# Doom Canyon/Chapter 2

Extracted from Complete Story magazine, 1925-01-25, pp. 16-28.

### CHAPTER II.

Strong and Bramley went on the trail ten days later. They pooled their money and found they could spare twelve hundred dollars in all. For this Bramley expected to buy two hundred head and a bunch of cow ponies for the outfit. These mustangs could be purchased in Texas for ten dollars a head and sold at double the price at Laguna, the difference paying for expenses. They took along the two sons of Maria and managed to hire two more Mexicans through her help. She rounded up another junior relative to drive the chuck-and-bedding wagon and to act as cook.
Fortunately the Indian contract did not insist upon steers, and what they needed most on the ranch was cows. The profits on the venture would provide many things that were needed if they got the contract and they proposed to buy a thoroughbred herd sire as a commencement of their endeavor to better their grade of cattle. If the contract fell through they would still have the cows for increase. Each rider took along five ponies, since they could not afford to buy all they would need to round up and handle their purchases.
The roping and branding would have to be done in the open, in a wild country thick with brush, with mesquite and cactus. An hour of this work after the round-up exhausted the toughest mount. All went armed. There was imminent and almost constant danger from raids; Mexican rustlers tempted by the chance to capture a herd on trail with the outfit of the herders; Indians who cared nothing for the cattle but much for scalps, the chance to torture and maim and the possession of the firearms and ammunition of their prisoners, besides their ponies and saddles.
Their destination reached on Comanche Creek, they were not long dickering for the stock from the ranch-owner who did not know within hundreds how many cattle he owned. Five dollars a head was the price agreed upon, with the loan of half a dozen vaqueros to round them up, to be paid a dollar a day by the buyers for their services.
It was heartbreaking work for man and horse under the hot sun, crashing through thorny thickets that surrounded the water holes where they were surest to find the cows bunched or pick up their sign. Often the wild cows, worked into a frenzy, charged, almost as quick of hoof as the ponies. Every panting steer, once roped and thrown, had to be hog-tied and the road brand burned on its flank lest they stampede and stray on the way home or got mixed up with larger herds. Nightfall found them wet with sweat that they dried by the blazing fires, devouring fresh beef with the appetites of giants, rolling in weary and stiff, to turn out before dawn.
It was not a large contract but the two extra men they brought were not used to the work and, though they were born riders and threw a rope well enough, they developed a fear of the crazy, lunging cattle after one had been thrown, his pony gored and escape only made by crawling into a cactus thicket at which even the maddened cow balked. The badly needled man quit and demanded his time. The native vaqueros did none of the roping, evidently considering their help an imposition on their leisure, galloping much and accomplishing little.
One man had to stand watch nightly over the remuda. They had a hundred and fifty cattle at the close of the second day. Bramley bribed two of the local riders to do herding at night though Strong suggested that he and Bramley split the watch,
“Nothin' doin', pardner. We got to clean up to-morrow. These five greasers Martinez loaned us are loafin' on the job. They ain't workin' fo' nothing but the peso a day we give 'em. They're stringin' us along. If we knew the country half as well as they do we'd have had the whole bunch by noon to-day. An' we can't git along without 'em. We'll git us a night's rest an' hop to it in the mornin'.”
Strong woke with the stars and moon shining brightly, though there was a hint of paling in the sky. It was cold, and he hurried to get dressed, pulling on the boots he had taken to bed with him to keep them supple. The young Mexican had the fire going bravely and the scent of coffee and fried steaks was welcome in the air.
The stray herd, that had reclined during the latter part of the night, woke and commenced to bawl and bellow, the two vaqueros seated motionless in their saddles, wrapped in their serapes. By the time he and Bramley were dressed the soda biscuits were ready and they squatted on their heels close to the blaze, filling their eager stomachs. Two men relieved the night herd. A band of yapping coyotes saluted the swiftly lightening sky and then, as they got their ropes, the day was born.
The rider brought up the remuda and drove them into a rough corral where they started to circle as each man, with loop trailing, walked toward his choice and deftly flipped the noose over its head at the first chance the wise mustang gave him.
Mounted, the ponies squealing and pitching at the outset, they rode for the water hole near which they hoped to find enough cows to fill the order. Meantime the already captured herd was held.
The steers knew the reason for the drive and, as the riders neared the water hole and they caught sight of them, little bands would start off, with their tails curled stiffly, on a lope that was only a little slower than a horse carrying a rider.
