Chapter II: Part 2

Weary smoked thoughtfully for a while.

“Jack Bonn asked where you were, and I told him yuh had gone to the Cross-Anchor. Lemme see----”

Weary rubbed his chin.

“No, Palo wasn’t there when I told Bonn. Stella comes out of the store ’bout that time, and then Palo drifts up t’ us.

“I’ve gotta set on my gun-hand when he’s around; so I pulled out and left ’em talkin’. Stella went back to the store, if I ’member right. Them strangers was talkin’ to Palo about the game country back of the Box S. ’Pears that they’re out here to hunt.

“I was in Sapphire’s place for a while, and when I comes out I seen Bonn drivin’ out of town, and Palo was over to the hitch-rack cinchin’ up his saddle. He pulled out right away, but I didn’t pay no ’tention which way he went.”

“Notice ’f he had a rifle?”

Weary shook his head.

“Nope. Him and old Snag mostly always do pack rifles, though.”

“Might ’a’ been him,” mused Dusty, “but I won’t never know ’f it was. I comes almighty close t’ selectin’ m’ harp, I’m tellin’ yuh!”

Dusty reached into his pocket for cigaret papers and drew out the handful of stuff which he had picked up at the scene of the battle at the Cross-Anchor. Among the stuff was a small, red note-book, with a dog-eared cover. It showed much wear and was discolored from weather.

Dusty thumbed the covers.

“That never fell out of my pockets,” he declared. “I betcha I was so flustrated that I thought it belonged t’ me. Hm-m-m!”

He opened the note-book at random and studied it through half-closed eyes. He slowly turned the pages, which were bent and mutilated at the edges, while he frowned deeply.

“What is it, Dusty?” Weary noticed Dusty’s interest and grew curious.

“I don’t _sabe_ it,” grunted Dusty. “Feller who wrote it used a pencil and it ain’t all readable. Listen t’ this and see if it means anythin’. Here’s the word, ‘Feeders,’ and after it is a dash, and the word, ‘sheep.’ Then it says, ‘Feed poor’ and after that, ‘Dangerous to continue now.’

“The next line says, ‘Stock in good shape,’ and after that it says, ‘Time ripe to buy.’

“This next line is kinda blurred, but it says, ‘No stock available,’ and under that it says--” Dusty squinted closely--“To be used, if there is any concerted movement among cattlemen.”

“What does she mean?” queried Weary. “Danged ’f I know. Looks like one of them code things that yuh use in telegraphin’, when yuh don’t want nobody t’ know what yuh mean.”

“Who owned it, Dusty?”

Dusty shook his head and told Weary of his fight with Jack Bonn and the younger Ramsey. Weary gasped with delight and forgot all about the note-book in his joy over Dusty’s description of Bonn’s downfall.

“And yuh popped Mister Smart Feller right on the chin, eh? Man, I hail yuh with delight! And Jack Bonn throwed himself! Mamma mine, them thoughts are as tinklin’ cymbals to m’ ears, I tell yuh. Dusty Corbett, may shadders never cross yore path! Whoo-o-o-ee-e-e!”

“And one of them lost this here note-book,” stated Dusty, tapping the book on the edge of the table.

Weary took the book and looked it over. “The ---- thing’s as old as the hills, Dusty. Mebbe that was a code book that Robinson Crusoe used on Friday.”

“Prob’ly,” grinned Dusty, replacing the note-book in his pocket and getting to his feet. “I’ve gotta put up m’ horse. Got the best darned bronc’ that ever rattled a hock, Weary. Fastest thing yuh ever seen and----”

“Since my horse is dead,” interrupted Weary, “that horse-killin’ sure allowed a lot of crow-baits t’ claim certain honors. Didja ever see my bronc’ run?”

“Never did,” declared Dusty.

“I’m glad of that,” grinned Weary. “It sure gives me a fine chance t’ lie and nobody can disprove it. Oncet upon a time I ran into a bunch of antelope----”

But Dusty grabbed his hat and made a hurried exit, while Weary grinned widely and manufactured another smoke.

Dusty stabled his horse and studied the note-book again. He could not make out the reasons for such a code, and he did not know which one of the men had lost it. On the inside of the back cover was a stationer’s mark, which showed that the book had been purchased from a book store in Searchlight, Wyoming.

Dusty wandered down to the little telegraph office and leaned idly on the little counter, watching the operator refilling some battery jars. The man was undersized, unshaven and had gimlet-like eyes. He glanced at Dusty, who grinned and said--

“Pardner, I’m the sheriff of this county and I’m kinda startin’ t’ ask a question.”

The man replaced the full jar into a cupboard-like contrivance and wiped his hands on a piece of waste. He came over to Dusty and nodded for him to continue.

“Know Jack Bonn?” asked Dusty.

The man took this under advisement, but finally shook his head.

“Not that I know of.”

“How long yuh been here?”

“About a year and a half.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Dusty. “Yuh don’t send a lot of messages, do yuh?”

“Not so many. Why?”

“I was just thinkin’ you’d remember this feller, ’f he sent many, thasall.”

The operator nodded and spat dryly. He was not much given to conversation.

Dusty reached for a telegraph blank and wrote out the following message:

SHERIFF’S OFFICE
SEARCHLIGHT WYOMING

WANT INFORMATION REGARDING JACK BONN WHO USED TO LIVE NEAR YOUR TOWN
WIRE COLLECT

(SIGNED) CORBETT SHERIFF

The operator counted the words, accepted payment and shoved the telegram over on his desk. Dusty grinned and leaned across the counter and tapped the operator on the arm.

“Send it right away, will yuh, pardner?”

“Certainly; in a few minutes.”

The operator turned back to his battery-cabinet, but Dusty was not to be denied.

“I want t’ hear it rattle,” insisted Dusty. “Go ahead, will yuh, please?”

The man appeared peeved for a moment, but then grinned.

“How could you tell whether I sent your message or not?”

