Читать книгу Clattering Hoofs - William MacLeod Raine - Страница 6

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.

Life on the frontier, lived recklessly, had made of Sloan a hard-bitten realist. If possible, he meant to make a clean getaway. First, he had to avoid being shot down by the raiders, and afterward to make a wide detour of the Blunt ranch in order not to be stopped by any of those hunting the Scarface depredators. In spite of his keen watchfulness against the immediate danger, he felt a sardonic amusement at the development of the situation. The foray of one band of rustlers had imperiled him; that of a much more malignant one had brought him rescue.

A stranger to the chaparral would have found difficulty in picking a way through the dense growth, but Sloan wound in and out without once pulling to a walk the cowpony he was astride. The yucca struck at his legs with points of steel. Strong spines of the cholla and the prickly pear seemed to be clutching for him. But he was so expert a brush rider that he could miss the needles by a hair’s breadth without slackening his pace.

Back of him he heard the firing of the guns drumming defiance. They told him that the first charge had been broken and that for the time at least the battle had settled down to a siege. Later Lopez’ men would probably get tired of that and try another attack in force unless a rescue party from the ranch interfered with them.

The noise of the explosions sounded fainter as the distance between him and the wash increased. He had been traveling back into a hill country, but after a time he pulled up to decide on a course. By now he must be well south of the Blunt place and could swing around it if he kept to the brush. There was no longer any danger of pursuit by the Mexicans. Whether they had seen him at all he did not know. If so, they had let him go and concentrated on the men in the wash. He guessed that after finding that they could not rub out Ranger’s party without loss they might drive the cattle away, not stopping to exterminate the owners. Sloan had heard that though Lopez was ruthless he liked to run as little risk as possible.

There was no longer any need of haste. The young man moved down into the flats, holding the buckskin to a walk. Technically he had become a horse thief, but that did not seem important at the moment. When he did not need the animal any longer he could turn it loose and it would return to the home ranch. The rifle he would keep, at least until he had reached a place of safety.

The sun had slid down close to the jagged horizon line. Inside of two hours darkness would sift down over the land. After that he would be in little danger. During the night he could get forty miles away from here. His plan had been to stay, for reasons he did not yet want to make public. But until he had cleared up this matter of the rustling that would be madness. Even before this mischance, he had known that every hour he spent here would be perilous.

He came to a road that cut through the mesquite, not a main-traveled one. It was narrow, and in places young brush had grown up in it. The wheel tracks were faint. Upon it the wilderness brush was encroaching. Grease-wood and ocatillo reached out across it and whipped at the flanks of his horse.

As he came into the road he heard the creaking of wheels and at once drew back into the chaparral where he would not be seen. A buggy came around the bend, driven by a boy of about fourteen. There was a hole in the lad’s straw hat and through it a tuft of red hair had pushed into the open. Beside him sat a girl several years older.

Cape Sloan had read of golden girls, but he had never before seen one that fitted the mental picture he had formed. This one had honey-colored hair twisted around her head in strands. Her eyes were deep sky blue, and her cheeks had a soft peach bloom. A slant of sunlight was pouring straight at her, as if a stage had been set to throw her young beauty into relief. She was laughing, and he glimpsed a double row of shining ivory teeth. Though slenderly modeled, there was promise of strength in her straightbacked supple body.

The buggy dipped into a draw and after it had disappeared Sloan took the road again and followed. Before he had gone fifty yards he heard a jangle of voices, a whoop of jeering laughter, and a boyish treble raised in frightened protest. Trouble of some sort, he decided, and was sure of it when the scream of a girl reached him.

Swiftly he rode to the top of the rise and looked down. He saw four men surrounding the buggy. The girl was in the arms of one of them, flung across the saddle in front of him.

“We take you to Pablo, señorita,” one of them called to her. “Maybe he hold you for a nice fat ransom. Or maybe——”

He finished the sentence with a ribald laugh. There was cruel gloating in the sound of it. Sloan knew that these men were not of the kindly smiling Mexicans who made a picturesque background to this desert land. They were members of the band of Pablo Lopez, the dregs of the wild turbulent borderland.

Sloan touched his mount with the spur and charged down the slope. He knew it was a mad business, but gave that no thought. During the two or three seconds while the horse pounded down the slope his mind moved in swift stabbing flashes. The boy’s head lay against the back of the seat. He had probably been pistol-whipped. That was a game two could play—if he ever got the chance.

One of the bandits turned, shouted a startled warning, and fired wildly at the man on the galloping horse. Another bullet whistled past the ears of Sloan. A third outlaw fired just as Sloan dragged his mount to a halt.