The ground was uneven and the chase followed over barranca and down ravines and gullies at breakneck speed. The riders loose in their saddles, yelled to get the cattle started and to keep them going, the ponies entering into the spirit of the race, tearing along with ears cocked and eyes protruding, dodging as the quarry dodged, whirling off at right angles through the mesquite that often masked the treacherous gullies, sliding down them and scrambling up again on the far side like cats.
Slowly they ringed a bunch, bringing them to the open where they could get their lariats into play, the sturdy mustangs set as the cow raced to the limit of the rope and came crashing to earth. The wise mustangs strained against it while the rider raced up and hog tied, then ran to the nearest fire where he had left his iron in the hot ashes, coming back with it sending off blue smoke as it cooled in the air and, at last, pressing it to the heaving flank while the branded brute bellowed protest.
Once branded and finding themselves near their fellows, the cattle bunched as if shocked into temporary submission, allowing themselves to be kept together, even beginning to graze on grama grass after the first shock wore off.
By three in the afternoon the last fifty were being pushed slowly toward the main herd. That end of the task seemed well ended. To-morrow they would take the trail. But Bramley seemed anxious, glancing at the sky that had become overcast. Strong noticed the direction of his gaze.
“Fraid of a norther?” he asked.
“Looks to me like thar might be one brewin'. Smells like it too.” Bramley sniffed the air. The cattle were sniffing too. He rode over and talked with the local vaqueros who were smoking cigarettes, waiting for their pay, having counted the herd, sitting with their knees cocked over the horns of their saddles. Bramley came back to Strong with his brows creased.
“Can't bribe 'em to stay overnight,” he said. “They've got their dinero. It ain't much but it's a lot to them. They don't git more'n ten pesos a month reg'lar. They're set fo' monte an' mescal. Claim thar won't be no storm but I'm Texas bred, same as they are, an' I don't like the looks of things. I reckon the lazy skunks air hopin' we'll have a stampede an' the work to do all over agen.
“We can't hold 'em though, their contract's up an' they've made up their stubborn minds to clear out, dern 'em. A lazy greaser—an' thet's their general nature—when they ain't got a strong-minded female like Maria to handle 'em is the mos' shif'less thing on two laigs, or four. There they go, damn 'em. I hope every last one of 'em wakes up with his head baked an' his pockets empty. I hope they git so derned drunk they all fall into a prickly-pear thicket, like Lopez did, an' can't find no one to take the needles out. I kin feel thet norther in my bones, same as Hurley does the rheumatiz.”
The hours passed and, though the air grew cold early and there were some mutterings of thunder over the distant, slate-colored hills, no storm appeared. They had water and good feed where they were camped, and Bramley hoped for a good night's recovery for cattle and horses after the exhausting chase. But the cold increased before the sun went down murkily, a glaring ball of crimson shrouded in dull-purple haze, and he shook his head.
“The cows know it,” he said as they ate supper and rolled their cigarettes. “Look at 'em. Bellies full but they won't chew their cuds or lie down. It's all hands to-night, boys, cook an' all. Cook'll wrangle the remuda.”
Night came on, cold and pitchy dark with the stars obscured. The herd was uneasy, never all of them down at once, and the little band of five rode around the mass, crooning to them, the vaqueros in Spanish and Strong and Bramley chatting the “Cowboy's Lullaby.”
“Last night as I lay on the prairie
An' looked at the stars in the sky,
I wondered if ever a cowboy
Could win to that sweet by and by.
“Roll on, roll on,
Roll on, li'le doggies, roll on, roll on.
Roll on, roll on, roll on, li'le dogies, roll on.”
Unmistakably it soothed the herd. One after another the uneasy ones ceased lowing and lay down.
Suddenly the northern sky was split open with a livid flare and almost immediately a clap of thunder came with the sound of a salvo of great guns, booming away into the distance. Again and again the lightning stabbed the black clouds with its javelins, and the crash of exploding vacuums followed.
The terrified brutes rose awkwardly, shivering, watching with lowered heads for the fast-coming flashes that revealed their tossing horns, their bulging eyes.
Bramley and Strong passed the word to keep on riding, steadily round and round, and to keep singing. Once let one of the cows break through the cordon and the rest would follow for twenty, thirty, even forty miles over the broken country, unless the leaders were headed off. Many of them would surely be killed by falls, others would stray in separate bunches split up in the inky darkness.
Then the storm broke in all its fury. A flare of levin revealed lowering clouds discharging the tremendous downpour that looked like steel rods rather than water, lashing the cattle to a wild frenzy. The next flash showed their hides streaming, like sea beasts, reflecting back the lightning while the deafening thunder crashed immediately overhead, and a great bolt of fire came sizzling apparently, striking but a few rods away with an effect of an exploding mine. Their mouths seemed suddenly filled with vinegar, the air appeared to be broomed away leaving them gasping, and the wise mustangs lost their nerve and fought to get their heads down and bolt.