“Pardner--” Dusty leaned far across the table and shifted his belt as he leaned--“Pardner, you send that wire right now, and I’ll make you a little bet that I’ll call yuh almighty quick, if yuh make one mistake.”

The operator studied Dusty’s serious face for a moment, turned and sat down at his desk. His hand trembled slightly, as he opened his key. Once he turned his head slightly and caught a reflection of Dusty’s face in the office mirror, as he ticked out the message. Dusty was watching him closely and moving his lips slightly.

As the operator closed his key, Dusty turned and walked out of the door. On the outside he leaned against the building and grinned widely. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what the operator had sent, but he was very sure that the operator had not made any mistakes.

Dusty did not know whether Jack Bonn had ever lived in Searchlight, but he was taking a chance. He had no reason for distrusting the telegraph operator, except that Dusty was beginning to distrust everybody. After two attempts on his life he was beginning to look seriously upon his position.

* * * * *

It was about noon the next day, when Jack Bonn, Stella and the two Ramseys rode into Calumet. Bonn was leading a pack-horse, and on this pack-horse was roped the body of a man.

Weary was standing in the doorway of the office and saw the cavalcade ride up to the front of the Calumet general store. He called to Dusty, who was studying how to make out an arrest warrant.

“Somebody has been got,” stated Weary ungrammatically, pointing toward the store. “Jack Bonn is bringin’ in somebody.”

Dusty scowled and followed Weary up to the store. Several men had gathered around, questioning, wondering, when Dusty came up and looked at the dead man.

It was Palo Huston. Dusty did not say anything, but waited for Bonn to speak. Stella dismounted and went into the store, and Dusty’s eyes followed her.

“He’s been shot,” stated Bonn indifferently. “We were coming over the Bald Butte trail and found him up near the highest point. He was pretty bad, y’understand, and we was goin’ to take him back to the Cross-Anchor.

“I got him into my saddle and we started back, but this danged bronc’ started buckin’ on that high trail. Yuh know how dangerous that trail is; so I seen there wasn’t no chance to stop him from buckin’, and got off real fast.

“I figured that the bronc’ was goin’ off the trail, but he pitched Palo off and whirled up the hill, where we caught him. Palo went plumb to the bottom, and was as dead as a door-knob when we got to him; so we brought him to town.”

“Who do yuh reckon killed him--shot him?” asked one of the bystanders.

“Remains to be seen,” stated Bonn, looking knowingly at Dusty, who had said nothing.

Dusty realized that it had been Palo who tried to kill him on the Bald Butte trail, and that he, Dusty, had shot better than he knew. But he was not going to admit that he had planted the bullet in Palo Huston. He also realized that every one at the Cross-Anchor knew that he had been over the Bald Butte trail the afternoon before.

“What do yuh think of it?” asked Bonn.

“Me?” Dusty looked up and grinned at Bonn. “I think yuh was careless, Bonn. That wasn’t no way to treat a wounded man, if yuh asks me.”

“Aw, ----!” snorted Bonn. “My part of it was an accident.”

“Yeah? Well, mebbe the shootin’ was an accident, too. Did yuh ever think of that?”

“Mebbe,” sarcastically, “somebody was shootin’ at a coyote and hit Palo.”

“Chances are they was,” nodded Dusty, and turned to Weary. “Will you take the body down to Doc Bevin, Weary? He’ll want to look it over.”

Weary took the lead-rope and started down the street, followed by several interested spectators, whose morbid curiosity was not satisfied. Bonn and the Ramseys dismounted and went into the store. Young Ramsey did not even look at Dusty, who leaned against a porch-post and seemed deep in thought.

Stella came out of the store in a few minutes and started past Dusty, but he stepped in front of her. She looked at him coldly, indifferently, but he made up a face at her and she was forced to smile.

“Stell, what do yuh know about this Palo Huston deal?”

“Didn’t Bonn tell you all about it, Mr. Corbett?”

“He did, Miss Magruder,” said Dusty seriously, “but I want to know a few things. Honest t’ ----, Stell’, I want to find out a few things. Was Palo Huston hurt bad when yuh found him?”

“Yes, he was unconscious.”

“Uh-huh. And then what?”

“He talked like a crazy man. I wanted to bring him to a doctor, but Bonn insisted on taking him to the ranch. I didn’t hear all that Palo Huston was saying, but he kept raving about sticky ropes.”

“Thasso?” Dusty grew interested. “Sticky Ropes, eh? And Jack Bonn’s horse bucked real hard, eh?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Stella. “I was at the rear end of the bunch, and you know how narrow the trail is? I heard Bonn yell and I saw him jump off on the upper side. There was sort of a mix-up and I heard one of the Ramseys yell something about Bonn being lucky. I got off my horse and climbed around there. Palo Huston had fallen off the horse and was way down in a thicket at the bottom of the cañon. It took us an hour to get the body back to the trail.”

“I’m sure much obliged to yuh, Stell,” said Dusty.

“You are very welcome, Mr. Corbett.” Stella walked past him and down the street. Dusty looked after her and grinned widely.

“Oh, Stell!” he called.

She stopped and turned.

“Thank yuh for tellin’ yore Maw that I wouldn’t stay for supper yesterday.”

Without a word Stella turned and went down the street. She wanted to get mad at Dusty Corbett, but it seemed almost impossible. Bonn and the two Ramseys came out of the store and started across toward Smalley’s saloon, but Bonn noticed Dusty and came slowly back to him.

“Corbett, I didn’t want to say much before the crowd, but down where we found Palo Huston we also found that Circle J bronc’ that belonged to Weary Willis. It had been shot through the head. Hadn’t been dead more than a day or so, ’cause the coyotes hadn’t got it yet.”

“What do yuh think?” queried Dusty seriously.

Bonn looked closely at Dusty, as he said--

“You rode that bronc’ to the Cross-Anchor yesterday.”

“Uh-huh. And then what?”

Bonn’s eyebrows went up a trifle and he turned on his heel, as he said--

“Well, it’s none of my business.”

