Gunsight Pass: How Oil Came to the Cattle Country and Brought a New West

  Produced by Suzanne Shell, Beginners Projects, Mary Meehan, and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team

  GUNSIGHT PASS

  HOW OIL CAME TO THE CATTLE COUNTRY AND BROUGHT A NEW WEST

  BY WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE

  AUTHOR OF THE BIG-TOWN ROUND-UP, A MAN FOUR SQUARE, THE YUKON TRAIL, ETC.

  1921

  TO JAMES H. LANGLEY

  WHO LIVED MANY OF THESE PAGES IN THE DAYS OF HIS HOT-BLOODED YOUTH

  CONTENTS

  I. "CROOKED AS A DOG'S HIND LAIG"

  II. THE RACE

  III. DAVE RIDES ON HIS SPURS

  IV. THE PAINT HOSS DISAPPEARS

  V. SUPPER AT DELMONICO'S INTERRUPTED

  VI. BY WAY OF A WINDOW

  VII. BOB HART TAKES A HAND

  VIII. THE D BAR LAZY R BOYS MEET AN ANGEL

  IX. GUNSIGHT PASS

  X. THE CATTLE TRAIN

  XI. THE NIGHT CLERK GETS BUSY PRONTO

  XII. THE LAW PUZZLES DAVE

  XIII. FOR MURDER

  XIV. TEN YEARS

  XV. IN DENVER

  XVI. DAVE MEETS TWO FRIENDS AND A FOE

  XVII. OIL

  XVIII. DOBLE PAYS A VISIT

  XIX. AN INVOLUNTARY BATH

  XX. THE LITTLE MOTHER FREES HER MIND

  XXI. THE HOLD-UP

  XXII. NUMBER THREE COMES IN

  XXIII. THE GUSHER

  XXIV. SHORTY

  XXV. MILLER TALKS

  XXVI. DAVE ACCEPTS AN INVITATION

  XXVII. AT THE JACKPOT

  XXVIII. DAVE MEETS A FINANCIER

  XXIX. THREE IN CONSULTATION

  XXX. ON THE FLYER

  XXXI. TWO ON THE HILLTOPS

  XXXII. DAVE BECOMES AN OFFICE MAN

  XXXIII. ON THE DODGE

  XXXIV. A PLEASANT EVENING

  XXXV. FIRE IN THE CHAPARRAL

  XXXVI. FIGHTING FIRE

  XXXVII. SHORTY ASK A QUESTION

  XXXVIII. DUG DOBLE RIDES INTO THE HILLS

  XXXIX. THE TUNNEL

  XL. A MESSAGE

  XLI. HANK BRINGS BAD NEWS

  XLII. SHORTY IS AWAKENED

  XLIII. JUAN OTERO IS CONSCRIPTED

  XLIV. THE BULLDOG BARKS

  XLV. JOYCE MAKES PIES

  GUNSIGHT PASS

  CHAPTER I

  "CROOKED AS A DOG'S HIND LAIG"

  It was a land of splintered peaks, of deep, dry gorges, of barren mesasburnt by the suns of a million torrid summers. The normal condition of itwas warfare. Life here had to protect itself with a tough, callous rind,to attack with a swift, deadly sting. Only the fit survived.

  But moonlight had magically touched the hot, wrinkled earth with a fairygodmother's wand. It was bathed in a weird, mysterious beauty. Into thecrotches of the hills lakes of wondrous color had been poured at sunset.The crests had flamed with crowns of glory, the canons become deep poolsof blue and purple shadow. Blurred by kindly darkness, the gaunt ridgeshad softened to pastels of violet and bony mountains to splendidsentinels keeping watch over a gulf of starlit space.

  Around the camp-fire the drivers of the trail herd squatted on theirheels or lay sprawled at indolent ease. The glow of the leaping flamesfrom the twisted mesquite lit their lean faces, tanned to bronzed healthby the beat of an untempered sun and the sweep of parched winds. Most ofthem were still young, scarcely out of their boyhood; a few had reachedmaturity. But all were products of the desert. The high-heeled boots, theleather chaps, the kerchiefs knotted round the neck, were worn at itsinsistence. Upon every line of their features, every shade of theirthought, it had stamped its brand indelibly.