Cattle and riders were one plunging mass for a few delirious moments. Then the herd divided, the leaders racing away at headlong speed with Strong and one of the vaqueros from the ranch after part of them, and Bramley with the other hand and the extra after the rest. What luck the young cocinero—little more than a boy—was having with the remuda, they dared not think.
Strong saw a spurt of fire, and heard the crack of a gun faintly before the thunder drowned it out. Bramley was shooting to try and check his section of the stampede. It was as futile as flinging firecrackers before a charge of mullah-mad Arabs. The wind had followed the rain that it had driven before it and came with a rushing sound as of trains in a tunnel, changing the stinging slant of the downpour.
Flash upon flash lighted up the racing brutes, their horns clashing, crowding each other, their hoofs flinging up the sodden earth, charging through dense thickets, plunging down gullies headlong, bellowing or lurching on with their tongues lolling.
Strong was on one side of his bunch—about half the herd as near as he could judge in that wild flurry—racing to catch up with the leaders, to turn them. The vaquero he saw across the surging waves of maddened cows with horned heads for crests. His pony flew, extended at full gallop. There was no need yet for quirt or spurs. He was gaining, little by little. At the last he would have to take the desperate chance of heading them, of being charged, if he did not gauge the speed and distance to a second, to inches. If the pony set its foot in a hole, slipped on the wet earth, he would be trodden into bloody pulp. He knew that chance, but the exhilaration of the chase was on him, heightened by the danger, the tremendous speed, the bunching of his pony's muscles as it tucked up and flung out its steely legs beneath him.
He seemed charged with the fury of the storm itself, keyed to superhuman performance with the glare and crash, the rush of the wind and the lash of the rain, the dull pounding of the galloping cattle.
He lost all sense of direction, of where Bramley was. He only knew that he was gaining, foot by foot, with the leaders, slashing at them with his quirt, that might as well have been a straw.
They burst out of the brush that tore at his leather chaparajos, battered his stirrups, clawed at his mount. A glare, and he saw ahead of them a wide arroyo, dry an hour before, now with a surging torrent in its bed. The treacherous soil gave way and only quick effort held him in the saddle as his pony, legs trapped in the sticky mud, slid helpless. The next burst of light saw the nearest cow somersaulting, pitching down into the water, the end shut off by darkness.
They were in the flood. It was up to his girths and the bottom was mud. All about him the frantic cattle surged, threatening to gore or crush him in that frightful Stygian darkness, with the hissing rain, the bellowing cows and the harsh shout of the wind, the rush of the water. They were half afloat and half mired.
A second bolt came leaping down from the turmoil of the bulging clouds. It struck fairly among the herd that had begun to scatter, unable to find footing on the farther slope, floundering along the bottom of the arroyo. Strong tingled from head to foot; he felt his mount shudder and heard it groan as it staggered. But they were not struck. Three cows were down, the rest scrambling over them, leaping in the morass, as more lightning displayed them, and showed the vaquero still on the bank they had left, a figure leaping out of the darkness, gone in a second.
Swift as the apparition showed and disappeared Strong had seen the pointing hand, caught his meaning. If he could keep the herd going, along the arroyo to its end they could turn them. His own pony was nearly spent by this last disaster, but so were the cattle.
And, though the rain beat down still and the water was rising, he fancied that the storm was passing. Surely the thunder claps were farther off, longer intervals between them and the lightning. If only the arroyo was not too long, if they could reach its end before the torrent gained depth and strength enough to sweep them away. The instinct of the herd kept it pressing on upstream, luckily, for the played-out pony could do little but keep its own footing.
The vaquero had galloped ahead. He would reach the head of the arroyo first and be ready to turn the leaders. The tingling in Strong's limbs and body died down, his head no longer buzzed. How many miles they had come he could not guess but, if the fury of the gale abated, the two of them would have no more trouble with the exhausted cows—once they got them on the level.
The thunder was diminishing, passing to the south. The lightning came fitfully. It showed the sides of the gully narrowing in. Now they were on rising ground and he had to urge the flagging beasts on as best he could with shouts and shots as they breasted the deceitful pitch. He glimpsed the front of the herd leveling out, his helper swinging his rope at them. They toiled on through the sucking mud, hock-deep, on and up, to stand wearily, lowing plaintively, the frenzy out of them, forlorn, willing, subdued.