“No,” shot back Dusty coldly. “I don’t think it is!”

Dusty walked down to the doctor’s office. He was in a quandary just how to explain the killing of Palo Huston. He had shot at a flash of colored cloth, while riding at break-neck speed, and it was hard to believe that he had hit his target.

And Stella had said that Palo had raved about the Sticky Ropes. Was Palo one of them, or did he know that one of them had shot him? Weary met Dusty at the door of the doctor’s office.

“Bullet through his shoulder, broken neck and a busted skull,” enumerated Weary.

“Well, I reckon that’s plumb sufficient,” observed Dusty, and went on into the room where Doctor Bevin was showing some of the bystanders the bullet hole. The doctor looked up and nodded at Dusty.

“Would the bullet have killed him, Doc?” asked Dusty.

“Not necessarily, Corbett--not with medical assistance. The bullet was through the left shoulder, high above the heart, and was not necessarily fatal.”

“Been shot quite a while?”

“That’s difficult to say. Possibly was shot yesterday. He had lost considerable blood. Still, I feel that I could have saved him.”

“Then yuh think that the fall killed him, Doc?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Hold an inquest?”

“Yes, I suppose we’ll have to. Won’t do any good, but the law requires it, Corbett. I dug out the bullet.”

The doctor turned and picked up a bullet, which he handed to Dusty.

“Perhaps you had better keep that as evidence.”

Dusty studied the bullet closely, nodded and put it in his pocket.

“You better tell Bonn and the rest of his party to be at the inquest tomorrow afternoon, Corbett,” stated the doctor, and Dusty nodded slowly as he turned and went out of the door. Weary fell into step with him and they went to the office.

“Well,” said Weary as they sat down inside the office, “you shot pretty danged straight, Dusty. That ---- son-of-a-rooster won’t bother anybody again.”

Dusty took the bullet from his pocket and rolled it across the desk to Weary, who picked it up and looked closely at it.

“Well, say, this is a .38!” grunted Weary. “You don’t shoot .38’s in your .45, do yuh, Dusty?”

Dusty shook his head.

“Can’t be did, Weary. Just when I was congratulatin’ m’self on good shootin’, somebody steps in and ruins m’ good opinion.”

“Who shoots a .38?” asked Weary.

“Prob’ly a dozen men around here. It’s easier to ask who shoots a .45, or a .44. ’Pears that the .38 is a popular caliber in this range; which makes it danged hard to tell who fired that shot.”

“Too danged bad that Palo never lived to talk,” observed Weary.

Dusty got to his feet and walked to the door, where he leaned against the wall and cogitated deeply. In front of the store, Bonn was packing the horse. Stella was already mounted and talking to the younger Ramsey, while the elder Ramsey watched Bonn.

Dusty surged away from the door and walked up to them. Bonn looked up from his packing and scowled at Dusty.

“Inquest t’morrow afternoon,” stated Dusty, “and all of you folks will have to be here.”

“----!” swore Bonn under his breath. “We’re leavin’ early in the mornin’ for the hills.”

“I reckon you’ll have to put it off, Bonn.” Bonn yanked a rope tight and tied it off. “You reckon so, do yuh?” savagely. “Suppose we don’t?”

“Then I’ll have t’ come after yuh,” said Dusty softly. “Suit yoreself, Bonn.”

“Blamed nuisance,” said young Ramsey. “Too bad we found the body.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Dusty. “Too danged bad.”

Bonn finished his work and swung on to his horse, leading the way out of town. Stella looked closely at Dusty, turned her horse and rode away beside young Ramsey, engaging him in animated conversation. But Dusty only grinned. For some reason he felt very well satisfied with himself.

He walked down to the telegraph office and leaned in across the counter. The operator was reading a paper-backed novel but looked up and smiled as he reached over on his desk and picked up a telegram, which he handed to Dusty.

“Just came a few minutes ago,” he stated.

Dusty glanced at it and nodded his thanks, as he started away, but turned.

“What’s the charges on this, pardner?”

The operator hesitated for a second.

“It was paid at Searchlight.”

Dusty went outside and looked at the telegram again. It read:

SHERIFF CORBETT
CALUMET MONT

JACK BONN WELL KNOWN HERE AND
GOOD REPUTATION WORKED IN CATTLE
HERE SEVERAL YEARS WELL LIKED BY
EVERY ONE AND CONSIDERED GOOD
CATTLE MAN.

(SIGNED) WILSON SHERIFF

Dusty scratched his head thoughtfully, folded up the telegram and put it in his pocket.

“Well liked by everybody, eh?” he grunted. “Good reputation. My ----, what kind of a town is that Searchlight? I’ll betcha this here Wilson kissed Jack Bonn good-by when he left. Hm-m-m!”

Dusty shook his head and started back toward the office. He hadn’t the slightest idea what he was going to do; where to begin. It looked like a blank wall.

The range country was well represented at the inquest the next day. Jack Bonn testified to practically the same story as he told the day before. The two Ramseys corroborated Bonn’s testimony, while Stella Magruder’s story was the same, except that it lacked details.

Dusty watched Bonn closely during the testimony. He knew that Bonn was going to remind the jury that Dusty Corbett had been the last man over the Bald Butte trail, and that Weary Willis’ horse was at the bottom of Bald Butte cañon; so Dusty took the stand, following Stella, and told of what had occurred on the trail.

“I just shot at a flash of color,” stated Dusty. “I wasn’t sure it was a man, ’cause I was travelin’ fast.”

“Why should Palo Huston try to kill you?” questioned Dr. Bevin.

“I dunno.” Dusty shook his head. “Unless Palo was one of the Sticky Rope gang. Yuh see, I’ve declared open season on them, and mebbe they realize that I mean business.”

“Hm-m-m!” Dr. Bevin seemed to have difficulty clearing his throat.

“Have you--er--any evidence that would--uh--connect Palo Huston with the so-called Sticky Rope gang?”

Dusty shook his head and looked at Stella.

