd never be here," groaned Weary. He nodded mournfully at a cairn of rock, "Them jaspers lingered—and they ain't left yet."
Fiddlefoot hefted his saddle and strolled across to where his calico was tethered in the chaparral. Weary stared at the milling cows. His yell of dismay brought the blocky rider back at the double, and the Dude, hair dishevelled, out of the tent with his shotgun. With tight anticipation, the three watched a solid clump of riders, breaking through the bunched beef.
The leader yelled. Creighton-Caldwell, lips compressed and face pale, strode forward with levelled shotgun. Close to the wire fence, the Englishman stopped, lifted his head in challenge, "You are trespassers," he shouted, "This is my property!"
"Sure, Limey!" came back a voice above the blaring of the herd, "Nick gave us the lowdown. We come tuh back yore hand."
"Goshawmighty!" groaned Weary, swivelling to face Fiddlefoot, "Thet's Red and his rustlers. Why didn't we git outa here?"
Creighton-Caldwell opened the gate and six men passed through in single file. They rode up the draw, picketted their ponies and straggled back, packing Winchesters.
Fiddlefoot and his lanky pard had ducked into the chaparral. They loosed their mounts and led them out. Fifteen minutes earlier they might have escaped recognition in the uncertain light and slipped away, but the sun had rimmed the horizon. Its rays lanced through the fogged air and played full upon their features.
A quick oath ripped from the redhead's lips and he dabbed for his gun. "Hey boys!" he yelled, "Corral them jaspers! It's the dicks who hogswiggled Dakota."
"Me, I like a simple headstone," murmured Weary, as they checked, aware of the futility of resistance. "Jest letter it D.N.D.—Do Not Disturb."
Gripping their guns, the rustlers closed in. The Englishman watched the play, bewildered.
Fiddlefoot trailed his reins and advanced to meet the redhead. "Say, Red," he forced a grin, "You read our brands wrong."
"I kin read the name on an Association badge," rapped out the rustler.
"The badge don't make me a dick. Jack Small, who owned it was knifed in Nogales. I grabbed the badge— tuh get across the Border. Weary, here, was riding the grub line, so we tied up with the Limey."
"You figger I'll swallow thet windy?" inquired Red derisively.
"Take a gander at the brand on my calico," challenged Fiddlefoot, " 'F'—thet's my moniker, Fiddlefoot, and here's the bill of sale!" He dug into a pants pocket and pulled out a folded sheet, dog-eared and dirty.
Red smoothed out the bill of sale, studied it carefully, then handed it back. "Mebbe I did read yore brand wrong," he admitted reluctantly. "So you gave us a straight story when we corralled yuh in the canyon?"
"Yep, we were trailing the Limey's cows."
"I can attest to that," threw in Creighton-Caldwell, pushing through the rustlers who ringed the accused pair. "I hired these men to find my bally beef."
"Reckon thet clears yuh." Doubt disappeared from Red's voice. "Wal, tie them ponies up the draw, we gotta get busy."
While six pairs of speculating eyes followed them, they slowly led their ponies up the narrowing draw. "Fiddlefoot, I sure gotta hand it tuh you," admiration was plain in Weary's relieved accents. "Yore a bearcat f'r clawing out of a tight. Wisht I had a thinkbox thet was quick on the trigger. Howcome you dreamed up thet knifing windy?"
When they returned to the spring, the rustlers were busy carrying and rolling boulders to form a wall of defense.
"Rattle yore hocks!" yelled Red. "Jump in and pack rock."
Weary turned to the pyramid of boulders, which had been left untouched, lifted down the topmost slab of rock.
"Set thet back!" Red's voice cracked like a whiplash. "Thet's a tombstone and there's three good men resting under it."
"Say," asked Fiddlefoot, in a quick aside to Weary as they joined the workers on the wall, "Warn't there four jaspers buried in this draw?"
"Does it matter a damn?" grunted the lanky puncher, pausing to wipe the sweat off his dolorous features.
"There'll be a hell of a lot more afore Rock gets through with us. Wal, Maw always did say I'd die with my boots on."
It was broad daylight now. The barrier of boulders had risen high enough to provide cover. At Red's curt word, the rustlers quit and bunched in the shade, chewing on their cigarettes. Their leader eyed the low wall with approval, "We'll fill 'em full of lead when they tangle with the wire," he declared exultantly. "They won't ride over us this time."
"Wal, it won't be long afore we find out," put in Weary lugubriously, his eyes focused on the plain. Far out, dust streamers hung low.
Life was a funny proposition, mused Fiddlefoot, eying the dust of the approaching Boxed H contingent. It twisted a feller's trail until he didn't know which way he was heading. A day or two back he was siding the foreman of the Boxed H, now he was due to trade lead with him. Before that, Red was all set to hang him, now he was backing Red's hand. Where would the next twist lead?
Chapter 7
Beyond effective rifle fire, the block of Boxed H riders halted. The bawling cows blocked the mouth of the draw. Through the floating dust, Fiddlefoot saw three punchers pull away. They circled and swept in, ropes singing, hitting the flank of the herd at a mad gallop in an attempt to scatter the cows and clear the field of fire. Rifles spanged along the rock barrier. Hard hit, one puncher dropped his rope and grabbed the horn. His pony streaked away, heading across the flat. Another slumped, slid out of the saddle and went down into the torrent of panicky cows that whirled around him. The surviving puncher dropped low across his pony's withers and hightailed.
