Benton of the Royal Mounted Part 8

"Now, see here, look; I'll tell yu', Sargint," he rambled on. "I raised that hawss, an' I know him like a book. There's only two men ever stayed with him. They're no-goods, both of 'em, but they kin _ride_. Yu' know 'em, too-Short an' Dirty's one, an' that there Jules Le Frambois yu've just took down for rustlin' Billy Jacques' stock, t'other. Jules-he got piled higher'n a kite, first crack outer th' box, but he stayed with him th' second trip. Wanst he finds a feller kin ride him he quits pitchin'

right away _with_ that feller-for good. Yu' git on him now an' see 'f I ain't right."

Ellis did so and, with a rough slap of the quirt and a thrust of the spurs, thumbing the horse's withers and fanning its ears with his hat; but all his efforts to make the buckskin hump again were fruitless, and the Sergeant, as he felt the surge of the easy-gaited, powerful animal under him, knew that here was a remount that could be depended on in any emergency.

"What'd I tell yu'?" said Gallagher, as Benton dismounted and off-saddled. "Nary a jump-an' Short an' Dirty, he rode him for three months-an' he says he's good on th' rope an'll stand wherever his lines is dropped. Now yu' take him and ride him as long as yu' want, Sargint.... I guess there ain't n.o.body else around here as is anxious,"

he added, grinning. "What's his name? Why, I calls him 'Shakem.' He's sure shook a few of 'em, too. I didn't aim to get yu' hurt none, but some of th' boys had it that yu' used to bust for th' 'Turkey-Track,'

an', well, I kinder own I was a bit minded to see if yu' shaped like it," he ended whimsically.

The ghost of a smile for a moment illuminated Benton's blood-stained, tired face as, lighting a cigarette, he retrieved his own boots and prepared to lead his borrowed mount away.

"An' are yu' satisfied?" he queried wearily.

"Aye," answered the rancher, with fervent conviction. "I sure am that.

Yes, I'll ride on over an' fix up that black o' yores if yu're away th'

night. So long, Sargint."

CHAPTER VII

"Oh, sheriff an' ranger both wished me luck, Yu' bet! when I jumped th' Line last Fall- Yep!... Kind that a hog gets when he's stuck, For I'd cert'nly made them cattle-men bawl.

Them fellers has cause to love me as much As they do a wolf, or a sneakin' Piute; But wouldn't this jar yu'-'gettin' in Dutch'

With th' Mounted Police, thru' a mangy coyote?"

-_The Rustler's Lament_

After giving the buckskin a light feed of grain and attending to Johnny's hoof carefully, Ellis despatched an early lunch, saddled up Shakem, and struck out for Tucker's ranch, which was about eight miles distant. It was a glorious day and, feeling fully recovered from the effects of his morning's shake-up, he rode slowly on through the golden haze with that ease and contentment that comes to a man who feels that he has earned it, and has sound health and a good horse under him.

Three miles or so beyond Gallagher's the trail veered slightly west, then south, skirting the dense brush and timbered slopes of the foot-hills. Emerging from a patch of poplar that fringed the base of a small b.u.t.te around which his trail led, a moving object suddenly appeared above him, sharply defined against the sky-line. Glancing up quickly he instantly recognized the tawny-gray, dog-like form of a coyote. Benton, in common with most range men, loathed the slinking, carrion-fed brutes and always shot them down remorselessly whenever opportunity offered. Averting his gaze and still keeping steadily on his way to deceive the wary animal, he cautiously lifted the flap of his holster with the intention of making a quick whirl and snap-shot. With shortened lines, he was just about to execute this maneuver when something strange and unfamiliar in the actions of his intended victim suddenly caused him to halt, paralyzed with open-mouthed curiosity and astonishment.

Apparently, for the moment, completely heedless of the close proximity of its mortal enemy, Man, it was pawing violently at its snout, and to the Sergeant's ears came the unmistakable sounds of choking and vomiting. Gripping the Colt's .45, Ellis's hand flashed up, but the sh.e.l.l was never discharged. For just then came the sharp crack of a rifle shot from somewhere on the other side of the b.u.t.te, and the coyote, with a bullet through its head, tumbled and slid, jerking in its death-struggle almost to the horse's feet.

With a startled exclamation at the unexpected occurrence and, wrenching his steed around as it shyed instinctively away, Benton swung out of the saddle and turned wonderingly to examine that still twitching body. A peculiar _something_-evidently the cause of its previous choking motions-was protruding from its mouth and, prying open the clenched, blood-dripping paws, Ellis tugged it out from away back in the throat, down which it had apparently resisted being swallowed. Wiping the slimy object on the gra.s.s, he spread it open. His eyes dilated strangely with instant recognition, and a savage oath burst from him. It was the brand cut out of the hide of a freshly killed steer.

With lightning-like intuition and a quick, apprehensive, upward glance, the Sergeant crumpled up the clammy, half-chewed flap of skin, jammed it up under his stable-jacket and, jumping for the buckskin, wheeled and dashed into the shelter of the bush. Breathing rapidly with excitement, he dismounted and, lying on his stomach, dragged himself cautiously forward until he could discern the dead coyote.

His rapid movements had been only just in time. For, as he peered from his hiding place, another object silhouetted itself against the sky-line. A man, this time, wearing white-goatskin chaps, and in the short, powerful body, red hair, and prognathous jaw, the policeman discerned the all-familiar figure and lineaments of one-William Butlin-generally known in the district by the soubriquet of "Short and Dirty," or "Shorty."