“Miss Magruder, would yuh mind tellin’ us what Palo Huston said when yuh found him?”

“Not at all, Mr. Corbett,” she replied seriously, which drew a grin from the audience.

“He was plumb out of his head,” remarked Bonn.

“Is yore name Miss Magruder?” queried Dusty, and Bonn flushed hotly.

“I did not hear all that he said,” stated Stella, “but I did hear him say, ‘Git even with Sticky Ropes.’”

“And what else did he say?” asked Dusty.

Stella thought for a moment and shook her head.

“He was just mumbling a lot of foolish words, and all at once, while Jack Bonn and Mr. Ramsey were helping him on the horse, he bleated like a sheep.”

The audience laughed.

“In just what way, Miss Magruder?” queried the doctor.

“Baa-a-a-a,” bleated Stella, and every one, except Dusty, laughed.

“It appears,” stated the doctor, “that Palo Huston was shot by a party unknown, and later came to his death from an accidental fall. The bullet was not necessarily fatal.”

“The sheriff admits shootin’ at him,” emphasized Bonn.

“The sheriff,” said Dusty slowly, “shoots a .45. Palo Huston was shot with a .38.”

There was a shuffling of feet in the audience. A great percentage of them were carrying .38 caliber guns.

“How long you been wearing a .45?” asked Bonn.

“Ever since I left the Cross-Anchor,” replied Dusty.

Without leaving their seats, the jury adopted the findings of Dr. Bevin and the inquest was over. As far as Calumet was concerned the death of Palo Huston was a closed incident. Why bother over the demise of a man of his caliber? In the words of the majority of the cattlemen, “He got what was comin’ to him.”

There was one man at the rear of the crowd, who had listened to the evidence, and who was one of the first to leave the room. He was an undersized, weazened man, with the thin face of a ferret, scraggly hair, which hung down over his forehead, almost concealing a pair of ape-like eyes. When he opened his mouth it disclosed a few ill-shaped, yellow teeth, which grew in such a way that it appeared that the man was holding something in his mouth.

He was dressed in a coarse, black shirt, overalls and well-worn bat-winged chaps, and his sombrero was a shapeless thing of black felt, with a chin-strap of whangleather, greasy from much handling. His thin waist was circled with a wide cartridge belt, which hung low over his right hip, and his tied-down holster sagged from the weight of a heavy single-action Colt pistol.

He had been drinking heavily and seemed uncertain in his walk, but he missed none of the testimony. Outside the place, he went slowly up the sidewalk and sat down in front of the Eagle River stage office. The rest of the crowd separated, going their respective ways; most of them heading for Sapphire Smalley’s place.

Bonn, the Ramseys and Stella Magruder crossed the street to the hitch-rack, where their horses were tied. Dusty stood in the doorway of the doctor’s office and watched them. He wanted to talk with Stella, but did not want to be snubbed in front of Bonn and the Ramseys.

Weary came up to him and motioned up the street.

“Snag Shirey is drunk and settin’ alone up there.”

Dusty glanced up the street and nodded, as he recognized the former employer of Palo Huston.

“Danged old buzzard,” grunted Weary. “Mebbe he’s tryin’ to feel sorry for himself. He ain’t spoke but fifteen words since he hit Calumet.”

“Fifteen?” queried Dusty.

“Uh-huh. Asked for whisky fifteen times!”

Weary went on into the office. Dusty swung away from the door and went up the sidewalk toward Snag Shirey. He knew that Shirey was drunk; knew that he was an ignorant, cold-blooded fiend when sober--and whisky does not soften men of that nature.

Shirey squinted up at him, as Dusty sat down beside him. Across the street, Stella was talking with young Ramsey, while Bonn and the other Ramsey were coming across the street toward the store. They looked sharply at Dusty and Snag Shirey, but neither of them spoke.

“How’s things with yuh, Snag?” asked Dusty.

“Awright.”

“Lotsa stock running on the upper ranges?” asked Dusty.

Shirey shuffled his feet in the dust, but did not reply.

“Understand that Bonn’s takin’ some fellers in to stay at yore place to hunt deer.”

“Thasso?” Shirey spat dryly and did not appear interested.

“I wonder who shot Palo Huston.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t talk much, do yuh,” observed Dusty, grinning. “Palo Huston ran out of talk and bleated like a sheep. I wonder if you’d do that, ’f I asked yuh a few more questions.”

“Whatcha mean?” Shirey squinted closely at Dusty, and appeared interested.

“Like a sheep,” explained Dusty. “Baa-a-a-a. Just like that. Whatcha suppose made Palo bleat thataway?”

Shirey looked away from Dusty and appeared to consider the question. Bonn and the elder Ramsey came out of the store and down the sidewalk, stepping down just beyond Shirey, who looked up at Bonn.

“We’ll likely show up at your place t’morrow, Shirey,” stated Bonn.

“Awright,” nodded Shirey, and the two men went on.

Bonn looked keenly at Dusty, who grinned widely, and as they got about half-way across the street, Dusty cupped his hands around his mouth and bleated like a sheep--

“Baa-a-a-a-a!”

Bonn whirled on his heel, but Dusty had dropped his hands and appeared to be in close conversation with Snag Shirey. Bonn turned back quickly and went on toward the hitch-rack.

Shirey was looking closely at Dusty, and for a moment a ghost of a smile seemed to flash across his homely face; a slight upward lift of the thin lips, which disclosed a yellowed tooth, like the fang of a wolf. Then Snag Shirey got to his feet and went across to the saloon, weaving a trifle in his walk. When he reached the sidewalk he turned his head and looked back at Dusty but went on into the saloon.

Bonn and his party mounted and rode out of town; none of them paying any attention to Dusty, who leaned against a porch-post and rolled a cigaret. For some reason he was not jealous of young Ramsey, who was riding very close to Stella. He went back to his office and found Weary reading a stack of old reward notices, which he had dug up in a closet.

