The Rider of Golden Bar Part 67

Crack! Crack! Crack! the voices of the Winchesters drifted faintly down wind to the ears of Billy and Dawson. Billy, fearful that some one else had seen their quarry first, swore frankly.

"Cheer up," said Dawson. "It may be just the chance we're lookin' for.

They've stopped shootin'."

Billy remained pessimistic. He had been disappointed so often. But it was the chance they were looking for, after all.

Five minutes later from the edge of a flat-topped hill, they were looking down upon a scene that has had many counterparts in the history of the West.

Below the flat-topped hill a wide stretch of rolling ground reached away to a semi-circle of low hills. A quarter-mile out from the base of the hills a tiny fire smoked fitfully. Beyond the fire lay a hog-tied calf. Beyond the calf, a man sprawled behind the body of a pony. He was aiming a rifle at another man ensconced below a cutbank bordering a small creek that meandered with many windings across the rolling country. This second man was not blatantly visible. Even with the gla.s.ses it was difficult to make him out. For cottonwoods grew above the cutbank and the man lay in deep shadow.

Between this man and the man behind the pony were three hundred yards of ground as flat as a floor. Billy swept the background of the cutbank man with his gla.s.ses. "There are two horses tied behind a windfall alongside those rocks. Where's the other man?"

"There's the other man," said Dawson, pointing toward a gap in the cottonwoods alongside the creek fifty yards down stream from the cutbank. "What's he doing--drinking?"

Billy turned his gla.s.ses on the spot indicated. "He ain't drinking,"

he said soberly. "His head's under water."

"I'm sure hoping he ain't Dan Slike," Dawson said matter-of-factly.

"Me too. What----"

For the man behind the cutbank was climbing up among the cottonwoods--climbing up and walking out into plain sight of the man behind the pony. Not only that, but, the rifle across the crook of his elbow, nursing the b.u.t.t with his right hand, he began to walk directly toward him. Still the man behind the pony did not fire.

"He's cashed all right," Billy remarked suddenly. "He looked so natural he fooled me for a minute. Let's go down across the creek.

We're in luck to-day."

They ran down the reverse slope of the flat-topped hill, cut across the creek and approached the horses tied behind the windfall.

"I'm afraid we'll just naturally have to kill Dan, after all," grieved Billy. "He won't ever surrender. I----"

"Tell you," said Dawson, "loosen the cinches; then no matter which horse he tops he'll jerk himself down. Then maybe while he's all tangled up with himself and the saddle----"

"Catchem-alivoes ourselves," said Billy, with a hard grin, and tossed up the near fender of one of the saddles.

When both saddles had been carefully doctored, Billy and his friend retired modestly behind some red willows.

Soon they heard a scramble and a splash in the creek. Dan Slike was coming back. Through the screen of leaves they watched him coming toward them. They heard his voice. He was swearing a great string of oaths. Billy crouched a trifle lower. His six-shooter was out, but not c.o.c.ked. Dawson had followed his example.

Slike jammed his Winchester into one of the empty scabbards and untied the bridle reins of the horses. Holding the reins in one hand, he gripped a saddle horn and simultaneously stuck toe in stirrup. Ensued then a mighty creak of saddle leather, a snort, a plunge, and Slike found himself on his back on the ground with one foot higher than his head. A gun barrel appeared from nowhere and smote him smartly over the ear. Oh, ye sun, moon and stars! Total darkness.

Billy sprang to the heads of the capering horses. "Take his hat off, Johnny!" he cried. "See what you find under the sweatband!"

When Slike emerged into the full possession of his senses, he was the most disgusted man in the territory.

"You gave us quite a run," Billy observed smilelessly.

Slike d.a.m.ned everybody. "You needn't have tied my hands too," he added.

"We can't afford to take chances. Do you feel like admitting that the district attorney helped you break jail?"

Slike glared defiantly. "Nothin' to say," declared Dan Slike, the unrepentant.

"That's your privilege. Suppose now we heave him up on his horse and go see what happened."

They freed his feet, mounted him on the horse that was not packing the rifle and proceeded. Behind the gap in the cottonwoods, fifty yards below the spot under the cutbank where Slike had lain, they found the body of the man with his face in the water. Billy dragged out the body and turned it on its back.

"What you cussin' for?" inquired Dawson.

"This feller ain't Jack Murray," cried the perplexed Mr. Wingo. "It's Skinny Shindle."

"Looks like we must have missed a bet somewhere," said Dawson.

"Plugged him plumb center, didn't he?" he added, alluding to the red-and-blue bullet hole squarely between the staring eyes.

"I got the other sport," snarled Slike.

"Where's Jack Murray?" demanded Billy.

"What difference does that make?" flung back Dan Slike.

It was evident that Slike was not in a confiding mood.

n.o.body said anything further. They left Skinny Shindle lying beside the little creek and went on to where the other dead man lay beside the embers of the branding fire.

"That's a TU horse," said Dawson, glancing at the brand on the pony's hip.

Billy turned the dead man face upward. He whistled. "Here's an odd number, Johnny. This feller is Simon Reelfoot's foreman. You've heard me speak of that low-lived persimmon, Simon Reelfoot. This boy is named Conley. Been with Reelfoot for years. I'd sure like to know why he's riding for the T.U."

Came then a puncher riding on his occasions. At sight of the three men and the calf and the fire, he spurred toward them. A hundred yards away he suddenly pulled up and slipped to the far side of his horse.

"I know him," said Dawson. "Used to ride for Tasker once. C'mon, Tommy, what you scared of? It's me, Johnny Dawson."

Tommy at once remounted and rode in to them. "'Lo, Johnny," he said, with a straight mouth. "Did that man with his arms tied kill Daley?"

"Is that his name?" asked Billy, flicking his thumb toward the dead man.

"Jim Daley," said Tommy. "Did he?"

"Sure, I killed him," Slike truculently answered the question. "What about it?"

At that instant Billy demonstrated that the hand is sometimes quicker than the eye.

"He'll die anyway," he said mildly. "You better let us do it."

"I pa.s.s," surrendered Tommy, removing his hand from the b.u.t.t of his six-shooter.

"Daley got one before he went," said Billy, returning his six-shooter whence it came. "He's back there on the bank of the creek if you want to look."

"This is sure hard on Daley," observed Tommy, dismounting to turn loose the calf. "He told me he came north for his health."