The Zane Grey Megapack, page 235
“I reckon we’re some lucky,” observed Jim Lash.
“Lucky ain’t enough word,” replied Ladd. “You see, it was this way. Some of the raiders piled over the fence while the others worked on the gate. Mebbe the Papago went inside to pick out the best hosses. But it didn’t work except with Diablo, an’ how they ever got him I don’t know. I’d have gambled it’d take all of eight men to steal him. But Greasers have got us skinned on handlin’ hosses.”
Belding was unconsolable. He cursed and railed, and finally declared he was going to trail the raiders.
“Tom, you just ain’t agoin’ to do nothin’ of the kind,” said Ladd coolly.
Belding groaned and bowed his head.
“Laddy, you’re right,” he replied, presently. “I’ve got to stand it. I can’t leave the women and my property. But it’s sure tough. I’m sore way down deep, and nothin’ but blood would ever satisfy me.”
“Leave that to me an’ Jim,” said Ladd.
“What do you mean to do?” demanded Belding, starting up.
“Shore I don’t know yet.… Give me a light for my pipe. An’ Dick, go fetch out your Yaqui.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE RUNNING OF BLANCO SOL
The Yaqui’s strange dark glance roved over the corral, the swinging gate with its broken fastenings, the tracks in the road, and then rested upon Belding.
“Malo,” he said, and his Spanish was clear.
“Shore Yaqui, about eight bad men, an’ a traitor Indian,” said Ladd.
“I think he means my herder,” added Belding. “If he does, that settles any doubt it might be decent to have—Yaqui—malo Papago—Si?”
The Yaqui spread wide his hands. Then he bent over the tracks in the road. They led everywhither, but gradually he worked out of the thick net to take the trail that the cowboys had followed down to the river. Belding and the rangers kept close at his heels. Occasionally Dick lent a helping hand to the still feeble Indian. He found a trampled spot where the raiders had left their horses. From this point a deeply defined narrow trail led across the dry river bed.
Belding asked the Yaqui where the raiders would head for in the Sonora Desert. For answer the Indian followed the trail across the stream of sand, through willows and mesquite, up to the level of rock and cactus. At this point he halted. A sand-filled, almost obliterated trail led off to the left, and evidently went round to the east of No Name Mountains. To the right stretched the road toward Papago Well and the Sonoyta Oasis. The trail of the raiders took a southeasterly course over untrodden desert. The Yaqui spoke in his own tongue, then in Spanish.
“Think he means slow march,” said Belding. “Laddy, from the looks of that trail the Greasers are having trouble with the horses.”
“Tom, shore a boy could see that,” replied Laddy. “Ask Yaqui to tell us where the raiders are headin’, an’ if there’s water.”
It was wonderful to see the Yaqui point. His dark hand stretched, he sighted over his stretched finger at a low white escarpment in the distance. Then with a stick he traced a line in the sand, and then at the end of that another line at right angles. He made crosses and marks and holes, and as he drew the rude map he talked in Yaqui, in Spanish; with a word here and there in English. Belding translated as best he could. The raiders were heading southeast toward the railroad that ran from Nogales down into Sonora. It was four days’ travel, bad trail, good sure waterhole one day out; then water not sure for two days. Raiders traveling slow; bothered by too many horses, not looking for pursuit; were never pursued, could be headed and ambushed that night at the first waterhole, a natural trap in a valley.
The men returned to the ranch. The rangers ate and drank while making hurried preparations for travel. Blanco Sol and the cowboys’ horses were fed, watered, and saddled. Ladd again refused to ride one of Belding’s whites. He was quick and cold.
“Get me a long-range rifle an’ lots of shells. Rustle now,” he said.
“Laddy, you don’t want to be weighted down?” protested Belding.
“Shore I want a gun that’ll outshoot the dinky little carbines an’ muskets used by the rebels. Trot one out an’ be quick.”
“I’ve got a .405, a long-barreled heavy rifle that’ll shoot a mile. I use it for mountain sheep. But Laddy, it’ll break that bronch’s back.”