He was coatless, and his bare, brawny arms were blood-stained up to the elbows as, clutching a rifle in one hand and a knife in the other, he slowly descended the incline and inspected the result of his marksmanship. Being summer, it was a poor skin and mangy so, with a muttered oath and a contemptuous kick, he turned and retraced his steps up the b.u.t.te, with bent head scrutinizing the ground carefully around for something as he did so.

With a grim chuckle, the Sergeant watched him disappear from view and, after waiting a moment or two, quietly raised himself and slid out of his place of concealment. Climbing noiselessly until he reached the brow of the incline, he dropped p.r.o.ne and, removing his hat, looked warily down. He found himself looking down a narrow draw, dotted here and there with patches of alder, willow-scrub, and cottonwood clumps-a huge specimen of the latter rising from amongst its fellows at the lower end of the draw. There, at the bottom, not fifty yards distant, Benton beheld Mr. Short and Dirty busily engaged in stripping the hide from the b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.s of a newly butchered steer.

He had chosen an ideal spot for his nefarious work, the slopes on either side of the draw rendering him completely immune from ordinary observation, and the hot rays of the overhead sun beat down on the sprawled, glistening, pink and yellow monstrosity that his knife was rapidly laying bare. His rifle lay on the ground, well out of his reach, near his horse, a chunky, well-put-up white animal and, with back turned to the fierce scrutiny of the representative of the Law that followed his every movement, he bent over his work with nervous haste, skinning with long sweeps of his knife and glancing furtively around him from time to time.

With a stealthy movement Ellis arose, stood upright, and walked noiselessly down to the impromptu barbecue.

"Oh, Shorty!" he called.

At the policeman's voice the man started violently and, wheeling like a flash, knife in hand, faced him with open-mouthed amazement, fear, guilt, cunning, and desperation flitting in turn over his rugged, evil face. With carelessly-held revolver the Sergeant watched him intently with glittering eyes, his att.i.tude suggestive of a snake about to strike.

"Pitch up!" he rapped out harshly.

The other made no move but a terrible spasm of murderous indecision momentarily convulsed his face, which angered the policeman beyond expression.

"_p.r.o.nto!_" he roared explosively, with a shocking blasphemy and a forward jump of his gun that sent Shorty's arms aloft with a galvanic jerk, the knife dropping to the ground.

Silently Benton surveyed him awhile, a deadly, menacing light like green fire flaming in his deep-set eyes, and the muscles under the livid scar on his cheek twitching.

"Yu' look at me like that agin," he drawled slowly and distinctly, "an'

I'll blow a hole thru' yore guts. Three paces forward, march!-halt!-'bout turn!"

The movements were executed with a precise obedience that drew forth a sneer from the observant sergeant.

"Huh! an old bird, eh?" he gibed. "Always thought yu' were, from th' cut of yore mug. I guess th' 'Pen' sh.o.r.e went into mourning th' day yu'

worked yore ticket. There's a lump on yore hip I don't like," he continued sharply. "Here! Let's go thru' yu'!"

He deftly extracted a revolver, glanced at it quickly, and then transferred it to his own pocket.

"Packin' a Colt's automatic around, eh?" he snarled. "That's another charge I'll soak into yu'-carryin' concealed weapons."

His swiftly working brain had, meantime, evolved a definite scheme of action that he felt the circ.u.mstances required. Never for a moment underrating the notoriously desperate character of his captive, he was taking no chances, and purposely kept that individual under the tense influence of his powerful will, giving him no opportunity to collect his crafty wits.

"Quick, now, my lad!" he broke out in a fierce undertone, seizing the other's shirt collar and pushing the muzzle of the revolver into his back; "step out to that big cottonwood down there-keep yore wings up.

Make one break an' this'll go off!"

Bursting with helpless, impotent rage, the cowed and bewildered man was roughly thrust forward to the indicated spot. Arriving there, Ellis jerked out his handcuffs, opening these carefully so that he would be able to manipulate them with one hand.

"Shove out yore mitts on each side of this stick!" came his sharp command.

Shorty blinked at him with feigned stupidity out of veiled, bloodshot eyes.

"Quick!" snapped the Sergeant, with a fresh burst of fury at the other's irresolution. "Quick, yu' sorrel-topped skunk, or I'll kill yu'!"

Sullenly the gory arms were clasped around the tree and the handcuffs clicked home. His man secure, the policeman turned swiftly.

"_Adios_, Shorty," he said, with grim levity. "I'm just takin' a little _paseur_ now. I'll be back before the coyotes get yu'."

The rustler gazed after his retreating form with evil wonder. So far he had uttered no sound, but now his lips framed themselves for speech.

Something causing him to change his mind, however, he only spat viciously and resolutely held his peace.

An hour pa.s.sed. A slow one, too, for the shackled man. Shifting wearily from one foot to the other, he eventually sat down, shoving out a leg on either side of the cottonwood, his arms, of necessity, hugging the b.u.t.t.

The sound of voices presently smote his ear, not unpleasantly either, for by this time he was beyond caring for _what_ happened to him so long as he was released from his cramped, ludicrous position. Soon two riders hove into view at the entrance to the draw, and in them he recognized his captor, and-Gallagher.

The sight of the latter vaguely disturbed his warped conscience.

Gallagher had always been decent to him, he reflected. Had once even lent him money. How could the policeman know it was Gallagher's steer?

He _couldn't_, he argued to himself. They were just trying to put some bluff over him. And the conviction that he still held a trump card hardened his heart.