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Authors: Bradford Scott
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travelling at top speed. Short, querulous bleats burst from the laboring throats of the sweating cows. Their breath whistled through their flaring nostrils.
Slade’s face set in grim lines. No legitimate riders would be running the fat off stock like that.
On came the herd. Now the attendant horsemen were clearly visible. Slade counted nine altogether. The cows were being shoved, close-bunched, across the prairie, held in line by expert point, swing and flank riders.
Slade sensed rather than saw Nevins reach for his gun. Instantly his fingers clamped the other’s wrist and held it powerless.
“Lemme go!” demanded the range boss in a fierce whisper. “Those are the old man’s cows.”
“Hold it!” Slade whispered back. “There are nine of the hellions and they’re scattered. We wouldn’t have a chance. Hold it, I tell you, this will take some thinking out. Let them get past and then we’ll figure something.”
Nevins swore under his breath but his tense muscles relaxed. Slade let go his wrist and together they watched the herd thunder past under a film of dust that glinted silver in the pale moonlight.
“It’s the beef herd from the middle pasture,” Nevins breathed. “All ready for the trail the first of the week. The old man can’t afford to lose those cows. Blazes! There were two night hawks riding herd on ‘em. I wonder what happened to those boys.”
Slade did not answer, but he had an unpleasant premonition that the Walking M was short a couple of hands. His eyes were cold in the moonlight, his face bleak as the granite of the rimrock trail.
The drumming of hoofs was dimming, the herd growing shadowy in the distance. “Listen,” Slade told his companion, “they’re heading for the hills over to the east, don’t you figure?”
“That’s right,” answered Nevins. “Those hills are all cut with canyons and draws where the ground’s all rocks. They could slide into any one of them and there’s no trailing them once they get there.”
“So I figured,” Slade said. “Now here’s what we’ll do. You ride to the ranchhouse fast as you can and rouse up the hands. I’m going to try and keep those cows in sight. They’ll never attempt to run them across the desert to the Rio Grande in the daytime, that’s sure for certain. They’ll hole up somewhere in the hills a bit south of here. If I can find where they’re holding the cows we should be able to hit them where it hurts. That’s the only chance I can see.”
“Yes, but you’ll be taking one heck of a risk, trailing those sidewinders,” Nevins protested. “They’ll be almost sure to spot you and if they do it will be curtains for you.”
“I’ll risk it,” Slade replied. “Get going. They won’t see or hear you now, and I’ve got to drift after them or they’re liable to give me the slip.”
Sputtering profanity, Nevins sent his horse northward at a gallop. Slade spoke to Shadow and the great black moved out onto the prairie at a smooth running walk.
Slade felt that at a distance, from which the dark mass of the herd could still be seen as a moving shadow in the dim light, a single horseman very likely would not be noted, even if the rustlers were keeping a watch behind them, which he thought improbable under the circumstances. At any rate he determined to take the chance of operating on that premise.
Mile after mile Slade trailed the fleeing herd across the rangeland, with the rugged battlements of the eastern hills drawing nearer and nearer, and nothing untoward happened. But now a fresh problem presented itself; the east was graying and soon the wan glow cast by the overcast moon would be replaced by the light of day, in which it would be impossible for him to avoid detection by the rustlers. Anxiously he watched the pale gray brighten. It was going to be a race between the strengthening light and the arrival of the herd at the hills.
Slade could now see that Curly Nevins hadn’t exaggerated in describing the
Slade’s face set in grim lines. No legitimate riders would be running the fat off stock like that.
On came the herd. Now the attendant horsemen were clearly visible. Slade counted nine altogether. The cows were being shoved, close-bunched, across the prairie, held in line by expert point, swing and flank riders.
Slade sensed rather than saw Nevins reach for his gun. Instantly his fingers clamped the other’s wrist and held it powerless.
“Lemme go!” demanded the range boss in a fierce whisper. “Those are the old man’s cows.”
“Hold it!” Slade whispered back. “There are nine of the hellions and they’re scattered. We wouldn’t have a chance. Hold it, I tell you, this will take some thinking out. Let them get past and then we’ll figure something.”
Nevins swore under his breath but his tense muscles relaxed. Slade let go his wrist and together they watched the herd thunder past under a film of dust that glinted silver in the pale moonlight.
“It’s the beef herd from the middle pasture,” Nevins breathed. “All ready for the trail the first of the week. The old man can’t afford to lose those cows. Blazes! There were two night hawks riding herd on ‘em. I wonder what happened to those boys.”
Slade did not answer, but he had an unpleasant premonition that the Walking M was short a couple of hands. His eyes were cold in the moonlight, his face bleak as the granite of the rimrock trail.
The drumming of hoofs was dimming, the herd growing shadowy in the distance. “Listen,” Slade told his companion, “they’re heading for the hills over to the east, don’t you figure?”
“That’s right,” answered Nevins. “Those hills are all cut with canyons and draws where the ground’s all rocks. They could slide into any one of them and there’s no trailing them once they get there.”
“So I figured,” Slade said. “Now here’s what we’ll do. You ride to the ranchhouse fast as you can and rouse up the hands. I’m going to try and keep those cows in sight. They’ll never attempt to run them across the desert to the Rio Grande in the daytime, that’s sure for certain. They’ll hole up somewhere in the hills a bit south of here. If I can find where they’re holding the cows we should be able to hit them where it hurts. That’s the only chance I can see.”
“Yes, but you’ll be taking one heck of a risk, trailing those sidewinders,” Nevins protested. “They’ll be almost sure to spot you and if they do it will be curtains for you.”
“I’ll risk it,” Slade replied. “Get going. They won’t see or hear you now, and I’ve got to drift after them or they’re liable to give me the slip.”
Sputtering profanity, Nevins sent his horse northward at a gallop. Slade spoke to Shadow and the great black moved out onto the prairie at a smooth running walk.
Slade felt that at a distance, from which the dark mass of the herd could still be seen as a moving shadow in the dim light, a single horseman very likely would not be noted, even if the rustlers were keeping a watch behind them, which he thought improbable under the circumstances. At any rate he determined to take the chance of operating on that premise.
Mile after mile Slade trailed the fleeing herd across the rangeland, with the rugged battlements of the eastern hills drawing nearer and nearer, and nothing untoward happened. But now a fresh problem presented itself; the east was graying and soon the wan glow cast by the overcast moon would be replaced by the light of day, in which it would be impossible for him to avoid detection by the rustlers. Anxiously he watched the pale gray brighten. It was going to be a race between the strengthening light and the arrival of the herd at the hills.
Slade could now see that Curly Nevins hadn’t exaggerated in describing the
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