Rimrock Trail - Joseph Allan Dunn (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📗

fogged, all bearings lost, possessed with the blankness that accompanies the flight of self-confidence.

He could see very plainly in mental vision the picture that Molly had sent to the Three Star, now framed and given the place of honor on the table of the ranch-house living-room. The picture of a girl in whose eyes the fleeting look of womanhood, that Sandy had now and then seen there and which had thrilled him so strangely, had become permanent. That she was something so vital she could not be dismissed from the life of the Three Star, from his own life, by sending her to school whence she would return almost a stranger, by making her an heiress, Sandy recognized. He had deliberately given her his hand to help her out of the rut in which he had found her and now, with the swift series of tableaux conjured up by Sam's suggestion of her and Westlake together, lovers, Sandy realized the gap that was widening between Molly and him. If she was out of the rut would she not now regard him as in another of his own from which there was no up-lifting?

To Sandy, Westlake seemed little more than a likable lad, placing him at about twenty-three or four. He felt immeasurably older, harder, though there were not more than six years between them—seven at the most. Even that made him almost twice the age of Molly. With this twist of his reverie he realized that Molly was no longer to be considered as a girl. Toward the little maid he had poured out protectiveness, affection and, while his vials were emptying, she had crossed the brook. Into what had his affection shifted with the changing of Molly to womanhood?

Sandy Bourke, knight of the roving heel, had never attempted to find solution for his attitude toward women. It was neither wariness nor antipathy. His life, drifting from rancho to rancho, sometimes consorting with the rougher side of men careless of conventions, had been, in the main, not unlike the life of a hermit, with long periods when he rode alone under sun and stars with only his horse for company.

There were months of this and then came swiftly moving periods of relaxation in a cattle town where men unleashed the repressions and let pent-up energies and appetites have full sway. Sandy loved card chances where his own skill might back what luck the pasteboards brought him in the deal. Drinking bouts, the company of the women with whom many of his fellows consorted, never appealed to him. His reservations found outlet in gambling or in the acceptance of some job where the danger risks ran high, where success and self-safety hung upon his coolness, his keen sense, his courage and his skill with horse and lariat and gun. A life as apart as a sailor's, more lonely, for he was often companionless for months.

So far he had never felt lack of anything, least of all lately, with the two men he liked best in active partnership with him, with a maturing interest in the development of his ranch and his grade of cattle by modern methods. But, to have Molly not come back, or, returning, to have her wooed and won, entirely absorbed by some one like Westlake, struck him with a sense of impending loss that amounted to a real pain, difficult of self-diagnosis. Westlake was worthy enough. A good mate for Molly, climbing up the ladder of education and culture to stand where the engineer, well-bred, well-mannered, now stood, the two of them to go on together....

"Shucks!" muttered Sandy. "And he ain't even seen her picture. I must have been chewin' loco weed."

"What say?" asked Sam.

"I'm goin' to take a li'l' look-see," said Sandy. "I reckon they're tryin' to git warmed up an' decide on what they'll do round here. No tellin' how long they may take or what kind of deviltry that camp booze may work 'em up to. I'm pritty certain no one saw us sneak out of the tent afteh dahk."

If they had been seen no attempt might be made to dislodge them from the claims. Sandy did not believe such effort would turn out to be a shooting match,—unless the defenders started it,—but something more underhanded. The flinging of a dynamite stick, if the throwers felt certain of not being caught, was a possibility if enough crude whisky had been absorbed. In all probability the crowd of ousted men were making themselves conspicuous in the camp during the earlier hours of the evening in view of a needed alibi. Nothing might happen until midnight and the long vigil was not comfortable. Sandy vanished from the tunnel mouth, sinking to the ground, instantly indistinguishable even to Sam and Mormon. There was nothing to tell whether he had gone up-hill or down. The momentary cessation of the cicadas' chorus was the only warning that a human was abroad.

"Have a chaw?" Mormon whispered presently, after he had changed his pose.

Sam took the plug tobacco and bit into it gratefully.

"I sure hate stickin' around, waitin'," he said under his breath. "Allus makes me plumb nerv'us."

"Same here," answered Mormon. "Reckon it's that way with most men. Sandy don't show it, 'cept by goin' out on a snoop."

"He can see, smell an' hear where we'd be deef, dumb an' blind," said Sam. "Wonder what time it is? We've been here all of two hours already 'cordin' to them stars."

"What time does the moon rise?" asked Mormon.

"'Bout half past three or so. You figgerin' on wrastlin' Roarin' Russell by moonlight, after we git through down here?"

"I've got a hunch this is goin' to be a busy night, plumb through till sun-up," said Mormon. "An', when I meet up with Roarin' Russell it ain't goin' to be jest a wrastlin match, believe me. It's goin' to be a free-fo'-all exhibition of ground an' lofty tumblin', 'thout rounds, seconds or referee. When one of us hits the ground it'll likely be fo' keeps."

