Outlaw Ranch. Frank C. Robertson
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a pint flask out of his chaps pocket and airily extended it toward the girl.
“Thank you, I don’t drink,” Leda refused icily.
“No? Don’t drink? Why, yuh don’t know what yo’re missin’. How ’bout you, old badger?”
“Th-th-thanks. I n-never refuse go-good whisky,” Nevada said, and taking the proffered bottle he let the fiery liquid run down his throat in a gurgling stream. The contents had decreased perceptibly when he handed it back.
“Aw, come on, Jack,” Al Biggers rasped.
“Shore—just as soon’s I drink toas’ to the purtiest dang gal ever seen in Utah. Here’s to yuh, miss. The next best thing to the lips of a good-lookin’ girl is the lip of a bottle.”
With the same motion which withdrew the bottle from his mouth he flung it against the hub of the buckboard, and emitted a yell which mingled discordantly with the crash of glass, and rolled the spurs to his mount. He passed his companion, who also hooked in his spurs, and they galloped out of sight.
“I thought you told me you didn’t drink,” Leda accused the guide.
“I think too much o’ my health not tuh drink when I’m asked to by the Wild Ones,” Nevada replied.
“You mean you think those men are—are outlaws?”
“I’ll bet seven dollars an’ a half they are,” Nevada stated positively.
“Then why didn’t they hold us up?” Bud demanded.
“They ain’t fools, but we ain’t outa the woods yit,” Nevada said gloomily. “I wish tuh the Lord there was some cut-off we could take.”
“You mean you’re afraid those men will come back and rob us?” Leda demanded. “They wouldn’t dare. We would identify them.”
“I wouldn’t be too shore about that,” Nevada demurred. “If yuh got any val’ables yuh’d better keep ’em well hid. Where’d yuh keep yore money anyway?”
“In—in here,” Leda replied with a blush, as she touched the bodice of her dress. “They—they wouldn’t dare.”
“I wouldn’t bank on that either,” the guide said pessimistically.
It would soon be dark, and Nevada constantly urged his ponies so as to reach a small, grassy park where he meant to camp. Leda could not restrain the feeling of acute uneasiness which crept over her. Suppose those men were outlaws, and should force her to hand over the money? It was all that she and Bud had in the world. If they couldn’t find Charley they would be at the mercy of this forbidding land. The very thought caused her a shudder.
“Gettin’ cold, miss?” Nevada queried. “We’ll soon be there. Gid-ap, Snip. Hustle along thar, Coley.”
The little park was reached just as twilight was settling down over the canyon. Already the sides of the canyon walls resembled the frowning fronts of monster citadels. The park itself was a couple of acres of open grass where a tiny stream cataracted down a precipitous side-canyon.
Nevada proved himself an expert camp attendant, whatever his other shortcomings. He leaped to the ground and had the team unhitched and unharnessed almost before Bud and Leda could get the cramp out of their limbs. Five minutes later he had a cheerful fire burning, and the Easterners crouched around it gratefully. The chill of the mountains had descended as soon as the sun was out of sight.
The tents were quickly set up, and almost before they knew it Nevada had a savory supper of beefsteak, potatoes, and coffee cooking on the coals. But before they were ready to eat darkness had settled about them until there was nothing but a black void between the ring of firelight and the ghostly luminosity of the star-bathed crags.
“Don’t be fretted, miss, if yuh hear noises ye ain’t used to in the town where ye was raised,” Nevada attempted to be reassuring when he saw Leda start at some strange cry from far above them. Then he went on practically to frustrate his own purpose.
“This here country is plumb lousy with b’ars an’ mountain lions which’ll prob’ly come sniffin’ ’round the camp atter we git tuh bed, but they won’t hurt nothin’ if ye jest lay still.”
“Oh!” the girl gasped.
“Gee!” Bud ejaculated.
“Don’t worry. I got my old forty-five-seventy an’ I’ll have ’er right handy tuh my hand,” Nevada boasted.
From just behind sounded a chuckle. All three became motionless.
“Hold the pose, everybody,” a jeering voice commanded. “Don’t reach for that forty-five-seventy now because this ain’t no b’ar. It’s a stick-up.”
THREE
CHET KELVIN had decided not to force his company upon the people in the buckboard until he knew that he would be welcomed. True, he had Bud’s invitation, but Bud was only a boy. His sister might resent strangers coming to their camp.
As a rule the cattle buyer traveled without camping equipment, knowing there were few ranches, no matter how remote, which wouldn’t welcome a wayfarer. When necessary he hired a pack outfit. On this occasion there had seemed no need for one. Biggers and Fossum had assured him that there were scattered ranches all along the way. They had told him that he could make it from Curryville to Hopkins’ ranch in half a day.
He suspected that this ranch was the destination of the two young outlaws themselves, and that it was their intention to hold him up some time the next forenoon. He was curious to see if he had guessed rightly, so he had no intention of ramming into Hopkins’ ranch ahead of schedule. But he did wonder if the gay young riders wouldn’t try to hold up the buckboard.
He had purposely dallied along behind the buckboard until it grew dark, and then he had easily passed their camp in the shadows of the cliff. Had they had a dog he might have been discovered, but they hadn’t, and he could distinctly see them limned against the blackness beyond the fire.
A half mile above the park he had paused. He always carried the makings of a couple of meals rolled up in the blankets on the back of his saddle for emergencies, but he had eaten late, and he merely unsaddled, staked his horse out of sight of the road, and unrolled his blankets.
He didn’t go to bed. For a long time he sat with a blanket around his shoulders, and smoked; being careful to see that the glow from his cigaret was never visible from the road.
At last he caught a sound which a city man would never have been able to distinguish—the faint creaking of saddle leather from up the canyon. Instantly he rose, put out his cigaret, and walked over to his horse. With his hand over Mike’s nostrils he waited for the two horsemen to pass; then, silently as any Indian, he followed them.
The men were riding slowly, and he almost blundered upon them when they suddenly stopped. They continued on foot. From where they left their horses the glow of the camp-fire below could be plainly seen. Despite the darkness Chet recognized the two horses as the ones Biggers and Fossum had been riding. These bad boys of the range were certainly up to mischief.
He knew that they had delayed long enough to draw their bandannas over their faces, and now he proceeded to do the same thing. Then, gun in hand, he moved slowly toward the fire.
He wasn’t close enough to hear what was said, but he had a fine view of the little pantomime that was enacted beside the fire. He saw the three victims suddenly grow rigid, and then a single masked man advanced like a moving silhouette. He dared not get too close. To interfere with the hold-up there would be too dangerous to the people of the buckboard; so he had to be where he could beat the outlaws back to their horses.
He could dimly make out one outlaw keeping among the shadows while his companion did the robbing. First, he saw old Nevada rise and submit to search, and then back up against the fire. Then Bud was frisked by the same outlaw, and made to join Nevada. Chet was breathing hard when he saw the