Clattering Hoofs. William MacLeod Raine

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СКАЧАТЬ treated him as if he was unimportant and kinda laughed at him. So when Scarface buttered him up it flattered him.”

      “Sim got what he asked for,” Uhlmann spoke up coldly. “When he started running off other men’s stock he might have known he had this coming. Anyhow, he didn’t amount to a hill of beans. I’ll say though”—he glanced across at the prisoner callously—“that I’m glad we caught another waddy to keep company with Sim and help him from feeling lonesome where he’s gone.”

      They roped the body to the mount of McNulty back of the saddle and continued down the valley. Uhlmann kept guard over the captured cowboy while the others drove the recovered cattle.

      Sloan’s thoughts were somber. His reckless feet had carried him along dangerous trails and they had brought him at last to this. He would be lucky if he escaped from the plight in which he was. Cowmen intent on setting an example to warn other rustlers did not usually take two or three days to investigate the story of a man caught on the spot.

      While they were passing through a cut in the hills that jammed them close together he overheard a few words that passed between Ranger and Hart.

      “He isn’t much more than a boy,” the former said. “Though he has the look of a man who has lived in hell.”

      “Nits make lice if you leave them be,” Hart answered.

      The pressure of the cattle brought Sloan knee to knee with Ranger for a few moments.

      He said, stiffly: “I’m not asking mercy because I’m young, Mr. Ranger. For eight years I’ve been a grown man. I don’t want pity but justice. I wasn’t trying to steal yore cattle. I don’t know any of the men who were. All I ask is decent fair play. Wire to Mosely at Tucson. Describe me. Ask if he didn’t eat breakfast with me today. I’ll pay for the message.”

      “There’s no place within thirty miles from which to send a telegram.”

      “What’s thirty miles when a life is at stake?”

      “Nothing. I’ll do my best for you, but the feeling is intense. There has been a lot of night raiding and we have lost many cattle. This time they killed a cowboy named Spillman who saw them making the gather. You can’t blame the boys for being excited.”

      “How can I?” Sloan flung back bitterly. “If they are excited, it would be unreasonable for me to object to their hanging me even if I am innocent.”

      Ranger had no answer to that. It was not quite just, he reflected, to expect a man whose life was at stake to make allowances for those judging him.

      From a hogback they looked down on an undulating brush country of greasewood, mesquite, and cactus. To reach it they passed through a grove of sahuaros struggling up the hill, their trunks pitted with holes made by woodpeckers.

      Ranger’s gaze rested on their captive, a worried frown on his face. Whatever else might be said about him, the fellow was a cool customer. He had a hard tough look, in his eyes a reckless, almost arrogant challenge, the defiance of one with plenty of fighting tallow. The cattleman half believed his story, but he had a feeling that Sloan was holding something back. It was not wander-lust that had sent him into this part of the country. He was no footloose puncher moved only by restlessness. A definite reason had brought him here. The man rode at loose ease in the saddle, but there was in him a banked explosive force that differentiated him from the average drifting cowboy.

      Moving to the top of a loma, Sloan caught sight of windmill blades flashing in the sun. McNulty made it a point to ride close to him.

      “Blunt’s,” he explained, pointing to the windmill, his mean eyes exulting. “It’s cross-bars will be better than a wagon tongue.”

      Sloan did not answer. He did not want to give him the satisfaction of a reply. Uhlmann, he noticed, did not appear to be guarding him closely. This was an invitation for him to attempt escape. He knew that if he tried it the German would shoot him down before he had covered forty yards. This was a hopeful sign. The fellow would not be tempting him to make a break for liberty if he was quite sure the conference at Blunt’s would vote for an immediate hanging without waiting for his story to be verified or disproved.

      The voice of Hart rang out. “Look!” he cried.

      Out of an arroyo a rider appeared. He was flogging his mount with a quirt. They could see that he was swaying in the saddle. With one hand he clung to the horn.

      “It’s Bill Hays,” McNulty announced. “What’s the matter with him?”

      The man headed straight for them. They could hear him shouting, but could not make out what he was saying. He skirted the edge of the herd and pulled up not a yard from Sloan. Uhlmann caught him as he slid from the saddle.

      “Pablo Lopez’ raiders,” he gasped just before sinking into unconsciousness.

      There was a stain of blood on the front of his shirt still wet and soggy.

      “By Moses, here they come!” McNulty shouted. “I’m lighting outa here.”

      “No,’ Ranger snapped. “They’ll get you sure. We’ll move back into the wash we just crossed. They may take the stock and not attack us.”

      McNulty was close to panic. His frightened eyes clung to the dozen riders charging toward them. Bullets whistled past him.

      “They’ll murder us,” he yelped.

      Uhlmann pushed into his hand a rifle and the reins of the horse he had been riding.

      “Git a-holt of yoreself, fellow,” he snarled. “This is a fight you’re in.” The German stooped and picked up Hays, then strode toward the wash.

      McNulty reached there long before any of the others. He was in a panic of terror. In his haste he had dropped the rifle of the German and released his horse. Back of the two-foot bank he lay trembling. The reputation of Pablo Lopez was well-known. On raids across the line from Mexico his bandits killed gringos right and left.

      Hart and Ranger stayed to protect Uhlmann by covering his retreat. Their Winchesters flung back an answer to the shots of the outlaws. All of them came safely to the bed of the dry stream.

      Uhlmann put the wounded man in the sand and turned to McNulty. “Where’s my rifle?” he demanded.

      “I . . . slipped . . . and it dropped,” the poor wretch quavered.

      The German caught him by the coat collar and dragged him to his knees. His hard horny hand slapped the colorless face.

      “Fight, damn you, or I’ll put a bullet through your belly now,” he said savagely.

      The big man did not wait for an answer. He went lumbering back through the brush to get the rifle. Bullets whipped past him, but he paid no attention to them. The Mexicans were riding fast and could fire with no accuracy. A few seconds later he was back in the wash with his weapon.

      “What’s become of the rustler?” he asked.

      “I saw him fork Bill Hays’ horse,” Hart said. “Thought he was bringing it here.”

      “He must either have lit out or got shot,” Ranger guessed.

      “Cut СКАЧАТЬ