The cold bit at him but the rain slowing, turned to a drizzle and was gone. The wind went with it. A star peeped through a rift. There was still wind overhead, chasing the wrack. There came more stars, whole constellations, the Big Dipper clear and bright. He had his general direction now and they pushed gradually along over the sloppy soil, through dripping thickets until, at last, he saw the spark of a fire and pledged himself to liberally reward the cocinero who had managed to keep dry wood. It grew into a leaping flame. Presently they, saw the tilt of the wagon that held the light of the fire. The cook hallooed cheerily, the remuda was safe, the corral had held them.
What of Bramley? Sodden, stiff, Strong changed to a fresh mount and loped off. He guessed at the way the rest of the herd had gone and made for the highest ground, where he halted, hoping for sight or sound of them. The night had cleared crisp and fair with the air sweet with the scent of herbs, with all trace of the gale gone save for the moisture, and the sound of storm waters running in the barrancos. Strong shouted, waiting anxiously, then called again in a long ululating cry. It came faintly back as if it were an echo, but there were no hills near enough for that. Bramley was coming in.
Strong touched spurs to the mustang's flanks and the pony leaped eagerly along. Soon he saw the loom of the herd, slowly advancing, the three riders, safe and sound, flanking it.
“I lost one little bunch of four or five, I reckon," said Bramley, “but they kin go plumb to hell fo' all I care. I'm in or out, take yore choice. Save yourn?"
“All but three. Lightnin' got 'em. Nigh got me. They kin go to hell, too. Reckon they have. They must have been crisped up some. Smelled like it. The kid's makin' coffee, Hen. Remuda's all thar. We owe thet cocinero five pesos."
“You'll ruin him. He deserves it though. Corfee! Nothin' ever sounded so good."
“You wait till you taste it,” said Strong, and the two men grinned at each other in the starlight, worn almost to their last shred of endurance but cheerfully conscious of hard work well done. They had lost perhaps five per cent of their herd but the rest were safe and they rolled in to sleep and watch in turn over the tired-out cows, almost too weary to graze, lying down: throughout the night. They gave them the next day to rest and then broke camp, abandoning the corral and riding north again.
It was no pleasure jaunt. There were long stretches of barren, ashen, alkaline desert land without a drop of water for forty miles through which to drive their cows, unaccustomed even to horses, restless at being away from their home with its sufficient feed and reliable water holes—perverse brutes ever ready to break loose, calling for constant watchfulness, for coaxing over the arid leagues.
“We'll make it a thousand head next time, pardner,” Bramley prophesied. “We been lucky, so fur.”
They had, Strong reflected, in more ways than one. They were on the old Texas Trail now and might fairly expect a raid from hostile Indians or Mexican robbers, at any time. But they saw no dust along the trail but their own and now they were nearing the line. Beyond lay the faintly blue peaks of the Sacramento Mountains.
“I reckon they're gittin' the greasers an' 'Paches whipped into line a bit,” said Bramley, biting off a corner of his chewing plug. “Took the military to do it an' the job ain't finished by a dern sight. We're goin' through between spasms, likely.
“We got a good bunch of cows, Sam. A few days of good feed an' steady water'll upholster 'em in fine shape. Thet's whar bein' able to git 'em at short range counts. They don't lose an awful lot the first few days on trail. Call it eight pesos apiece they stand us in, countin' loss an' expenses. We'll git close to thirty-two—mebbe only thirty. Four hundred per cent. I call thet finance, pardner. Vanderbilt couldn't do no better.”
“I'd like to see Vanderbilt chasin' them stampedin' cows,” said Strong. “I saw a picter of him one time, in a plug hat an' side whiskers. Reckon he'd think we was wild animals, likely.”
Bramley laughed but checked his mirth.
“See them buzzards?” he asked. “What d'ye suppose made 'em fly up so sudden out o' thet draw? Dropped down to eat suthin' an' they're flyin' too free an' fancy to have filled up any. Coyotes, mebbe?”
The character of the country had changed for the better. They were on a table-land where the grass grew high with here and there groves of live oaks, here and there little, smooth-sided ravines that held running water and were top-timbered with willows. It was out of one of these that the buzzards had suddenly lifted. Strong watched the birds soaring as their set wings met the air current. They did not reach any great height and they continued to sail in great ovals, banking on the turns, as if they were reluctant to leave the spot.
