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Authors: Bradford Scott
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inhospitable terrain. Unlike the massive range to the west, the eastern uprisings were honeycombed with canyons and draws and gorges yawning like the black mouths of caves. A perfect hole-in-the-wall country. He scanned the terrain ahead for some grove or thicket behind which he might find temporary concealment; but the grassland rolled smoothly to the edge of the broken ground. And the sky was steadily brightening.
But now the herd was close to the hills, the wideloopers pushing it hard, their attention concentrated on the business of reaching shelter before daylight. With a sigh of relief, Slade saw the cows streaming into the dark mouth of a canyon. Soon the last laboring back had vanished in the gloom. He slowed Shadow to a walk. It was imperative that his quarry should get some distance up the canyon before he entered it.
It was uneasy riding across the open ground in the strengthening light of dawn. At any moment the black gorge mouth might belch rifle fire he would see but very likely would not hear, a slug travelling somewhat faster than sound. He heaved a deep sigh of relief when he reached the canyon without incident. It was brush grown with a fairly open space along the south wall; the floor was hard packed and stony. A posse riding in pursuit of the wideloopers would hit the right trail only by sheer luck.
If the herd had continued into the canyon it must now be some distance ahead of him; but had it continued? It was with considerable qualms that he sent Shadow into the still gloomy opening.
Slade rode at a slow walk, listening and peering. Before him the path stretched silent and deserted in the growing light. No imprint of a passing hoof was left on the stony soil, but an occasional broken twig or a branch stripped of a few leaves told him he was on the right track.
Again he rode for miles, the gorge boring through the hills in a southeasterly direction, doubtless to open onto the arid lands to the south. Nothing broke the silence, nowhere was there a hint of sound or movement, but Slade knew he was on the tail of the herd. The canyon walls were sheer, to the right an unbroken line of beetling cliffs, on the left a stand of heavy growth.
The sun was well above the horizon when he reached a spot where the side wall was slashed by a much narrower gorge or crevice also heavily brush grown. Through the stands of growth ran a ridge of stony ground some twenty feet in width where only a straggle of bushes found rootage. Slade pulled to a halt. On ahead there were still signs of the recent passage of horses or cattle, but he knew he could not be any great distance from the south end of the gorge. He was convinced that the rustlers would never attempt to run the cattle, which now must be on the verge of exhaustion, across the desert during the blazing daylight hours. They’d never make it to the Rio Grande, nearly twenty miles away. They must hole up somewhere till nightfall and this break in the canyon wall was the first indication of what would provide a hide-out. He studied the growth ahead and tried to put himself in the place of the wideloopers. Guarding against the chance of a pursuit hitting on the particular canyon they entered, would it not be logical that they would make a false trail to lead the pursuers astray? With signs of recent passage still before them, a hurried posse might well ride on to the mouth of the canyon and then hopelessly lose the trail on the sands. Anyhow, Slade had a decided hunch that the herd had turned off into the side gorge. Putting the theory to a test he veered Shadow into the opening and rode slowly, scanning the ground and the brush on either side. He uttered an exultant exclamation. Cattle had passed this way, and recently.
Now what should he do? Ride back to the canyon mouth and await the arrival of the Walking M bunch? Seemed the sensible thing to do. But if he was making a mistake and the cows were not holed up in this infernal crack, the wideloopers would very likely
But now the herd was close to the hills, the wideloopers pushing it hard, their attention concentrated on the business of reaching shelter before daylight. With a sigh of relief, Slade saw the cows streaming into the dark mouth of a canyon. Soon the last laboring back had vanished in the gloom. He slowed Shadow to a walk. It was imperative that his quarry should get some distance up the canyon before he entered it.
It was uneasy riding across the open ground in the strengthening light of dawn. At any moment the black gorge mouth might belch rifle fire he would see but very likely would not hear, a slug travelling somewhat faster than sound. He heaved a deep sigh of relief when he reached the canyon without incident. It was brush grown with a fairly open space along the south wall; the floor was hard packed and stony. A posse riding in pursuit of the wideloopers would hit the right trail only by sheer luck.
If the herd had continued into the canyon it must now be some distance ahead of him; but had it continued? It was with considerable qualms that he sent Shadow into the still gloomy opening.
Slade rode at a slow walk, listening and peering. Before him the path stretched silent and deserted in the growing light. No imprint of a passing hoof was left on the stony soil, but an occasional broken twig or a branch stripped of a few leaves told him he was on the right track.
Again he rode for miles, the gorge boring through the hills in a southeasterly direction, doubtless to open onto the arid lands to the south. Nothing broke the silence, nowhere was there a hint of sound or movement, but Slade knew he was on the tail of the herd. The canyon walls were sheer, to the right an unbroken line of beetling cliffs, on the left a stand of heavy growth.
The sun was well above the horizon when he reached a spot where the side wall was slashed by a much narrower gorge or crevice also heavily brush grown. Through the stands of growth ran a ridge of stony ground some twenty feet in width where only a straggle of bushes found rootage. Slade pulled to a halt. On ahead there were still signs of the recent passage of horses or cattle, but he knew he could not be any great distance from the south end of the gorge. He was convinced that the rustlers would never attempt to run the cattle, which now must be on the verge of exhaustion, across the desert during the blazing daylight hours. They’d never make it to the Rio Grande, nearly twenty miles away. They must hole up somewhere till nightfall and this break in the canyon wall was the first indication of what would provide a hide-out. He studied the growth ahead and tried to put himself in the place of the wideloopers. Guarding against the chance of a pursuit hitting on the particular canyon they entered, would it not be logical that they would make a false trail to lead the pursuers astray? With signs of recent passage still before them, a hurried posse might well ride on to the mouth of the canyon and then hopelessly lose the trail on the sands. Anyhow, Slade had a decided hunch that the herd had turned off into the side gorge. Putting the theory to a test he veered Shadow into the opening and rode slowly, scanning the ground and the brush on either side. He uttered an exultant exclamation. Cattle had passed this way, and recently.
Now what should he do? Ride back to the canyon mouth and await the arrival of the Walking M bunch? Seemed the sensible thing to do. But if he was making a mistake and the cows were not holed up in this infernal crack, the wideloopers would very likely
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