  The talk was frank and elemental. It had the crisp crackle that goes withfree, unfettered youth. In a parlor some of it would have been offensive,but under the stars of the open desert it was as natural as the lifeitself. They spoke of the spring rains, of the Crawford-Steelman feud, ofhow they meant to turn Malapi upside down in their frolic when theyreached town. They "rode" each other with jokes that were familiar oldfriends. Their horse play was rough but good-natured.

  Out of the soft shadows of the summer night a boy moved from the remudatoward the camp-fire. He was a lean, sandy-haired young fellow, hisfigure still lank and unfilled. In another year his shoulders would bebroader, his frame would take on twenty pounds. As he sat down on thewagon tongue at the edge of the firelit circle the stringiness of hisappearance became more noticeable.

  A young man waved a hand toward him by way of introduction. "Gents of theD Bar Lazy R outfit, we now have with us roostin' on the wagon tongue Mr.David Sanders, formerly of Arizona, just returned from makin' love to hispaint hoss. Mr. Sanders will make oration on the why, wherefore, andhow-come-it of Chiquito's superiority to all other equines whatever."

  The youth on the wagon tongue smiled. His blue eyes were gentle andfriendly. From his pocket he had taken a knife and was sharpening it onone of his dawn-at-the-heel-boots.

  "I'd like right well to make love to that pinto my own se'f, Bob,"commented a weather-beaten puncher. "Any old time Dave wants to saw himoff onto me at sixty dollars I'm here to do business."

  "You're sure an easy mark, Buck," grunted a large fat man leaning againsta wheel. His white, expressionless face and soft hands differentiated himfrom the tough range-riders. He did not belong with the outfit, but hadjoined it the day before with George Doble, a half-brother of the trailforeman, to travel with it as far as Malapi. In the Southwest he wasknown as Ad Miller. The two men had brought with them in addition totheir own mounts a led pack-horse.

  Doble backed up his partner. "Sure are, Buck. I can get cowponies for tenand fifteen dollars--all I want of 'em," he said, and contrived by thelift of his lip to make the remark offensive.

  "Not ponies like Chiquito," ventured Sanders amiably.

  "That so?" jeered Doble.

  He looked at David out of a sly and shifty eye. He had only one. Theother had been gouged out years ago in a drunken fracas.

  "You couldn't get Chiquito for a hundred dollars. Not for sale," theowner of the horse said, a little stiffly.

  Miller's fat paunch shook with laughter. "I reckon not--at that price.I'd give all of fohty for him."

  "Different here," replied Doble. "What has this pinto got that makes himworth over thirty?"

  "He's some bronc," explained Bob Hart. "Got a bagful of tricks, a nicedisposition, and sure can burn the wind."

  "Yore friend must be valuin' them parlor tricks at ten dollars apiece,"murmured Miller. "He'd ought to put him in a show and not keep him tochase cow tails with."

  "At that, I've seen circus hosses that weren't one two three withChiquito. He'll shake hands and play dead and dance to a mouth-organ andcome a-runnin' when Dave whistles."

  "You don't say." The voice of the fat man was heavy with sarcasm. "And ontop of all that edjucation he can run too."

  The temper of Sanders began to take an edge. He saw no reason why thesestrangers should run on him, to use the phrase of the country. "I don'tclaim my pinto's a racer, but he can travel."

  "Hmp!" grunted Miller skeptically.

  "I'm here to say he can," boasted the owner, stung by the manner of theother.

  "Don't look to me like no racer," Doble dissented. "Why, I'd be 'mostwillin' to bet that pack-horse of ours, Whiskey Bill, can beat him."

&nbs
p; Buck Byington snorted. "Pack-horse, eh?" The old puncher's brain wasalive with suspicions. On account of the lameness of his horse he hadreturned to camp in the middle of the day and had discovered the twonewcomers trying out the speed of the pinto. He wondered now if thisprecious pair of crooks had been getting a line on the pony for futureuse. It occurred to him that Dave was being engineered into a bet.