“His back won’t break so easy.… Dick, take plenty of shells for your Remington. An’ don’t forget your field glass.”
In less than an hour after the time of the raid the three rangers, heavily armed and superbly mounted on fresh horses, rode out on the trail. As Gale turned to look back from the far bank of Forlorn River, he saw Nell waving a white scarf. He stood high in his stirrups and waved his sombrero. Then the mesquites hid the girl’s slight figure, and Gale wheeled grim-faced to follow the rangers.
They rode in single file with Ladd in the lead. He did not keep to the trail of the raiders all the time. He made short cuts. The raiders were traveling leisurely, and they evinced a liking for the most level and least cactus-covered stretches of ground. But the cowboy took a bee-line course for the white escarpment pointed out by the Yaqui; and nothing save deep washes and impassable patches of cactus or rocks made him swerve from it. He kept the broncho at a steady walk over the rougher places and at a swinging Indian canter over the hard and level ground. The sun grew hot and the wind began to blow. Dust clouds rolled along the blue horizon. Whirling columns of sand, like water spouts at sea, circled up out of white arid basins, and swept away and spread aloft before the wind. The escarpment began to rise, to change color, to show breaks upon its rocky face.
Whenever the rangers rode out on the brow of a knoll or ridge or an eminence, before starting to descend, Ladd required of Gale a long, careful, sweeping survey of the desert ahead through the field glass. There were streams of white dust to be seen, streaks of yellow dust, trailing low clouds of sand over the glistening dunes, but no steadily rising, uniformly shaped puffs that would tell a tale of moving horses on the desert.
At noon the rangers got out of the thick cactus. Moreover, the gravel-bottomed washes, the low weathering, rotting ledges of yellow rock gave place to hard sandy rolls and bare clay knolls. The desert resembled a rounded hummocky sea of color. All light shades of blue and pink and yellow and mauve were there dominated by the glaring white sun. Mirages glistened, wavered, faded in the shimmering waves of heat. Dust as fine as powder whiffed up from under the tireless hoofs.
The rangers rode on and the escarpment began to loom. The desert floor inclined perceptibly upward. When Gale got an unobstructed view of the slope of the escarpment he located the raiders and horses. In another hour’s travel the rangers could see with naked eyes a long, faint moving streak of black and white dots.
“They’re headin’ for that yellow pass,” said Ladd, pointing to a break in the eastern end of the escarpment. “When they get out of sight we’ll rustle. I’m thinkin’ that waterhole the Yaqui spoke of lays in the pass.”
The rangers traveled swiftly over the remaining miles of level desert leading to the ascent of the escarpment. When they achieved the gateway of the pass the sun was low in the west. Dwarfed mesquite and greasewood appeared among the rocks. Ladd gave the word to tie up horses and go forward on foot.
The narrow neck of the pass opened and descended into a valley half a mile wide, perhaps twice that in length. It had apparently unscalable slopes of weathered rock leading up to beetling walls. With floor bare and hard and white, except for a patch of green mesquite near the far end it was a lurid and desolate spot, the barren bottom of a desert bowl.
“Keep down, boys” said Ladd. “There’s the waterhole an’ hosses have sharp eyes. Shore the Yaqui figgered this place. I never seen its like for a trap.”
Both white and black horses showed against the green, and a thin curling column of blue smoke rose lazily from amid the mesquites.
“I reckon we’d better wait till dark, or mebbe daylight,” said Jim Lash.
“Let me figger some. Dick, what do you make of the outlet to this hole? Looks rough to me.”
With his glass Gale studied the narrow construction of walls and roughened rising floor.
“Laddy, it’s harder to get out at that end than here,” he replied.
“Shore that’s hard enough. Let me have a look.… Well, boys, it don’t take no figgerin’ for this job. Jim, I’ll want you at the other end blockin’ the pass when we’re ready to start.”
“When’ll that be?” inquired Jim.
“Soon as it’s light enough in the mornin’. That Greaser outfit will hang till tomorrow. There’s no sure water ahead for two days, you remember.”
“I reckon I can slip through to the other end after dark,” said Lash, thoughtfully. “It might get me in bad to go round.”