Dusty told him of sending the message to Searchlight, and handed Weary the reply from Sheriff Wilson. Weary read it slowly and handed it back to Dusty.

“What do yuh think?” queried Dusty seriously.

“I think,” said Weary slowly, “that Searchlight folks must be a trustin’ bunch of pelicans and fond of knick-knacks.”

“I just been wonderin’,” reflected Dusty, “kinda wonderin’.”

“Thinkin’?” queried Weary.

“This job requires thinkin’, Weary.”

“Yeah,” sarcastically, “and if yuh stop to think--somebody’s goin’ to shoot yuh.”

“You want to quit the job, Weary?”

“No, I don’t want to quit, but I don’t want yuh to ask me to do any thinkin’, Dusty. I ain’t no _Sherlock Holmes_, which goes around deductin’ about things. I’m just a deputy--pure and simple.”

“That last part sure fits yuh, cowboy. I’ll do the thinkin’ for both of us.”

“All right. But you’ll excuse me if I do my own runnin’ and dodgin’, Dusty. Jist thinkin’ of these Sticky Ropes has got me doin’ a flip-flop every time anybody even spits behind me; and if you’ll do my thinkin’ for me, mebbe I can git my nerves into shape agin.”

Dusty grinned widely. In spite of Weary’s admitted fear of the Sticky Ropes Dusty knew that his lanky deputy, in the parlance of the range, was just plumb loaded with guts. Few brave men admit bravery; few cowards will admit fear.

Weary continued to look over the bunch of old reward notices, and Dusty studied one of them, as he rolled a smoke. It was a small reward for a cattle rustler, and was signed by Sheriff Claypool, of Carson County. The reward offer was of recent date.

Dusty got to his feet and walked over to the opposite wall, where several old maps were hanging. He studied the map closely for a few moments, grinned softly and went back to the table, where he folded up the reward notice and put it in his pocket. Weary glanced up at him.

“Yuh never can tell what you’ll find in these old notices.”

“That’s right,” nodded Dusty. “Yuh never can tell.”

* * * * *

It was two uneventful days later that Dusty decided to ride out to the Cross-Anchor ranch. As an excuse, he told Weary that the Mission-Cross gray needed riding out, but Weary grinned widely and watched him saddle.

The gray humped and flinched under the weight of the saddle and the pull of the cinching, but did not offer to buck. It seemed to realize that its last bucking effort had brought on disaster.

Dusty rode slowly out of town, but soon shook the gray into a swift gallop along the dusty road. He noted the length of stride, the easy swing, which carried them along at a mile-eating pace, without effort. Suddenly he leaned forward and spoke to the gray, which snorted, as if in reply, and began to fairly spurn the road.

Dusty grinned widely and patted the gray’s neck.

“Gray bronc’, it takes blood to do that stuff. Yore mammy or daddy wasn’t no cow-pony. Yore a ghost horse, that’s what yuh are! Take it easy!”

Dusty settled back in his saddle and the gray eased back to the swinging gallop again. There was no lost motion, no jerking; it was like the slowing down of a well-oiled engine.

“All horse,” chuckled Dusty. “Runnin’ horse. We may not be able to catch the Sticky Ropes, but they’ll never catch us, y’betcha.”

Scott Magruder was sitting on the porch of the ranch-house when Dusty rode up, and he squinted closely at the gray horse. Dusty swung down and came up on the steps, before either of them said a word.

“I reckon,” observed Scott, “that I gave away somethin’.”

“Yuh sure did,” grinned Dusty. “How’s everythin’, Scott?”

“All right,” nodded Scott. “Least I reckon she is. Was the last time I seen her.”

Dusty grinned and rolled a smoke.

“Did Bonn and his friends get away, Scott?”

“Yeah, they’re some’ers out in the mountains back of Shirey’s place, I reckon. I’ve listened to deer huntin’ stories until I’m all fed up on venison.”

“What do yuh know about the Ramseys?” queried Dusty.

“Not much. I know they had the nerve to offer to buy the Cross-Anchor for about half what it’s worth.”

“Thasso? Didn’t want it very bad, did they?”

“Not half-bad,” grinned Scott. “If my ankle had been real good, I reckon I’d ’a’ kicked him.”

“Where’s Ma Magruder today?”

“Takin’ a nap. Now ask me where Stell is, Dusty. She went ridin’ a while ago--hour or so. I kinda think she’s stuck on that young Ramsey.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t seem to faze you any.”

“Stell is old enough to know what she wants.”

“Like ---- she is!” snorted Scott. “No woman ever gets old enough to know what she wants.”

“Well,” grinned Dusty, “yuh don’t need to get mad at me, Scott. I never asked Stell to marry me.”

Scott grunted indignantly and filled his pipe. As a matrimonial agent he found himself a failure. He had hoped for a rise out of Dusty when he mentioned young Ramsey, but the rise did not materialize; and Scott was really just a bit worried for fear that Stella might want to marry young Ramsey.

Suddenly Dusty’s attention was attracted by a horse and rider, which came swiftly down the point of a low hog-back ridge and into the dusty road, where they proceeded to leave a high-flung cloud of dust in their wake, as they came swiftly toward the Cross-Anchor.

“Somebody’s in a hurry,” remarked Dusty.

Scott got up from his chair and grasped the railing of the porch. A moment later the rider swerved through the open gate and galloped toward the house.

“It’s Stell!” grunted Scott. “What’s she racin’----”

The girl jerked her mount to a stop almost against the porch, and fairly fell out of the saddle. Dusty was off the porch and down to her as she hit the ground.

“Rustlers!” she panted, grasping him by the arm. “Look!”

She turned and pointed at her horse, which was blowing heavily. Across the hip of her sorrel was a jagged, bloody furrow, where a bullet had plowed just through the skin.

“They--they took a whack at me!” she blurted. “Several whacks, but that’s the only one to hurt anything.”

“Where were they?” asked Dusty.