  The chill, hard eyes of Miller met his. "That's what he said, Buck--ourpack-horse."

  For just an instant the old range-rider hesitated, then shrugged hisshoulders. It was none of his business. He was a cautious man, notlooking for trouble. Moreover, the law of the range is that every manmust play his own hand. So he dropped the matter with a grunt thatexpressed complete understanding and derision.

  Bob Hart helped things along. "Jokin' aside, what's the matter with arace? We'll be on the Salt Flats to-morrow. I've got ten bucks says thepinto can beat yore Whiskey Bill."

  "Go you once," answered Doble after a moment's apparent consideration."Bein' as I'm drug into this I'll be a dead-game sport. I got fiftydollars more to back the pack-horse. How about it, Sanders? You gotthe sand to cover that? Or are you plumb scared of my broomtail?"

  "Betcha a month's pay--thirty-five dollars. Give you an order on the bossif I lose," retorted Dave. He had not meant to bet, but he could notstand this fellow's insolent manner.

  "That order good, Dug?" asked Doble of his half-brother.

  The foreman nodded. He was a large leather-faced man in the latethirties. His reputation in the cattle country was that of a man ill tocross. Dug Doble was a good cowman--none better. Outside of that hisknown virtues were negligible, except for the primal one of gameness.

  "Might as well lose a few bucks myself, seeing as Whiskey Bill belongs tome," said Miller with his wheezy laugh. "Who wants to take a whirl,boys?"

  Inside of three minutes he had placed a hundred dollars. The terms of therace were arranged and the money put in the hands of the foreman.

  "Each man to ride his own caballo," suggested Hart slyly.

  This brought a laugh. The idea of Ad Miller's two hundred and fiftypounds in the seat of a jockey made for hilarity.

  "I reckon George will have to ride the broomtail. We don't aim to breakits back," replied Miller genially.

  His partner was a short man with a spare, wiry body. Few men trusted himafter a glance at the mutilated face. The thin, hard lips gave warningthat he had sold himself to evil. The low forehead, above which the hairwas plastered flat in an arc, advertised low mentality.

  An hour later Buck Byington drew Sanders aside.

  "Dave, you're a chuckle-haided rabbit. If ever I seen tinhorn sports themtwo is such. They're collectin' a livin' off'n suckers. Didn't you sabethat come-on stuff? Their pack-horse is a ringer. They tried him outthis evenin', but I noticed they ran under a blanket. Both of 'em arecrooked as a dog's hind laig."

  "Maybeso," admitted the young man. "But Chiquito never went back on meyet. These fellows may be overplayin' their hand, don't you reckon?"

  "Not a chanct. That tumblebug Miller is one fishy proposition, and hissidekick Doble--say, he's the kind of bird that shoots you in the stomachwhile he's shakin' hands with you. They're about as warm-hearted as aloan shark when he's turnin' on the screws--and about as impulsive. Me,I aim to button up my pocket when them guys are around."

  Dave returned to the fire. The two visitors were sitting side by side,and the leaping flames set fantastic shadows of them moving. One ofthese, rooted where Miller sat, was like a bloated spider watching itsvictim. The other, dwarfed and prehensile, might in its uncannysilhouette have been an imp of darkness from the nether regions.

  Most of the riders had already rolled up in their blankets and fallenasleep. To a reduced circle Miller was telling the story of how hispack-horse won its name.

  "... so I noticed he was actin' kinda funny and I seen four pin-pricks inhis nose. O' course I hunted for Mr. Rattler and killed him, then giveBill a pint of whiskey. It ce'tainly paralyzed him proper. He gotsalivated as a mule whacker on a spree. His nose swelled up till it wasbig as a barrel--never did get down to normal again. Since which the ol'plug has been Whiskey Bill."

  This reminiscence did not greatly entertain Dave. He found his blankets,rolled up in them, and promptly fell asleep. For once he dreamed, and hisdreams were not pleasant. He thought that he was caught in a net woven bya horribly fat spider which watched him try in vain to break the web thattightened on his arms and legs. Desperately he struggled to escape whilethe monster grinned at him maliciously, and the harder he fought the moresecurely was he enmeshed.