"I ain't seen you so riled up in a long time, old-timer. An' I'm backin' you fo' winner, at that. Jest the same, me an' Sandy'll do a li'l' refereein' fo' the sake of fair play."

"I can hear you two gossipin' old wimmin gabbin' clear up to the top of the hill an' down to the crick," added a third voice as Sandy glided in, materializing from the darkness.

"Anythin' doin'?" asked Sam.

"No, an' there won't be long as you air yo' voices. You play like an angel on that mouth harp of yores, Sam, but you talk like a rasp. Mormon booms like a bull frawg."

They settled down again to their watch. The Great Bear constellation dipped down, scooping into the darkness beyond the opposing hill.

"Pritty close to midnight," said Sam at last. "What's the ..."

Sandy's grip on his arm checked him, all senses centering into listening.

The three stared blankly into the night, while their hands sought gun butts and loosened the weapons in their holsters. Out of the blackness came little foreign sounds that they interpreted according to their powers. The tiny clink of metal, the faint thud of horses' hoofs, an exclamation that had barely been above the speaker's breath floated up to them through the stillness. The glow of the lantern showed through the tent wall.

"Two riders," mouthed Sandy so softly that Mormon and Sam swung heads to catch his words. "Came up the valley t'other side of the crick. Both crossed it above the tent. Reckon they're visitin' us. One of 'em's comin' this way."

They crouched, breathless now, listening to the soft padded sounds that told of the approach of man and horse. These ceased. Still they could see nothing. Then there came a sharp shrill whistle, answered from the levels. Followed instantly the thud of galloping ponies going at top speed, parallel, one between the watchers and the tent as they saw the swift shadow shade the glow for an instant, the other between the tent and the creek. There was a sharp swishing as of something whipping brush.

"Yi-yi-yippy!" The cries rang out exultant as the horses dashed by the tunnel. The light in the tent wavered, went out. There was a shout of surprise and dismay, a twang like the snapping of a mighty bowstring and then came the whoops of the trio from the Three Star as they realized what the attempt had been and how it had failed.

Two riders, trailing a rope, had raced down the valley hoping to sweep away the tent, to send its occupant sprawling, its contents scattered in a confusion of which advantage would be taken to chase the three off their claims, taken by surprise, made ridiculous.

Sandy and Sam, searching for a convenient tent site, had happened upon a mass of outcrop, overgrown by brush. Over this they had pitched the tent, using the rock for table, propping their dummies about it. If dynamite was flung it would find something to work against. They had not anticipated the use of the rope to demolish the canvas any more than the two riders had expected to bring up against a boulder. The impact, with their ponies spurred, urged on by their shouts to their limit, tore the cinches of one saddle loose, jerked it from the horse and catapulted the unprepared rider over its head, flying through the air to land heavily, while his mount, unencumbered, frightened, went careering off leaving its breathless master stunned amid the sage.

As the cinches had given way at one end, the line itself had parted at the other. The second pony had stumbled sidewise, rolling before the man was free from the saddle. They could hear it thrashing in the willows, the rider cursing as he tried to remount while Sandy ran cat-footed down the hill, leaving Mormon and Sam to handle the other. If there had been assistants to the raid they had melted away, willing enough to join in a drive against men yanked from their tent, defenseless, but not at all eager to face the guns of those same men on the alert, the aggressive.

Mormon and Sam found their man groaning and limp.

"Don't believe he's bu'sted anything," announced Sam, "'less he's druv his neck inter his shoulders. Got his saddle, Mormon?"

"Yep. Want the rope?"

They trussed their captive with the lariat still snubbed to his saddle-horn. Down in the willows there was a flash, a report, a scurrying flight punctuated by an oath almost as vivid as the shot. Sandy came up the hill toward them.

"Miss him?" asked Mormon.

"It was sure dahk," said Sandy, "and I hated to plug the hawss. So I only took one shot to cheer him on his way. He was mountin' at the time an' it was a snapshot. I aimed at the seat of his pants. I w'udn't be surprised but what he's ridin' so't of one-sided. Who you got here? Tote him down-hill. I don't believe they bu'sted the lantern. We'll take a look at him."

Sandy retrieved the lantern from the collapsed canvas and lit it. Mormon and Sam took the senseless man down to the creek where they attempted to revive him by pouring hatfuls of the icy water on his head. He was a black-haired chap, sallow of face, clean-shaven. His clothes were those of a cowman.

"Looks a heap like a drowned rat," said Mormon. "It's Sol Wyatt, one of Plim's riders oveh to his hawss ranch. He got fired from the Two-Bar-Circle fo' leavin' his ridin' iron to home an' usin' anotheh brand. Leastwise, that's what they suspected. Old Man Penny giv' him the benefit of the doubt an' jest kicked him out of the corral. If he'd had the goods on him he'd have skinned him alive an' put his pelt on the bahn do' fo' a warnin'."

"The