The rifle in Sloan’s hands swung up and crashed down on the head of the man who had first seen him. The rider went out of the saddle as slack as a pole-axed bullock. A second raider spurred his pony against the cyclonic stranger. A knife flashed in the sun. The head and body of Sloan swerved, but too late to escape entirely. A red hot flame ripped through his shoulder. He drew back the Winchester and fired it from his hip.

An agonized expression distorted the face of the attacker and the knife dropped from his hand to the sand. Widestretched fingers caught at his stomach. The muscles of his back collapsed and he slid head first to the ground.

Cape Sloan lifted his voice in a shout. “Come on, fellows. We’ve got ’em.”

The remaining two bandits wanted no more of this. One flung a hurried shot at Sloan and dragged his horse around to escape. The other dropped the girl and raced down the road at the heels of his fellow.

Sloan swung from the saddle, grounded the reins, and stepped forward to see how badly the boy was hurt. Groggily the lad stared at him.

“He hit me with a gun,” the boy explained, the world still swimming before his eyes.

The girl climbed into the buggy and put an arm around him. “Are you all right, Nels? I mean—are you much hurt, dear?”

Her brother felt his head gently. “Gee, I’ll say I am.”

Sloan examined the lump above the temple. It had been a fairly light tap. The skin was not broken and there was no blood. If there was no concussion Nelson had got off easily.

“He’ll have a headache, but I don’t think he is much hurt,” Sloan decided.

Cape had kept an eye on both of the prostrate bandits. Now he examined their wounds. The one he had shot was dead. His companion showed signs of life. Sloan stripped both of them of their weapons.

“Where are the other men—the ones you called?” the girl asked.

“There are no others.” Cape smiled. “Thought I’d encourage these scoundrels to light out before they had massacred me.”

“I haven’t seen you before, have I?” she said. “You don’t live around here.”

“My name is Cape Sloan.” He added, “I’m a stranger in these parts.”

The horse of one of the raiders was grazing close to the trace. No sign of the second one could be seen. The animal had probably run down the road after the departing outlaws.

Sloan unhitched the horse from the buggy and removed the harness. The girl’s eyes followed him as he moved.

“My name is Alexandra Ranger,” she said. “This is my brother Nelson. We live at the Circle J R ranch.”

“If your father is John Ranger I think I’ve met him,” Sloan answered, his eyes grim.

She looked down at the dead man and shuddered “It’s . . . dreadful, isn’t it? Who can they be? What did they want?” Her voice was low and held a moving huskiness. It stirred in him a queer emotion he did not understand. Except for diversion women had not meant much in his young life. It had been many years since he had exchanged a smile with one.

“They belong to Pablo Lopez’ gang. A mess of them are raiding this district today.” He did not mention that he had last seen a dozen of them trying to kill her father. If there was bad news waiting for her she would learn it in time without his help. “We’ve got to get out of here pronto. I don’t know how far away the rest of the gang are. Your brother can ride this horse. You’ll have to take that one.” He indicated the one the dead man had been riding.

“Yes,” she replied, taking orders from him without comment. The color had washed out of her cheeks, but she gave no evidence of hysteria. “Can you help Nels up?”

He lifted the boy to the back of the buggy horse.

“You’re all right, aren’t you?” he asked. “Not lightheaded?”

“Sure, I’m all right. Where are we going?”

“I don’t know yet. Just now into the brush.” He turned to Alexandra. “You’ll have to ride astride.”

“Yes. Will you help me up, please? It’s such a high horse.”

He put a hand under one foot and lifted. She swung into the seat and tried to pull her skirts down, but a long stretch of slender shapely leg showed.

For anything that his wooden face registered she might have been a wrinkled Indian squaw. His eyes apparently took no note of the small firm breasts or of the long curves of her gracious figure. His job was to save them and himself. He wasted no time on amenities. He whipped up his left arm and said curtly, “This way.”

Though fear was still knocking at her heart, she was full of curiosity about him. The horse he was riding bore a brand. What was he doing with one of her father’s mounts? Why had he stiffened at mention of her name? He was a man who unconsciously invited the eyes of women, not less because of his obvious indifference to them. There was strength in the bone conformation of his face and a sardonic recklessness in the expression. The motions of his body showed an easy grace, due to the poised co-ordination of mind and long flowing muscles. She had never seen one more sure of himself.

They cut into the chaparral, Sloan bringing up the rear. In silence they traveled for at least a mile before he halted the little procession.

“How far is the nearest ranch?” he inquired.

“About three miles, maybe,” Nelson answered. “The Blunt place. Wouldn’t you say about three miles, Sandra?”

Sandra thought that might be right.

The men hunting the rustlers were to rendezvous at Blunt’s. Cape guessed that would be the safest point for which to strike.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Wait,” Sandra cried, pointing to a red stain on his shirt. “You’re wounded. Where the knife cut you.”

Sloan brushed aside her concern impatiently. “A scratch. It will wait.”