The rangers stole back from the vantage point and returned to their horses, which they untied and left farther round among broken sections of cliff. For the horses it was a dry, hungry camp, but the rangers built a fire and had their short though strengthening meal.
The location was high, and through a break in the jumble of rocks the great colored void of desert could be seen rolling away endlessly to the west. The sun set, and after it had gone down the golden tips of mountains dulled, their lower shadows creeping upward.
Jim Lash rolled in his saddle blanket, his feet near the fire, and went to sleep. Ladd told Gale to do likewise while he kept the fire up and waited until it was late enough for Jim to undertake circling round the raiders. When Gale awakened the night was dark, cold, windy. The stars shone with white brilliance. Jim was up saddling his horse, and Ladd was talking low. When Gale rose to accompany them both rangers said he need not go. But Gale wanted to go because that was the thing Ladd or Jim would have done.
With Ladd leading, they moved away into the gloom. Advance was exceedingly slow, careful, silent. Under the walls the blackness seemed impenetrable. The horse was as cautious as his master. Ladd did not lose his way, nevertheless he wound between blocks of stone and clumps of mesquite, and often tried a passage to abandon it. Finally the trail showed pale in the gloom, and eastern stars twinkled between the lofty ramparts of the pass.
The advance here was still as stealthily made as before, but not so difficult or slow. When the dense gloom of the pass lightened, and there was a wide space of sky and stars overhead, Ladd halted and stood silent a moment.
“Luck again!” he whispered. “The wind’s in your face, Jim. The horses won’t scent you. Go slow. Don’t crack a stone. Keep close under the wall. Try to get up as high as this at the other end. Wait till daylight before riskin’ a loose slope. I’ll be ridin’ the job early. That’s all.”
Ladd’s cool, easy speech was scarcely significant of the perilous undertaking. Lash moved very slowly away, leading his horse. The soft pads of hoofs ceased to sound about the time the gray shape merged into the black shadows. Then Ladd touched Dick’s arm, and turned back up the trail.
But Dick tarried a moment. He wanted a fuller sense of that ebony-bottomed abyss, with its pale encircling walls reaching up to the dusky blue sky and the brilliant stars. There was absolutely no sound.
He retraced his steps down, soon coming up with Ladd; and together they picked a way back through the winding recesses of cliff. The campfire was smoldering. Ladd replenished it and lay down to get a few hours’ sleep, while Gale kept watch. The after part of the night wore on till the paling of stars, the thickening of gloom indicated the dark hour before dawn. The spot was secluded from wind, but the air grew cold as ice. Gale spent the time stripping wood from a dead mesquite, in pacing to and fro, in listening. Blanco Sol stamped occasionally, which sound was all that broke the stilliness. Ladd awoke before the faintest gray appeared. The rangers ate and drank. When the black did lighten to gray they saddled the horses and led them out to the pass and down to the point where they had parted with Lash. Here they awaited daylight.
To Gale it seemed long in coming. Such a delay always aggravated the slow fire within him. He had nothing of Ladd’s patience. He wanted action. The gray shadow below thinned out, and the patch of mesquite made a blot upon the pale valley. The day dawned.
Still Ladd waited. He grew more silent, grimmer as the time of action approached. Gale wondered what the plan of attack would be. Yet he did not ask. He waited ready for orders.
The valley grew clear of gray shadow except under leaning walls on the eastern side. Then a straight column of smoke rose from among the mesquites. Manifestly this was what Ladd had been awaiting. He took the long .405 from its sheath and tried the lever. Then he lifted a cartridge belt from the pommel of his saddle. Every ring held a shell and these shells were four inches long. He buckled the belt round him.
“Come on, Dick.”
Ladd led the way down the slope until he reached a position that commanded the rising of the trail from a level. It was the only place a man or horse could leave the valley for the pass.
“Dick, here’s your stand. If any raider rides in range take a crack at him.… Now I want the lend of your hoss.”
“Blanco Sol!” exclaimed Gale, more in amazement that Ladd should ask for the horse than in reluctance to lend him.
“Will you let me have him?” Ladd repeated, almost curtly.
