Clattering Hoofs. William MacLeod Raine

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      “Better take my horse,” McNulty said. “He’s fast.”

      The others waited for some minutes after Uhlmann had gone before starting with Hays. They half expected to hear the sound of shots and were relieved that none broke the stillness. By this time the German must be safely well on his way.

      Two of them carried Hays, taking turns. The third walked forty yards in advance, his eyes searching the bushes, a rifle in his hands. Pablo might have left a couple of sharpshooters to pick them off when they were not expecting an ambush.

      At Coyote Creek Hart and McNulty waited while Ranger went back to the wash to bring up the horses. He had not rejoined them more than a few minutes when they heard the sound of wheels and presently of voices.

      Hart shouted a challenge and Uhlmann answered. Three armed men and the driver of the buckboard were with him. One of them was Joe Blunt. He drew Ranger aside.

      “I don’t want to frighten you, John,” he said. “But just before I left the house I heard something that worries me. Miguel Torres met yore boy and girl in a buggy about two hours ago near Bitter Wells. They were headed toward our place, to see Elvira, likely. But they haven’t got there, or hadn’t when we left.”

      Ranger’s heart died within him. Lopez would probably pass Bitter Wells on his way back to the border. Two years earlier he had been condemned to death for the murder of a settler’s family and had broken prison a few days before the execution hour. Other charges were piled against him. If he met the young people neither fear nor pity would have any weight with him.

      “Did you send anyone out to—to make inquiries?” the father asked.

      “Soon as we heard Pablo was on the loose Torres gathered a posse and started back toward Bitter Wells. He’s a good man, John, both game and smart He’ll do his best.”

      “Yes,” Ranger agreed. But there was no confidence in his assent. Darkness was falling over the land, and there would be small chance of finding the raiders in the night. Even Torres, good trailer though he was, could not cut sign without light.

      “Chances are Pablo’s men haven’t run into Sandra and Nels at all,” Blunt continued.

      Again Ranger said “Yes” without conviction. If they had not been stopped his children would have reached the Blunt ranch long ago. “Ill take Uhlmann and Hart and Sid Russell with me. We’ll pass by the ranch to make sure the children haven’t been heard from, and from there we’ll strike south.”

      “They may have learned Lopez was raiding and turned back to yore ranch.”

      “I’ll check on that.”

      Heavy-hearted, Ranger rode into the night. With any luck either his posse or that of Torres might strike the cattle drive before it reached the line. But there would be danger to Sandra and Nelson in a fight. Lopez was a merciless devil. Rather than give them up he might in sheer malice shoot them down. The best way would be to bargain with him, if that was possible.

      They traveled fast. Ahead of them they could see the lights of the ranch house. They struck the main road, and after about a mile deflected from it to the private one running up to the white ranch house.

      A sentry challenged them. Ranger’s answer was a sharp question. “Anything heard of the children yet?”

      “Not yet, Mr. Ranger.”

      “Blunt will be back in half an hour. How many men have you here that you can spare me?”

      “Lemme see. Tom Lundy could go. I can. And Buck Ferguson.”

      “Slap on yore saddles. We can’t wait. Join us at Bitter Wells. Bring all the men you can.”

      “If Lopez is driving a herd we can beat him to the line.”

      To them there came the sound of a horse hoof striking a stone.

      Ranger’s body stiffened. He stared into the gathering darkness, shifting the rifle in his hands to be ready for instant action. “Who’s there?” he demanded sharply.

      The vague bulk of riders came out of the night.

      “Halt where you are,” Ranger ordered.

      The high boyish voice of Nelson Ranger rang out. “That’s my father.” He slid from the back of his mount and ran forward.

      John Ranger took the boy in his arms. “Your sister?” he cried.

      “I’m all right,” Sandra shouted. She was already out of the saddle and flying toward him.

      One of her father’s arms went around her shoulders. “Thank God!” he murmured shakily. To the boy he said a moment later: “You’ve been hurt.”

      “You bet.” The younster was half laughing, half crying. He was excited and a little hysterical. The dangerous adventure had shaken him, but he was proud of his wound, though only an inch of skin had been scalped from his head. “One of Pablo Lopez’ men did that. We left him lying in the road.”

      A third rider had moved forward out of the shadows. Uhlmann shuffled toward him and gave a triumphant yelp. “By jimminy, it’s the rustler. Don’t move, fellow, or I’ll pump a slug into you.

      “I’m a statue of patience on a monument,” Sloan jeered.

      Sandra’s relaxed muscles grew taut. She broke from her father’s embrace. “Put that gun down,” she ordered Uhlmann. “He saved us from Lopez. He’s wounded.”

      The German’s heavy jaw dropped, but his gaze clung to Sloan and his rifle still covered the young man. “He’s a cow thief just the same.”

      Ranger strode swiftly after his daughter. “You hard of hearing, Hans?” he snapped. His hand closed on the barrel of the rifle and pushed it down.

      Sloan swung out of the saddle hull heavily. The fingers of one hand held tightly to the horn to steady himself. His head felt strangely light, and the earth tilted up to meet the moonlit sky. For the first time in his life he felt as if he were going to faint.

      But white teeth flashed in a smile defiant and derisive. “Thought I’d better drop in at the rendezvous,” he said. “McNulty and the Dutchman can’t have their hanging without a hangee.”

      6. A Chip on His Shoulder

      RANGER TOOK FIRST THINGS FIRST. “LET’S GET INTO THE house and look at your wound,” he said. “Can you walk?”

      “Learned twenty-six years ago come Christmas,” Sloan replied, a thin grin on his sardonic face.

      He gave up the support of the saddle horn and moved forward jauntily. But his step faltered.

      Sandra slipped an arm around his waist. “Lean on me,” she told him.

      Her father took the other side. “Don’t walk. We’ll carry you.”

      He would not have it that way. “Just a li’l’ knife rip in the shoulder. Nothing to make a fuss about.”

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