“On that big flat across Cedar Cañon,” explained Stella. “I came up one of the draws and ran into a bunch of cattle, which were being driven pretty fast. They were cleaning the whole range, as far as I could see. I rode out of the draw and saw a lot more cattle, all traveling the same way. When I rode further out to see what was going on, they began to shoot at me; so I went back down the draw, and I went fast, too.”

“Didja see any of the rustlers?” asked Dusty.

“I never stopped to look,” declared Stella.

Dusty turned to Scott.

“Got a rifle, Scott?”

“Y’betcha. Shells and all in there by the fire-place.”

Dusty secured the gun and swung on to his horse. Stella mounted and spurred in beside him.

“You ain’t goin’ along, Stell,” stated Dusty.

“Is that so? Let me tell you this much, Dusty Corbett: I’m going, if I have to ride alone.”

“What did I tell yuh?” yelled Scott. “They never get old enough to have any sense.”

Dusty’s reply was to jerk his sombrero lower over his eyes and speak to the tall gray horse. Out of the gate they pounded, with Stella urging her horse to keep up with the gray.

“Where’s Shorty Miles?” yelled Dusty over his shoulder.

“Went to Calumet this mornin’,” answered Stella.

Dusty held the gray to a swinging gallop and let Stella pass him and lead the way up through the broken hills. There were no cattle in sight as they pounded along the side of a hill and headed for Cedar Cañon, about two miles away.

They rode cautiously down into the heavily wooded cañon and out the other side, without seeing any cattle nor any sight of the rustlers. There were no cattle in sight on the big flat, but Dusty knew that it would be impossible to run the cattle for any great length of time, and that they were not far behind the drive.

Beyond the big flat was another succession of breaks, and as they topped the first rise, Dusty saw a man ahead of them. Dusty had stopped his horse on the top of the rise, but Stella did not ride to the crest until the man had turned and disappeared in the opposite direction.

“Rear guard,” pronounced Dusty, shifting the rifle to a handy position. “I’ll rearguard him, if he thinks he can block me from findin’ out things. You better stay out of this, Stell.”

“Since when did you get the right to tell me what to do?” demanded Stella, riding in close to him.

“Aw, shucks!” groaned Dusty. “I don’t want yuh to get hurt. Bustin’ into rustlers ain’t no place for a lady.”

Dusty’s gray had swung into a faster gallop, and now Dusty spoke softly and leaned forward. He glanced over his shoulder and saw with satisfaction that Stella and her horse were falling further and further behind. If he was headed for trouble he had decided to get into it in time to give her plenty of warning.

At break-neck speed he raced over the broken country, with the gray running like a deer. Dusty stood high in his stirrups, swinging the Winchester in one hand. He had no plan of attack; no idea of what he was going to do beyond the fact that he was going to overtake the stolen herd. Suddenly he saw a steer backed defiantly against a tall granite outcropping, tired out and belligerent from the swift drive. The herd must be close now.

He glanced back. Stella was about two hundred yards behind him now; her horse tiring fast after its former run from the rustlers’ fire.

Over the crest of a ridge went Dusty and beyond him was a long slope covered with sage and mesquite, broken here and there with clumps of stunted pine. At the bottom of this slope he could see part of the herd, which was just starting up the other side.

A bullet whistled past him, as he jerked up his horse, and he saw a dismounted man running through the mesquite, as if to get behind him. Dusty shot at him, but his aim was too hurried.

Another shot came from almost behind him and he whirled in his saddle just in time to feel a crashing blow, which fairly lifted him out of his saddle. As he fell, men seemed to rise up from among the mesquite between him and the crest of the last hill, and into them came Stella, trying to stop her winded horse.

It was after sundown when Dusty Corbett regained consciousness. The awakening was painful in the extreme. His head pained him greatly and he peered out of eyes which seemed mere slits, so badly were they swollen.

For some little time he did not move. He was still dazed, and the events of the day were still a hazy dream. He tried to lift an arm, but seemed paralyzed. A rope was cutting into the flesh of his chest. He seemed to be half-hanging to a small tree, and investigation disclosed the fact that there was a rope under his arms, which half-suspended him.

He dug his heels into the dirt and loosened the rope sufficiently for him to turn facing the tree. His hands and arms gradually became part of his anatomy and he was able to untie the rope. There was another rope around his neck, and as he removed this his hands became sticky. It was difficult for him to see clearly, but he knew that this was the trade-mark of the Sticky Rope gang.

He felt of his head, which was stiff with dried blood, and his exploring fingers encountered a wide gash in his forehead about two inches above the bridge of his nose.

“Hit me plumb between the eyes!” he told himself dazedly and sat down on the ground to think it over. His head throbbed and extreme nausea overcame him, but he fought against it.

“They thought I was dead,” he told himself. “Thought that bullet went plumb through, and they hung the rope on me.”

His holster was empty. He got to his feet and tried to investigate his surroundings, but his swollen eyes precluded any chance of seeing more than a few yards.

“Well,” he decided, “they never packed me over the divide, that’s a cinch; so all I’ve got to do is to go down hill to strike the valley.”

He started down the slope, stumbling along drunkenly, when he suddenly remembered that Stella had been with him. His shocked brain worked slowly, but he remembered that she had been quite a distance behind him. Had she heard the shots in time to swerve back to safety?

He remembered now that he had ridden pell mell into an ambush. The rear guard had seen to that. Dusty cursed softly.

“No wonder they couldn’t shoot out m’ brains,” he groaned bitterly. “I never had none.”

* * * * *

There was no use searching for Stella, until he found out whether or not she had gone back to the Cross-Anchor; so he started on down the hill again.

It was dark when Dusty staggered into the ranch-house of the Cross-Anchor. Scott Magruder met him at the door and helped him to a chair, while Mrs. Magruder and Shorty Miles crowded in close and begged for an explanation. Stella had not come home, but Dusty’s gray bronco had drifted into the corral gate about fifteen minutes ahead of Dusty.

“My ----, yo’re a horrible sight!” exclaimed Shorty. “By all rights, yuh ought to be dead.”