“Wouldn't be coyotes,” said Strong. “They eat second table to them birds. 'Tain't likely it'd be a wolf out so fur from the hills. I don't like the looks of it, Bramley. We've been too blamed lucky on this trip, seems to me. We ain't even seen any sign. If thar's a bunch thar layin' fo' us they'll smell a mouse if we switch off. Trail runs straight fo' the pass. We're kind of short-handed. No tellin' how them greasers of ours'll fight, is thar?”
Bramley shook his head.
“They ain't been tried out none, to my knowledge. May bolt fo' it. If they fight they'll likely jest waste lead. Switchin' won't help us none, as you say. They'll come out to run off the herd yellin'. You're likely right, pardner. What's yore scheme?”
“Move right along. They'll think we ain't noticed the buzzards particular. We ain't goin' to give 'em the cattle, I take it?”
“Not while I kin twitch a trigger.”
“It's always been my motter,” said Strong, “when I figger thar's sure goin' to be a fight—to start it. You reduce odds thet a way, likely. You said you thought mebbe I could use my guns, Hen. I don't like to run off at the head about my own performances but I wouldn't be surprised but what I could team up with Bill Hurley. It comes natural to me an' I've practiced considerable. They'll figger on surprisin' us. Let's surprise them.
“Let the cows graze along way they're doin'. I'll drop down into the next gully. Ought to be one by them trees. The grass is long and I'll snake through toward the head of the draw. You keep driftin' along with the herd. They got a lookout, sure, but it ain't likely they'll guess what I'm doin'. They'll figger I'm out of line of sight back of the trees. My pony'll stand in the gully. When they start to come out on us, I'll cut loose. I aim to discourage 'em some. It'll be funny if I don't cut down the odds. You kin handle yore end of it. They won't be lookin' fo' a flank fire.”
“If they cut you off from yore pony they'll shoot you up plenty.”
“I ain't takin' any mo' chances than you air. It's a good plan, ain't it? I got my stake in them cows, Hen, an' I figger on playin' the bet to the limit. The vaqueros ain't noticed anything. No sense in tellin' 'em. Mebbe they'll fight, at thet. Maria would flay 'em alive if they showed up without you. I got a hunch I kin call the turn on who's in thet draw.”
“You figgerin' on Lobo Smith?”
“I savvy he ain't exactly friendly toward me, or you either, seein' you've took me in as pardner. I don't reckon he'll be along, either. If he is I'm hopin' he gives me a chance at him. But we didn't make no secret of our goin' after cows. If he sent some of his gang down here to do us in an' they got away with it, it'd likely be charged up to greasers, or Injuns. By the time the buzzards got through with us you couldn't tell was we scalped or skinned. So long, Hen, here's whar I leave you. Drift on slowlike.”
Bramley shook his head as the other loped off. It was a good plan but a desperate one. But they were in a desperate case anyway if Strong's idea about the buzzards was correct and, as he watched the birds still swinging above the draw, he became convinced that his partner had made a right deduction.
“I said he'd do to take along,” he muttered as he examined his guns, seeing that they worked easily in their sheaths and that the cylinders swung smoothly. He knew the vaqueros were more or less prepared for a surprise. The possibility had been discussed. They each had a gun, and the cocinero, Juan, had a rifle in the chuck wagon, handy to his seat. How they would act in an emergency was doubtful but it would be folly to warn them, he considered, anyway until the last moment.
The draw was half a mile away. The cattle moved slowly, cropping the sweet grass. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky and nothing seemed more peaceable than the prospect, save for the four carrion birds wheeling, reluctant to leave their disturbed meal. They made him think of the birds that were said to always hover over Doom Mountain. A whimsy struck him that they might be the same ones. The distance was little for their flights.
In a few moments he might be fighting for his property and his life—for the latter only if Lobo had a hand in this ambuscade. They would not care about the cattle, only to eliminate the outfit—to leave no witnesses. But he was cool to meet the emergency, to do the best he could to defend himself and his herd. So was Strong. Both were game to the core. He saw Strong canter down into a gully halfway to the draw and then, though he watched carefully, he saw no more of him.
Sluggishly, they moved. The chuck wagon was in the rear, catching up after clearing their last camp. The horses were in a lazy walk. Bramley, calculating all chances, figured the wagon would be even with the tail of the herd by the time they reached the mouth of the draw. He had more confidence in the little cocinero's courage than his aim, remembering how he had held the remuda, and kept the fire going, on the night of the stampede. The others had acted well enough but it was a different matter, facing flying bullets.