“Certainly, Laddy.”
A smile momentarily chased the dark cold gloom that had set upon the ranger’s lean face.
“Shore I appreciate it, Dick. I know how you care for that hoss. I guess mebbe Charlie Ladd has loved a hoss! An’ one not so good as Sol. I was only tryin’ your nerve, Dick, askin’ you without tellin’ my plan. Sol won’t get a scratch, you can gamble on that! I’ll ride him down into the valley an’ pull the greasers out in the open. They’ve got short-ranged carbines. They can’t keep out of range of the .405, an’ I’ll be takin’ the dust of their lead. Sabe, señor?”
“Laddy! You’ll run Sol away from the raiders when they chase you? Run him after them when they try to get away?”
“Shore. I’ll run all the time. They can’t gain on Sol, an’ he’ll run them down when I want. Can you beat it?”
“No. It’s great!… But suppose a raider comes out on Blanco Diablo?”
“I reckon that’s the one weak place in my plan. I’m figgerin’ they’ll never think of that till it’s too late. But if they do, well, Sol can outrun Diablo. An’ I can always kill the white devil!”
Ladd’s strange hate of the horse showed in the passion of his last words, in his hardening jaw and grim set lips.
Gale’s hand went swiftly to the ranger’s shoulder.
“Laddy. Don’t kill Diablo unless it’s to save your life.”
“All right. But, by God, if I get a chance I’ll make Blanco Sol run him off his legs!”
He spoke no more and set about changing the length of Sol’s stirrups. When he had them adjusted to suit he mounted and rode down the trail and out upon the level. He rode leisurely as if merely going to water his horse. The long black rifle lying across his saddle, however, was ominous.
Gale securely tied the other horse to a mesquite at hand, and took a position behind a low rock over which he could easily see and shoot when necessary. He imagined Jim Lash in a similar position at the far end of the valley blocking the outlet. Gale had grown accustomed to danger and the hard and fierce feelings peculiar to it. But the coming drama was so peculiarly different in promise from all he had experienced, that he waited the moment of action with thrilling intensity. In him stirred long, brooding wrath at these border raiders—affection for Belding, and keen desire to avenge the outrages he had suffered—warm admiration for the cold, implacable Ladd and his absolute fearlessness, and a curious throbbing interest in the old, much-discussed and never-decided argument as to whether Blanco Sol was fleeter, stronger horse than Blanco Diablo. Gale felt that he was to see a race between these great rivals—the kind of race that made men and horses terrible.
Ladd rode a quarter of a mile out upon the flat before anything happened. Then a whistle rent the still, cold air. A horse had seen or scented Blanco Sol. The whistle was prolonged, faint, but clear. It made the blood thrum in Gale’s ears. Sol halted. His head shot up with the old, wild, spirited sweep. Gale leveled his glass at the patch of mesquites. He saw the raiders running to an open place, pointing, gesticulating. The glass brought them so close that he saw the dark faces. Suddenly they broke and fled back among the trees. Then he got only white and dark gleams of moving bodies. Evidently that moment was one of boots, guns, and saddles for the raiders.
Lowering the glass, Gale saw that Blanco Sol had started forward again. His gait was now a canter, and he had covered another quarter of a mile before horses and raiders appeared upon the outskirts of the mesquites. Then Blanco Sol stopped. His shrill, ringing whistle came distinctly to Gale’s ears. The raiders were mounted on dark horses, and they stood abreast in a motionless line. Gale chuckled as he appreciated what a puzzle the situation presented for them. A lone horseman in the middle of the valley did not perhaps seem so menacing himself as the possibilities his presence suggested.
Then Gale saw a raider gallop swiftly from the group toward the farther outlet of the valley. This might have been owing to characteristic cowardice; but it was more likely a move of the raiders to make sure of retreat. Undoubtedly Ladd saw this galloping horseman. A few waiting moments ensued. The galloping horseman reached the slope, began to climb. With naked eyes Gale saw a puff of white smoke spring out of the rocks. Then the raider wheeled his plunging horse back to the level, and went racing wildly down the valley.