Ma Magruder, putting her own worries aside, bathed Dusty’s head with warm water and soft towels, while Scott, who was also practical, fed Dusty regular doses of whisky. In broken sentences Dusty told of the ambush and of how the rustlers had thought him dead; but he had not the slightest idea what had become of Stella.

“But they won’t harm her,” insisted Scott. “In this day and age yuh can’t steal wimmin’. Why would they kidnap her? ----! Why, the whole country would rise up agin ’em for a thing like that.”

“The country,” said Dusty bitterly, “ain’t done a dang thing to shake ’em loose, Scott.”

“I know; but why would they steal a girl? It ain’t noways reasonable, Dusty.”

“Sure it ain’t,” Dusty shook his gore-stained head and blinked painfully.

“I don’t reckon they had any idea of stealin’ Stella, Scott. I remember that the rear guard didn’t see her, ’cause she was down the hill a ways when he rode away. She was behind me when they started shootin’, and I figure that she rode plumb into ’em before she could stop.”

“And they had to capture her?” exclaimed Mrs. Magruder. “Do you think she knew them, Dusty?”

Dusty nodded. “I reckon so, Ma. They had to steal her.”

“Then they won’t do her any harm,” Scott reassured them. “They’ll hold her until they have their getaway framed, and then turn her loose.”

“Yeah?” Dusty was unconvinced.

“Don’t you believe that, Dusty?” asked Ma Magruder nervously.

“They was Sticky Ropes, Ma--and it’s just a question as to whether they’re ready to leave or not. One girl ain’t never goin’ to put the run on that gang.”

“What can we do?” demanded Shorty. “Gotta do somethin’.”

“Y’betcha,” agreed Dusty. “And we don’t want everybody in the country in on it, Shorty. Do you know where yuh can get hold of Jack Bonn? He knows that country back in there. Old Snag knows it, too. Do yuh think yuh can locate ’em?”

“Well, I sure can try,” replied Shorty. “They said they was goin’ to Shirey’s place.”

“Pull out right now,” ordered Dusty. “Get Bonn and old Snag, if yuh can, and bring ’em down here to the ranch. We’ll work out from here; _sabe_?”

“How about the Ramseys?”

“Let ’em come along if they want to, Shorty. I don’t reckon they’ll be worth anythin’ to us; but bring ’em along.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Mrs. Magruder.

“Goin’ t’ town,” declared Dusty. “I’ve gotta get Weary and some artillery.”

“You ain’t in no shape to ride,” objected Scott. “Man, you’ve got a busted head and yore eyes look like Easter-eggs.”

“But m’ heart is in the right place,” grinned Dusty, peering around for his hat. “I may not be handsome, but I sure have got a lovin’ disposition. S’long.”

* * * * *

The tall gray was tied to the corral fence, none the worse for the encounter with the rustlers. As Dusty swung into the saddle he saw Shorty Miles saddling up down at the barn. They were losing no time. Dusty whirled the gray out through the wide gate and straightened out on the long, dim road toward Calumet.

“Need a li’l speed, bronc’,” stated Dusty, and the tall gray snorted its answer, as the gray ribbon of road seemed to reel in beneath them.

It was just before midnight when Dusty and Weary, leading a packed horse, rode away from Calumet. Dusty had come secretly into town, found Weary at the office, and now they were leaving without mentioning the fact to a single soul. Both of them were armed with rifles and in the pack was food enough for a week.

“We’re goin’ to hit the Cross-Anchor kinda early,” remarked Weary as they left the road for the Bald Butte trail.

“Not so early,” replied Dusty, and not another word was spoken until they struck the bottom of the buttes and Dusty drew rein.

“Weary, there’s an old Injun trail that circles the bottom of these hills and comes in through the breaks at the top of Cedar Cañon. Know anythin’ about it?”

“Seems like I’ve heard of it, Dusty; but I reckon it’s wiped out by now.”

Dusty dismounted and led his horse along the trail until he found the spot he was looking for.

“Here’s where she starts,” he announced as he swung back onto his horse. “We’ll try her out.”

“Ain’tcha goin’ to the Cross-Anchor, Dusty?”

“Not t’night, cowboy.”

A dim moon aided them in keeping to the old trail, which was unused, except for an occasional range steer. It wound in and out of the ravines, taking an easy grade toward the high breaks beyond. It was slow traveling, and Weary wondered why Dusty was taking this dim trail instead of going around the road. The distance would only be a trifle longer.

About three hours later they reached the top of the divide and swung around the head of Cedar Cañon. A cold wind was blowing from the Little Rockies and both men humped lower in their mackinaw coats.

Dusty led the way straight to where he had been ambushed, but was unable to find the spot where he had been tied to the tree. Much of the swelling had been reduced around his eyes, and a wide cotton bandage circled his forehead, which still throbbed from the impact of the heavy bullet.

They rode to the bottom of the swale, where Dusty had seen the cattle, and it was not difficult for them to follow the spoor of the driven herd.

“They can’t drive ’em far,” stated Dusty. “They didn’t have more than three hours of daylight left when they got me, and that cut in on their time. We’ll go kinda easy.”

“Yo’re danged right we’ll go easy,” agreed Weary. “I sure don’t want ’em to knock on my head with a bullet.”

The trail of the herd led straight back into the mountains, climbing higher all the time, swinging around the head of the cañons, where the mesquite and sage gave way to jack-pines and small firs.

Once the gray lunged sidewise and whirled around, as a mountain lion flashed across an opening in front of them and snarled its defiance. Farther on, a black-tail doe crossed their path, bounded away like a shadow and stopped in a low thicket of jack-pines to watch them pass.

On the next cañon the herd trail turned and went angling down, instead of cutting around the top. The two men drew rein and studied the wide cañon.

“You ever been here before, Dusty?” asked Weary softly.

“I don’t reckon I have.”

“I have,” declared the lanky one. “This is Hardpan Creek, Dusty. She cuts through solid rock.”