They had no interest in the outfit outside of their wages. If they were assured that Lobo's men were waiting for them they might fight, knowing that none would be spared. But he could not certify that to them. After all there might be no one at all. What they would do for faithfulness he had no means of judging; he had never put them to the test in such a hazard. If old Maria was here she would make them fight. Her scornful comments were better than a general's commands upon occasion. He wished Hurley was along. They could have put up a fight from the wagon—unless the raiders had rifles. That was not very likely.
The cattle seemed to crawl. Now they were opposite the gully into which Strong had disappeared. He could still see nothing of the pony, no movement of the grass through which Strong must have snaked or be still crawling. He had little doubt but what they had been under observation but now they would be lying low, satisfied that their quarry was coming on, content to wait until the herd leaders passed before they moved. The vaqueros were on the outskirts of the herd which was not very widely spread, finding rich feed without need to stray from the trail.
Strong wriggled through the long grass like an Indian, pausing to see that his guns stayed in their holsters, then gliding on up the slope between the stems. Now and then he raised his head cautiously to mark progress. There were some low bushes clumped at a spot that should command the draw and this he made his objective. His face was set, his eyes steely.
There could be no doubt of the character of the men once he caught sight of them. Their attitudes would instantly determine that. He was sure by now that they were not Apaches. Indians would not have alarmed the buzzards, but avoided them. By this time, with the herd as close as it was, they would be out in the open, whooping and shooting as they circled with only their heels showing on their ponies' backs, firing under their necks with one elbow looped in the knotted manes.
If they were greasers he believed that his fire would effectually rout them, grimly conscious as he was of the accuracy of his aim. If men from Doom Cañon? He reached the screen of bushes, glanced toward where the leading cows were almost parallel with him, took out his guns and swiftly looked them over, set some cartridges for reloads in front of him. inched through the leafy boughs and looked down into the draw.
There were eight horsemen bunched there. White men, all of them. He could tell that by the way the}r sat their horses though he looked down on the top of their sombreros. One was a little ahead of the rest, leaning forward in his saddle, his left hand stretched out with the palm back, holding the rest. Men and mounts were all still.
Occasionally the ears of a pony twitched against the flies, or a flank quivered, or one pawed the soft bottom dirt of the gully. All were tense, ready to drive in spur, draw their guns and go galloping out of the draw on the unsuspecting caravan, yelling and sending lead at the drovers. A murderous ambuscade, bent upon killing, having all the odds on their side, not counting the element of surprise—a dastardly lot of villains planning cold-blooded butchery. It was nothing less. With their superior numbers and the unexpectedness with which they expected to swoop out of concealment and fire the first telling shots, there was slight risk to them and Strong's gorge rose at the sight of them. Yet he could not bring himself to shoot them down in similar fashion.
To him it seemed sure that they were Lobo's men, if only from the fact that there were no other white men banded together in such fashion who would attempt a crime like this. But it was only seemingly certain. Outside of Lobo himself, unmistakable with his yellow eyes, his hawk nose and his black beard, he had no very certain or individual vision of any of those who had stood back of him in the cantina that night. He had been too intent watching Lobo to particularize. Yet he hoped that he might recognize some of them—one would be enough to identify the gang. More than all, he trusted that the man ahead would be Lobo.
The bank beneath him was steep, almost too steep for horsemen to tackle.
Farther up, the draw widened, shallowed, curved a little. They could get up there, get back of him, cut him off from his pony—if they thought of it, or if he could not stop them.
They were farther off than he would have liked for the range of his guns. His rifle was in the wagon and he infinitely preferred his Colt for the quick work that must be ahead of him. They had rifles too, all sheathed, depending on their six-guns also for the clean-up.
He could see the mouth of the draw, fifteen yards or so ahead of where the leader stood. Bushes partly masked it but he could see two longhorns come up even, turn inquisitively as if they thought of sampling the feed in the draw, sight the horsemen, toss their heads and drift on. There was a gathering up of reins, a general drawing of guns, double-handed. The leader put his head on his left shoulder, grimaced in warning that they should hold for yet a few more seconds. He had no beard. It was not Lobo.
Strong felt disappointment, but here was the time for action. They had their guns in their hands, their intention was not to be mistaken. He looked for a pebble but found none, picking up instead a cartridge and pitching it with sure aim at the leader. He tossed it underhanded and the brass of it shone twinkling in a beam of sun before it struck, lighting fairly in the leader's lap before it bounced off the saddle, plain to see, a challenge.
Instantly two of them, who had seen the gleam of the falling object, wheeled their mounts and fired at the top of the bank, guessing an enemy back of the bushes. The leader swore and, calling on those nearest, raced out of the draw, knowing that the shots had spoiled the surprise but still keen to get the jump if he could.
