The Second Western Megapack. Zane Grey
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Bassett watches the sheriff and me ride away. I’d give a heap to know what that cuss intends doin’. If there’s any manhood ’bout him a-tall he won’t desert Roper Dixon. How I wish Roper hadn’t forced me to shoot him, wish he’d turned out to be a hand I could tie to like ol’ Raw Beef and Jinglin’ Jimmy.
An hour later I’m pokin’ along behind the drag end o’ the herd when Jinglin’ Jimmy drops back to speak to me. The kid’s big blue eyes sure open wide as he sees the fumin’ sheriff tied to his hoss, but he says nothin’ ’bout that.
“Dogies goin’ all jake, Jimmy?” I inquires.
“Yep, we’re makin’ it fine, considerin’ how short-handed we are. That Mason is some cowhand. Never seen a rannie what knows how to point a herd quite so good as he does.”
“A cowhand, yeah, but I’ll tell the world he’s caused me plenty grief.… What’s on your mind, Jimmy?”
He knees his hoss ’longside mine.
“Bill, las’ night, when I was guardin’ the cavvy an’ you an’ Mason was on nightherd with the steers, we had a visitor.”
“Huh?”
“A geezer on hossback. I dunno where he came from. He gave a low, funny whistle as he rid toward the dogies, an’ Mason answered that whistle. Then I seen Mason an’ this stranger talkin’ together.”
“Kid, yuh didn’t hear what they said?” “Nope. I was too far away, an’ I dassent try to get closer.”
“’Nother outlaw, most likely,” I grunts. “Feller ’vaporated hisself into the night, I s’pose?”
“Yes. D’yuh think, boss, as Mason is goin’ to turn this herd over to rustlers, like Cal Bassett said he’d do?”
“I dunno what to think, Jimmy. But what thoughts I’m thinkin’ is damned uneasy ones, if yuh savvy?”
“I savvy,” says the kid. “But what we goin’ to do?”
“Nothin’ till the showdown comes. Kid, if we didn’t have Mason pilotin’ the herd through this twisted country we’d be plum’ lost in an hour. Yeah, we’d jamb our cattle up into a blind canyon first rattle outa the box, a canyon we’d have to back-track out of. Mason avoids all them traps. I’m jus’ hopin’ he’s shootin’ square. If he ain’t.…” I throws out my hands expressive, to show how helpless we’d be.
“I’ll back your hand the limit,” sez Jimmy, and again rides forward to the swing of the snakelike windin’ herd. Somethin’ comes up in my throat as I gaze after the kid. He’ll sure do to take along.
Then, as though we ain’t troubles enough, up comes a terrific hail storm.
The dogies won’t face the chunks of peltin’ ice. They bunches up on a hilltop ’bout the size of a dime and in a gully ’bout the width of a toothpick, while me an’ Mason, Raw Beef an’ Jimmy tries to keep the idjut critters from stampedin’. Poundin’ hail. Lightnin’, glarin’ and vivid. Rumblin’ thunder. In spite of our slickers we’re all soaked to the hide. So is our beds and everything on our pack horses.
The storm passes as sudden as it had come, leavin’ the ground all white with hail stones. Mason whips a little bunch o’ dogies outa the main herd, forces ’em to travel an’ lead the rest. We go on and on and on. ’Bout three in the afternoon, on top of a high ridge half a mile to our right, I catch sight of six horsemen.
Gosh! I has an all-gone, sinkin’ feelin’ in the pit of my empty belly. I has more’n a hunch them six hombres ain’t watchin’ us for their health. Dang this cussed Brakes country anyhow! Jack Owens orter ha’ knowed better than to try and put cattle through it. So had Cap Dillingham.
But did Dillingham really hire Mason? Was it really Dillingham’s letter Owens got, and Dillingham’s check for a down payment on the steers? If so, Dillingham was a fool to trust Mason, an outlaw with two thousand bucks on his noodle. In the night Mason met some jasper he knowed and never told me ’bout it. Hell! If he was aimin’ to shoot square with me, he should ha’ explained the thing. I’ll just have it out with that lame blond jasper right now!
But I can’t leave my job of bringin’ up the drags and ridin’ close herd on my ringy prisoner, Sheriff Dutton. So I do nothin’, Mason don’t stop our drive till twilight, and when the drag end of the herd finally drifts into the halted bunch, I see our pilot has picked out a flat place on top of a high hill. There’s grass on the hill, but about nine rocks to every square foot. Mason, ridin’ back to meet me, sez this is the only place within ten miles big enough for a bedground where we can circle round the herd, and maybeso the dogies can adjust their bones to them boulders.
“Humph,” I grunts sour. “How much further through this snake country, Mason?”
“Two days’ drive yet, and another day after that to hit Dillingham’s ranch.”
“Mason, yuh know anything about them six riders I seen on a ridge?”
“I seen ’em, too.”
“Yeah? You know ’em?”
“Bill Swift, I’ve mentioned afore that you’re too damned curious for your own good.”
“Look here, Mason,” I beller. Then I stop and don’t go on. What the heck’s the use of bawlin’ him out?
“I’ll unpack the other hosses,” sez he, “but you’d better take the pack off that ’un,” pointin’ to the sheriff’s nag.
So I unload Dutton and tie him to a tree, but tellin’ him if he’ll agree to behave hisself an’ let my cowpunchers alone, I’ll untie him. Dutton won’t agree to nothin’. “I’ll have two prisoners when I leave this outfit,” he spits. “You as well as Lame Larson, unless I put a bullet between your damned eyes.”
Mason gets supper, and it’s some meal ’spite of what the hail storm did to our grub. Beds are soaked plum’ through, and since the sun’s down there ain’t much chance to dry ’em, though I do spread some blankets out close to the fire. Jimmy and Raw Beef hold the hungry, tired cattle while me and Mason eat and I feed the sheriff. Then we relieve the other boys and stand guard till midnight.
We’re packin’ up to hit the trail again at dawn when all of a sudden appear seven riders. They pop up over the edge of the hill and are right at our camp afore I see ’em. Jinglin’ Jimmy and Raw Beef are with the herd, stringin’ west off the rocky hill and up a gully, grazin’ as they travel. Me and Mason and the tied sheriff is at camp.
I just stand like I was petrified while I size up them newcomers. Six of ’em I has never seen afore, but the seventh is Cal Bassett. And say! There’s plenty of triumph in that geezer’s slinky eyes. Mason, busy packin’ a pony, keeps right on workin’.
“Mornin’,” rumbles a whalin’ big hombre with an eagle-beak nose stickin’ through a nest of black whiskers. Two of his sidekicks also has plenty whiskers. The other three is acquainted with razors. All of ’em knows what well-dressed, tough nuts what lived in the open ought to wear—heavy shirts, greasy overalls, boots, big black hats.
“Mornin’, cowboys,” sez I, figgerin’ I’d jus’ as well call ’em cowboys and act sociable. “You work for some outfit round here?”
“Ain’t you the inquisitive hombre,” returns black whiskers. “We work for ourselves. Since I met this friend of your’n,” indicatin’ Cal Bassett, “I know your name, Bill Swift. I’m Black Yardley.”
“Pleased to meet yuh,” I lie. For I never was less pleased to meet anybody.
“I take it you got hoss sense, Bill Swift,” Yardley proceeds. “Yuh’ll notice yuh ain’t got no more chance than a jackrabbit in the center of a coyote pack. So don’t reach for your lead-chucker.”
“No savvy your line o’ talk,” I sez,