Clattering Hoofs, Page 2

  The brutal ruthlessness of the man’s words angered the captive. They had made up their minds. They were not going to pay any attention to his story.

  “What am I supposed to have done?” he asked.

  Hart spoke, ignoring the question. “I reckon Scarface met up with you recently. You’re a stranger here.”

  “Right. My name is Cape Sloan. Never heard of this Scarface.”

  McNulty laughed, with heavy sarcasm. “He doesn’t know Scarface—wasn’t rustling stock with him. He was just riding along peaceable when we went gunning for him.”

  “Get yore rope, Pete,” Uhlmann said.

  Sloan could read in the faces of McNulty and Uhlmann nothing that gave him hope. That of the former was full of cruel mirth. The German’s was set as an iron mask. Toward Hart and Ranger he pointed his appeal.

  “You haven’t told me yet what my crime is,” he said quietly.

  “You know damned well what it is,” McNulty broke out. “No sense in talking more. Let’s get this business done.”

  “I started this morning from Redrock,” the stranger said. “Last night I stayed at the road house there. That I can prove. All day I have traveled alone.”

  McNulty showed his yellow teeth in an ugly grin. “Didn’t I tell you boys he would spread the mustard good?”

  “I stopped at a Chink restaurant on Congress Street in Tucson for breakfast. A deputy sheriff named Mosely sat opposite me at the table. We talked about the Apache Kid.”

  “So you say,” jeered McNulty. “Why don’t you claim you sat opposite John L. Sullivan?”

  Sloan kept his eyes on Ranger and Hart. McNulty he ignored completely. “If you write to the road house at Redrock or to Mosely you’ll find that what I say is true.”

  “We ain’t gonna write anywhere. We’re gonna string you to a tree.”

  “Don’t push on the reins, Pete,” Hart counseled quietly. “We’ll listen to what this man has to say.”

  “Where do you hail from?” Ranger asked.

  For a half a second Sloan hesitated. “From Holbrook, I drifted west from Vegas.”

  “Cowboy?”

  “Yes.”

  “With what outfits have you ridden?”

  “I’ve worked for the Bar B B near Holbrook and for the A T O in New Mexico.”

  “When did you work for the A T O?” Ranger inquired.

  “Couple of years ago.”

  “The A T O has been out of business for four years,” McNulty shouted jubilantly. “That cooks his goose.”

  The stranger knotted his brows in thought. “That’s right. Time jumps away so fast you can’t keep up with it. I drew my last pay check from Tidwell ’most five years ago.”

  “What does Tidwell look like?” Hart queried.

  “He’s a fat bald man with only one good eye—wears a patch over the other.”

  “What’s that got to do with the question? This guy might be Tidwell’s brother for all we care. Point is, he’s a rustler caught stealing cows. That’s enough.” McNulty tossed the loop of the rope in his hand over the head of the suspect, who promptly released himself from it.

  “What are you doing in this country?” Ranger demanded.

  Again there was a little pause before the young man opened his lips to answer. Before he could speak McNulty slid in an answer. “Why, that’s an easy one, John. He’s stealing our stock.”

  “I asked him, not you, Pete,” mentioned Ranger.

  “Just seeing what’s over the next hill,” Sloan answered. “You know how punchers move around. Thought I’d pick up a job riding for some outfit.”

  Uhlmann took the rope from McNulty and shuffled a step or two closer to the victim. “What’s the use of talk? We caught him stealing our stuff. No use wasting time.”

  The cowboy choked down the dread rising in him. “I tell you I’m the wrong man,” he said evenly. “Let me prove it.”

  3. Pablo Lopez Takes a Hand

  “FELLOW, THIS CASE IS CLOSED,” MCNULTY RETORTED. “YOU been tried and convicted. By facts. Like Rhino says, we caught you in the act.”

  Cape Sloan talked, for his life. But he didn’t let his desperation sweep him away. His voice was quiet and steady.

  “If I was driving off your stuff, where are the other fellows that were with me? They didn’t come up this gulch.”

  “You say Scarface didn’t come up here?” Ranger asked.

  “Nobody passed me between here and the foot of the hill—neither this Scarface you are talking about nor anybody else.”

  Ranger put a question to Hart “You saw Scarface take this turn at the Flatiron, didn’t you?”

  “Not exactly,” Hart admitted. “Someone on a horse was moving up the gulch ahead of us. Naturally we thought it was one of the birds we wanted.”

  “It was, too,” cut in McNulty. “It was this fellow.”

  “There must be some other trail they could have taken,” Sloan protested. “They didn’t come up here.”

  “There was the other fork,” Ranger agreed.

  “Looky here, boys,” McNulty urged. “We got the dead wood on this man. They weren’t out of our sight hardly a minute—just when they dipped down into the bend before the Flatiron. Then we see him again, ridin’ hell-for-leather up the cañon. Only by that time he ain’t the one we want, by his way of it. Me, I don’t believe in fairy tales. This vanishing stuff don’t go with Pete.”

  “There must be tracks where they took the other fork,” Sloan said.

  “Might be,” Hart nodded. “Though there was a lot of loose rubble on the ground there.”

  “I don’t want to make a mistake about this,” Ranger said. “We’ll take a look.”