Strong stood up. He could shoot better with free swing for his guns, he told himself, but there was something else in his clean manhood that he did not analyze that prompted him to fight standing. There were only two against him. They could readily not get closer though one actually set his horse at the bank and then went reeling from the saddle.
The other man saw a brief vision of a lean six-footer in worn leather chaps, in faded blue shirt and ancient but serviceable sombrero, standing against the sky. Unshaven jaws were tight clamped and bossed with muscle, lips slightly pursed, nostrils wide and eyes puckered, gleaming like strips of polished steel between the narrowed lids. He had a gun in either hand, spurting pale flame, ejecting leaden missiles.
Perhaps ten shots were fired in that swift duel of two to one. It takes nerve to fire straight in the face of whining bullets. Strong had it. His deliberate act of standing up in the face of their shooting upset them a little.
One bullet whipped through the wide brim of his hat so close to a hit that it nicked the rim of his ear. The rest missed. And the two men fired no more. One went down with a .45 slug plowing down from its entry at the base of his throat, where his clavicle joined the top of his breastbone, smashing both, tearing through to his heart.
The other got, what science terms the tuberosity of his humerus—the bulbous spread of the bone of the upper arm—shattered and the flesh of it ripped wide open, blood spouting from the wound and he sick from the shock. A second bullet struck him in the fleshy part of his thigh and went through to slightly wound his horse that promptly bucked him off. The third hit him in mid-air, more by luck than actual aim, perhaps, and he fell with a bullet in his brain.
Strong did not cease firing and he got a third man in the shoulder, at long range, as he followed the leader. He fell forward on his horse's neck but recovered as he kept on out of the draw. The rest were clean out of range and he ran along the top of the draw to where he could hear the rattle of the six-guns. The cattle had broken, some galloping ahead and some turning backward, alarmed by the firing but not seriously so. Within a short distance they started grazing again. The raiders had not wanted them—only the drovers.
Strong had brought down the odds practically to even—as far as numbers went. He saw that all the vaqueros were fighting—at least they were firing. A bullet from the little cocinero's rifle came singing out of the wagon and plopped into the dirt not far from his feet. He saw Bramley with both guns in play and two men after him, one riding straight for the wagon, mocking the cook's inefficient marksmanship.
Strong had whistled for his pony as he ran and the wise roan came racing up out of the gully. It had not halted before Strong was in the saddle and charging down to help Bramley. There was a quick exchange of shots between him and the nearest—it was the leader on his pintado—a bullet struck him like the blow of a mallet, glancing off a rib, another got him in the left forearm. The man could shoot, but Strong shot better. The leader crumpled, drooping forward, sidewise, like bag of meal that was rapidly emptying, slumped out of the saddle, his belly riven by a slug.
Strong galloped on, wheeling to overtake the man making fan the wagon. His left gun had flown out of his fingers with the stroke of the bullet but he had his right, the roan answered to his knees. Then he saw Bramley's horse rear. He knew that trick to disconcert an opponent's aim. But the pony fell over backward, shot in its breast.
There was his partner caught by one leg, struggling to get clear, temporarily defenseless, with the raider shooting at him. Strong clutched his reins with his left hand, finding strength enough to bring the roan about though the blood spurted from his wound and pain racked him to the elbow. The raider saw him coming, set rowels blood-deep into his own pony and rode back for the shelter of the draw, shouting for the rest to follow.
The leader was down, another wounded, two more had never come out of the draw at all. The surprise had been spoiled by Strong. The vaqueros were standing their ground. A lucky bullet from the little cocinero had got home in the haunch of the horse of the man making for the wagon, laming him before the rider was in pistol range.
The leader's riderless horse was already in flight. The situation was too hot for them and they followed it with the vaqueros shouting and shooting after them. Strong, with a face grim as death, sent two shots after the man who had got Bramley. The first missed clean as the pony bucked under the strenuous roweling, the second sent the raider's hat flying as he ducked in his saddle, head close to mane.
Then, as Strong passed Bramley, lying in his blood, riddled, he saw his partner's arm move feebly, heard his name called.
“Sam—Sam!”
Bramley was going fast, clinging to life without consciousness of what was passing, calling out subconsciously to his partner in the instructive knowledge that he was dying. All was blurred in his failing brain. As for Strong, all else paled in the bitterness of seeing the man who had given him friendship and partnership go down. He was filled with rage, with determination to avenge but he could not neglect that call that might be the last appeal. There was the chance too that he might save Bramley, that his wounds might not be mortal though he saw the bright blood welling from him. To leave him might destroy him if that flow could be checked. And the raiders were in full flight with the vaqueros flinging lead after them that sped, if it could not check, their retreat.