“Hardpan Creek? The one the Injuns say----”

“That’s her,” declared Weary. “Heads in Diaub Lake, below the wind caves.”

“Ever been there, Weary?”

“Sure! I’ve been around the lower end of the lake.”

“Ain’t there an old trail between the lake and the caves?”

“Yeah, I reckon there is, but nobody ever uses it. Aw, I ain’t superstitious, Dusty, but----”

“Just cautious,” suggested Dusty.

“Well, mebbe that’s it. The Injuns swear that no man can cross between the caves and the lake. ’Pears that the Wind God gets angry and blows ’em into the lake. Shucks, yuh couldn’t get an Injun within a mile of there.”

“Why specify Injuns, Weary?”

“Well, I reckon that’s true, too. None of the old-timers go up there. The ---- place is spooky, Dusty. That lake never ripples, and when the wind blows real hard yuh can hear the caves kinda moanin’.”

“Didja ever see them caves?”

“Nope.”

“How do yuh know there is any caves?”

“How do I know there’s a New York? How do I know there’s oceans?” retorted Weary. “I ain’t never seen ’em, but I’m willin’ to believe what I hear.”

“Injun superstition!” exclaimed Dusty. “Old men’s tales. Shucks!”

“All right, all right!” resignedly. “Write yore own ticket, Hard-head. If a bullet won’t kill yuh, I don’t reckon yuh need to fear the wrath of the Wind God. I dunno a dang thing about the caves, but I don’t blame the Injuns for namin’ the lake after the devil.”

“Where does Hardpan Creek empty?” asked Dusty.

“It don’t--it just sinks out of sight. She ain’t so much of a stream, but she runs about two miles down the cañon from the waterfall out of the lake, and then she kinda soaks into the rocks. The cañon kinda closes up, and where she comes on to the flat country you’d hardly know it was much of a cañon. I was in here huntin’ her two years ago.”

“Well,” observed Dusty, “it ain’t more than an hour or so until daylight; so I reckon we’ll cross the Hardpan and see what’s beyond.”

They rode slowly down into the box cañon, which seemed to be carved out of solid stone. There was little foliage on this account, and no water. Once across the cañon, they began a long climb, which took them angling toward the head of the cañon.

There was no trail now; not even the tracks of the herd, but it was difficult to determine just where the herd had left the bottom. But Dusty knew there were but three ways for the herd to go--up the cañon, down the cañon, or across. To go down the cañon would bring them out on the lower rangeland, and would be of no benefit to the rustlers. To go up the cañon would bring them to Diaub Lake, which was surrounded with towering cliffs. Dusty had heard of this place, and knew it to be a _cul de sac_. No, there was only one reasonable place to look for the herd, and that was across the cañon.

Dusty did not tear his hair and call down curses upon the outlaws who had kidnapped Stella Magruder. In the first place, he realized that the rustlers had not stolen her through any desire on their part to acquire her. No doubt, he thought, she rode in on them just after he had been shot, and they were forced to detain her because she had recognized them.

Just what they would do with her was a question. She was interfering with their plans, and in case she had recognized some of them, it would not be wise on their part to release her. But Dusty felt sure that she was in no immediate danger, and he also felt that the finding of the cattle would furnish a clew to her whereabouts.

Daylight found them on the crest of the divide, high up among the cliffs. Dusty had intended keeping lower down, but the character of the country had forced them to higher levels. For an hour or more they wound in and out of the old lava-formed cliffs, until they finally reached a spot where it was impossible to continue with the horses.

“And this,” said Dusty sorrowfully, “is the end of the chapter. I dunno what the ---- we ever came this far for, unless it was to hunt mountain-sheep.”

“We’re high up, cowboy,” grinned Weary, “and the world kinda slides off quick on every side. Lemme see----”

Weary walked out to the edge, where he squatted and studied the opposite side of the mountain.

“Dusty, I ain’t plumb sure, but I kinda feel that we’re in them high cliffs above the wind caves. I betcha yuh could jump off right here and almost take a bath in Diaub Lake.”

Dusty rolled a cigaret and considered things in general. Then he dismounted and tied his horse to a gnarled snag.

“Whatcha aim to do?” queried Weary, as he tied his horse to another snag and looped the lead-rope around the saddlehorn.

“Kinda curious,” grinned Dusty. “I’ve heard all kinds of fool things about these caves, and I never had a chance to investigate before.”

“Shucks, yuh can’t get down to ’em. I’ve looked up at the cliffs from the lake, and you’d have to have wings like a buzzard to make the trip, Dusty.”

“Thasso?”

Dusty drew his rifle from the boot, and slung it under his arm.

“C’m on, long feller. Yuh don’t have to wear wings to fall with, and she’s down--not up.”

Weary picked up his rifle.

“I ain’t got no sense,” he declared. “Not a ---- lick of sense. I swore to uphold the law, I did. But I never said I was goin’ to get up on top of the world to do it. Yuh made me say, ‘So help me, Gawd,’ but there wasn’t nothin’ said about climbin’ half-way to get His help. I came out here to kill a rustler--not to be a mountain goat.”

“What do yuh reckon we better do?” grinned Dusty.

“Satisfy yore curiosity,” grunted Weary. “Lead on!”

It was a difficult journey across the lava cliffs, where a misstep might prove fatal. Ages ago a volcano had lifted out a mighty mass of molten rock, which had spewed over the mountain ridge; piling up like a gigantic rock wall; cooling to the texture of melted glass.

And it was along this great wall that Dusty and Weary crawled. On either side was a sheer drop of a hundred feet to other ledges, which broke away like gigantic steps to the cañon below.

“If a feller thinks he’s kinda big in the world,” panted Weary, “he can come up here and find out just how danged small he is, y’betcha.”

Dusty hung his feet over the edge and rolled a cigaret, while Weary edged onward a few feet and considered the other side of the cliff. Far below him was sort of a pothole in the cliffs and beyond that was a rocky cañon, which seemed to lead out to the timber-line.