The punchers on the flat pulled northward with the wounded man and vanished behind the shoulder of a ridge. It was plain that their leader had quickly dropped the idea of a frontal attack.
"Hell's ahead!" grunted Weary, levering another shell into the breach of his rifle. In the shooting, Fiddlefoot noted, the tall puncher's barrel had slanted high, as had his own. This was not their fight, although they had been roped into it. "Ef them jaspers got savvy," continued Weary, "and I gamble they pack plenty, they'll hit us on the flanks."
It was quickly plain that Red had the same idea. He soon had every man sweating, as they rebuilt the barricade in the form of a square. The rough fort was breast high when a bullet whipped out of the blue. Before the defenders grabbed their rifles and tumbled behind the walls, a ragged fusillade ripped from the high ground on either side.
Before, the rustlers, secure behind a barbed wire defense, had held the advantage. Now the position was reversed. Hidden among loose rock and in the dips of the steep slopes on either side, high above the heads of the men penned in the hastily built square of boulders, the Boxed H crew were able to drop their bullets into the bowl with little risk to themselves.
Pitilessly, the leaden hail descended. Crouched behind their barricade, the rustlers returned ineffective fire, with no more than the occasional glint of sunlight upon the steel of a rifle barrel, or a faint cloud of blue powder-smoke drifting lazily above a tumbled heap of rocks as a guide.
Eight men manned the improvised fort at the outbreak of fire, including the Englishman with his useless shotgun. Before an hour had passed they were whittled down to five. The slack forms of two rustlers were piled in one corner and a third nursed a broken, bloodied right arm. Ringed by fire, the survivors crouched low behind the rock walls. As far as Fiddlefoot could see, there was no hope of relief from the pecking bullets except darkness— and the sun had scarcely commenced to climb the sky.
A relieved oath ripped from Red's lips. Fiddlefoot followed his eager gaze. Far off across the plain, smoke lay thick like a fog bank, slow-rising to stain the clear sky.
"Thet'll pull the buzzards off!" announced the redhead triumphantly. "Mulloy and his boys done set their grass fires. Ef the jaspers up yonder don't get busy and start backfires, they won't have no ranch."
As he predicted, the relentless pounding from the high ground slackened and finally ceased. Able to stretch their cramped limbs at last, the defenders stared out over the flats, and were rewarded by sight of a cavalcade of riders streaming southward towards the thickening smoke.
The surviving rustlers hustled up the draw for their ponies. Red turned to the bedraggled Creighton-Caldwell, "You makin' tracks?"
The Englishman's face was smudged with sweat and his tweeds rumpled. A splinter of rock from a ricochet had torn the skin of one cheek and the dry blood mottled brown upon his jaw. He nodded, "I have achieved my purpose. Men have been killed defending my property against armed assault by the Boxed H. I shall proceed to the county seat, sign a complaint at the sheriff's office and also file a civil suit."
"Ain't you cutting the wire?" inquired Fiddlefoot, indicating the steadily growing press of cows.
"Indeed not!" declared Creighton-Caldwell, "I shall leave the fence and my tent as evidence of ownership."
"It won't be there long," Weary eyed the distant grass fire, which seemed to be dying down, anxiously. "Le's beat it, afore the Boxed H boys head thisaways again. St. Peter's been eying me right longingly, and I don't hanker to twang a harp."
The rustlers rode out, leading the ponies of the dead men, with the bodies roped across the saddles. In their wake followed the three Barred M men, heading for Adobe.
Fiddlefoot checked his pony and allowed the Dude to drift ahead. "Howcome," he asked Weary, "Red and his gang tangled in this?"
"Mebbe they hanker to chew lead."
"They ain't rustling Boxed H beef jest for dinero. Red's got something against Rock."
"So did the other redheads," murmured the tall puncher, "and what did it get them?"
"What other redheads?" asked Fiddlefoot sharply.
"The Texans Rock planted at Bitter Spring."
"I got it now, plain as the horn on a saddle!" exclaimed the blocky puncher, the excitement of discovery in his voice.
"Got what?" inquired Weary blankly.
"The reason why Red sided the Limey and why he's pestering the Boxed H. 'Member he went on the prod when you grabbed a rock off thet pile, claimed there was three good men planted under it. Wal, talk is thet there were four. Which means one musta slid out of the jam. I gamble thet one was Red. This is a blood feud!"
"Red claimed Nick sent him out!"
"Sure, Nick tipped him off. Thet coyote hates Rock's guts, didn't he side the Limey, too?"
"Wal, Rock don't lack for enemies," observed Weary.
"Seems he kin handle 'em," came back Fiddlefoot.
The owner and cook of Adobe's only restaurant was a squat, greasy man with a belly that protruded like a bulging grain sack. The populace knew him simply as Guts. His wife, a harried, skinny woman, acted as waitress and rented rooms on the second floor.
It was here that the trio pulled rein in mid-afternoon. Creighton-Caldwell reserved rooms for all. The three mounted a rickety outside stairway that angled up to the second floor. A passageway led from the head of the stairs and terminated at a window cut in the wall at the opposite end of the building. Three bedrooms and a washroom fronted it on either side. The unpainted doors of the bedrooms were numbered from one to six, and all were vacant. There was little in Adobe to attract visitors.