He set aside his revenge. He knew that man. His face was stamped indelibly on his memory. Some day he would meet him again. And then——
He slid from his saddle and knelt beside Bramley whose bronzed face had turned gray as the vitality drained out of him gray with anguish, also. He had been shot three times, twice through the chest, once at the base of his throat. Bubbles of blood came from his lips, and his shirt was soaked with it. His strength was almost spent, his heart barely beating, his lungs in collapse.
“Hen!” said Strong. “Pardner!”
Bramley's weary lids opened, his eyes stared, hard as glass, then a flick of recognition came into them as Strong, lifting his head, wiped away the blood.
“Got—me—Sam. Gimme—drink.”
There was a handy canteen on the saddle of a dead pony. Bramley tried to swallow, choked, coughed crimson.
“No—good—pardner!” It was only a whisper now and Strong bent to hear it. “Home—in table—drawer. Had a hunch, I guess. Tell Maria I said—stay. You—you——”
The whisper died away in a hoarse rattle that lost itself in gushing blood. His jaw fell, and Strong laid him down, his eyes like glass again, staring up to where the four foul birds wheeled—wheeled, circling gradually lower.
The wagon was up with them now, the little cocinero leaning from the seat his face twisted with grief.
“Dead?” he asked.
Sam stood up. “Yes. Dead.” Then he saw the buzzards and his grim face set like cement. The vaqueros came galloping back, vainglorious.
“They run like jack rabbit!” they announced. “But they got damn fine cavallos! Go like hell. Two inside dead. One here. Señor, the boss—he is hurt bad?”
Juan told them in swift Spanish what had happened. They swore oaths of vengeance. Strong stopped them, the bleak mask of his face compelling them to silence, to obedience.
“We've got to bury him, deep,” he said. “So's those buzzards or the coyotes don't git to him. Git the herd together an' take it on home to the ranch. I don't reckon you'll be bothered none. We've had our share this trip.”
“Yes, señor. An' these others?”
“Leave them for the buzzards, let the birds have fresh meat. You know any of 'em?”
They shook their heads.
“Mebbe we see them before, señor, but we cannot say,” said one of them and the others corroborated his negation. Strong looked blackly at them. They might be inhibited by the dread of Lobo. He wasn't.
“It don't matter,” he said. “I'm goin' to trail the rest of 'em an' find out where they come from. Git yore tools out of the wagon an' dig thet grave first.”
“Señor Strong, you weel bleed yourself seek, if thet is not tend' to.”
Strong nodded, washed off his wound and bound it up.
The bullet had gone clean through, drilling the flesh and missing the bone. It would heal before long. The rib scrape was nothing. Then he did the best he could to compose the body of his partner for burial, wondering at what he had meant by his last sentences about the table, about his hunch. He saw the grave prepared, saw Bramley's once stalwart figure, limp in its poncho shroud, laid for its last rest, covered over, cairned under rocks for protection. Then he mounted the roan, his second gun recovered, both reloaded, the spare cartridges retrieved from the brink of the draw,
“I'll see you at the ranch,” he said. “Be thar soon as you are, likely. I don't expect to run in with thet lot—now. I aim to find out some about 'em first.”
He rode off, with the Mexicans watching him before they started to collect the herd again. They were of no mind to disobey him. There was a quality of determination about him that influenced them as much as the fear of Maria.
“Friends,” said Juan, “his face is as if it was carved out of rock. Pedro, did you recognize any of them?”
Pedro shrugged his shoulders and started to roll a cigarette.
“Quién sabe?” he answered with the Mexican noncommittal shrug, adding: “Am I a fool?”
For, though they were afraid of Strong, the fear of Lobo was deeper founded. Their national characteristics prompted them to keep out of a quarrel they did not consider intrinsically their own.
They had come triumphantly out of the raid. They had much to talk about when they got back but they would talk discreetly, even among their own people. This time they had fought to save their own lives. It would be different back in Laguna, where Lobo Smith was king. If they told Strong they recognized any one, he might want them to join him in a bid for vengeance that would surely end in disaster, or he might want them to swear to identification which would be just as bad.
There was no law between the Rio Grande and the Pecos except the law of the bullet. It was much wiser to shrug the shoulders and to say, “Quién sabe?”
They took what was worth while from the three bodies, got the herd together and then they started the slow drive. After a while Juan called to them from the wagon as it followed a curve in the trail toward the distant pass.
“The buzzards. They have descended.”