  “There’s a cottonwood over there handy,” Uhlmann grumbled. “No trees at the foot of the hill. We’re wasting time.”

  John Ranger stood six feet two, a man in the prime of life. He wore a short thick beard, and the eyes above it were strong and steady. No man in the neighborhood was more respected.

  “I can afford to waste a quarter of an hour to make sure I am not hanging an innocent man,” he replied curtly, and turned his horse down the cañon.

  At the fork Uhlmann guarded the prisoner while the others examined the ground for the tracks of horses. There were marks where hoofs had slipped an inch or two on the loose rubble, but since there had been no rain for weeks there was no way of telling how recent they were. The three men moved up the hill looking for tracks that might tell a more convincing story, but when they returned ten minutes later none of them was sure.

  “All bunk what he claims,” McNulty shouted to Uhlmann. “They didn’t come this way.”

  “We don’t know that,” Hart differed. “Horses have been up this cañon, but we can’t tell when.”

  “I say hang him right damn now,” the foxfaced man voted. “Rustling is one disease you can’t cure a fellow of except with a rope.”

  The blue-gray eyes of Sloan flamed hot with anger. “You’re tough as bull neck rawhide when you’re talking to an unarmed man with a gun in yore hand and two-three other men to back yore play,” he said scornfully.

  “You can’t talk that way to me,” blustered McNulty angrily.

  “I am talking that way to you. I’m telling you that you’re a yellow-bellied coyote, or you wouldn’t want to hang an innocent man who can prove he wasn’t in this raid if you give him time.”

  Before he could be stopped McNulty slammed the barrel of his rifle against the side of the stranger’s head. Sloan swayed on his feet and would have fallen if Hart had not supported him.

  “Proving what I’ve just said,” he told McNulty hardily.

  “Exactly that,” Ranger agreed. “If you lay a hand to this man again, Pete, I’ll wear you out with my quirt. We may have to hang him, but I’m not going to have him abused first.”

  “I reckon he’s guilty,” Hart said, after he had tied his bandanna around the bleeding head of their prisoner. “But I don’t want to live regretting today all the rest of
my life. I think we ought to go back to Blunt’s place and let the other fellows have a say in this.”

  “You’re shouting when you say we’ve got to hang him, Russ,” Uhlmann replied roughly. “But what’s the sense of taking him back to Blunt’s? We’re the fellows who caught him and we’re the ones that ought to have the say-so. What more do you want? We caught him in the act.”

  “I wouldn’t be riding on a raid without a rifle, would I?” Sloan asked.

  “You threw it away to help your alibi,” McNulty chipped in sourly.

  “I’ve seen this guy before somewhere,” the German scowled. “Wish I could remember where. Maybe with Scarface some time. He ain’t so much a stranger as he claims he is.”

  “You can hold me till you find out whether my story is true,” Sloan told them.

  “No,” Uhlmann growled. “What’s the sense of being soft? Before we started we agreed to hang any of them we caught. They shot up Spillman, didn’t they?”

  “He’d likely bust out of any place we put him,” McNulty grumbled. “Thing to do is to finish this while we’ve got him.”

  “Even though I’m innocent,” their prisoner added.

  “You’re guilty as the devil,” the German flung out bluntly. “All right. Let’s go back to Blunt’s. There are no trees there, but we can prop up a wagon tongue for him.”

  Near the sandy bed of the creek they drew up beside the body of Sim Jones.

  “I wish it hadn’t been Sim I got,” Hart said, looking down at the weak, rather kindly, face of the dead rustler. “He had no business running with Scarface. I reckon if I had worked hard enough I could have won him away from that crowd. We all 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 his stick? That’s what he’s done. Bill’s bronc is faster than his.” There was shrill complaint in the high voice of McNulty. “Left us here to be killed while he slips away. I knew we’d ought to have hanged him right away.”

  “We’re not going to be killed.” Ranger’s voice was cool and resolute. “We’re going to get a few of these murderous devils. They never could shoot straight.”

  The sound of Ranger’s rifle echoed back and forth between the banks of the wash loud as the roar of a cannon. One of the Mexicans pitched headlong from his horse. Those behind him pulled up hurriedly and broke for cover to right and left.

  “Good work, John,” encouraged Hart. “Number one rubbed out. We’ll be all right yet. They’ll hear the firing at Blunt’s and some of the boys will come moseying this way to help us.” He caught a glimpse of a head peering above a hummock and blazed away at it.

  4. Sloan Interrupts

  THE INTERVENTION OF LOPEZ’ RAIDERS CAME TO CAPE Sloan as a chance for escape to be seized at once. A man hard and resolute, under other circumstances he would have stayed with the cattlemen to help stand off the attack of the bandits. But he saw no percentage in remaining, since if he survived the battle there would still be the likelihood of being hanged later.

  He swung to the saddle from which the wounded man had fallen and made off at a right angle through the brush. His captors were too busy looking after their own safety to pay any attention to him. Though he put the horse to a gallop, he rode crouched, his body close to the back of his mount, in the hope of using the mesquite as a screen between him and the outlaws. It was a comfort to see Hays’ rifle close at hand in the scabbard beside his leg.