Wanted: Dead or Alive Page 6

  A quarter mile later the herd had swung up out of the wash. The raiders had evidently turned them at that point, pointed them into a southeasterly direction across the plain. Lockett, no anger thrashing at him but possessed only with a grim determination, drew the chestnut to a halt. Raising himself in the stirrups, he studied the sky ahead. There was no haze of dust, not in this section of the country or in any other; it could mean only that the raiders had halted for the night.

  They could not have gone far, he reasoned, and touching the chestnut with his spurs, moved on, now keeping to the low ground as much as possible but always with the trail of hoof marks left by the steers in sight nearby.

  He became aware of the raiders’ whereabouts before he saw them. As he rode quietly along through the fold of hills, the smell of cigarette smoke came suddenly to him. Halting instantly, he slipped from the saddle. Gun in hand, he worked his way through the gullies and across a series of slopes to a slight rise on his left. The pungent odor was stronger now, and with it came the rank smell of cattle. Immediately he dropped to his belly and, hat off, wormed to the top of the grassy ridge. A grunt of satisfaction slipped from his lips.

  Before him was another arroyo, one narrower but much deeper than the one where the attack had occurred. The steers were bunched in a natural corral a short distance away. Two of the outlaws were squatting, backs against the sandy wall of the wash while they enjoyed their smokes, off to his right. Dade gave that thought. There had been half a dozen or so in the raid; where were the others? After a time he dropped back, circled to a position a few paces lower where a better view of the arroyo was possible. He located the raiders’ horses. There were only two. The others had ridden on, leaving the steers in the care of two of their party.

  Again Lockett pulled back, considered his best course. It would be no big chore to show himself and recover the herd from the pair below. But night was at hand and it would not be possible to move the stock any distance before darkness set in. To wait until daylight to act, however, would be a mistake; the remainder of the gang likely would return and his chances for regaining possession of the cattle, and hanging onto them against such odds, would be much reduced. He would have to act now. It was better to gamble on being able to move the herd far enough to where, in the darkness, it would be reasonably safe should the raiders return soon. Too, being a distance from the arroyo would afford him a good start on the way to Pogue’s when daylight came if the outlaws didn’t put in an appearance until then.

  Cutting back to the chestnut, he mounted, spent a moment or two testing the action of his pistol to make sure sand had not fouled its mechanism, and then with the weapon in hand circled to where he entered the arroyo above the two men. Allowing the gelding to walk slowly in the soft sand, he made a quiet approach.

  The raiders did not see him until he was no more than a dozen yards away. Both stared, lunged to their feet. The younger of the two made a stabbing grab for his gun. Lockett calmly shot him before he could clear leather with his weapon. His partner, a dark-faced Mexican vaquero, abandoned a similar notion, raised his hands hastily. Lockett, eyes on the cattle that were aroused and stirring restlessly from the gunshot, rode in nearer to the man who continued to stare.

  “I … I think you dead, señor.”

  “Not yet,” Dade said coldly as he swung off the gelding. “Make one wrong move and you will be.”

  Stepping forward, Dade lifted the outlaw’s pistol from its holster. That he was undoubtedly a fearful sight with smeared, dried blood plastering his head, face, and neck, as well as an arm, had not occurred to him until that moment. And the water he’d poured over himself as an aid to consciousness had likely given him even a more sanguinary appearance. But there’d been no time to clean up back in the arroyo; he’d do it later. The important thing now was to get the herd started in the proper direction for Pogue’s.

  “We’re moving the steers out,” he said. “You’re helping … or I’ll kill you. Take your choice.”

  The vaquero blinked, his dark eyes like two burning coals. “Seguro,” he murmured.

  “Get your horse,” Lockett ordered, putting no trust in the man. “You try something and …”

  “No, señor,” the outlaw replied, nodding hurriedly. “You are the boss.”

  Dade went back onto the saddle, moved slowly toward the nervous herd. The vaquero mounted, began to circle in from the opposite side.

  “It is soon dark. These cows, they will not go.”

  Lockett shook his head at the man. “We’ll drive them far as we can. Don’t aim to be here in the morning when your friends come back.”

  The vaquero shrugged, removed his broad, soft-brimmed hat, began to wave it at the steers. “Friends, señor?” he said as the cattle started slowly off down the arroyo. “I do not know them. It is only they hire me to drive the animals.”

  “Sure, sure,” Lockett said, sliding his pistol into its holster. He was looking farther along, searching for a break in the wall of the arroyo that would permit the steers to climb out onto the flat above. There appeared to be an opening not too distant.

  “Es verdad … the truth.”

  Lockett ignored the statement, pointed to the lowering in the side of the wash. “We’ll head them up through there, get them on the flat. Then we’ll talk about who you are and why you bushwhacked me and rustled my herd.”

  “I am Cuchillo,” the Mexican said, bowing his head slightly, and then smiling, he veered off toward the opposite side of the arroyo to take his position at the rear of the sluggishly moving steers.

  “All right, Cuchillo, if you only …”

  The words froze on Dade’s lips. He saw the quick motion of the vaquero’s arm as it came up, fingers reaching for the back of his collar. In almost the same instant the last of the yellowing sunlight flickered brightly on the blade of a knife. Lockett drew and fired in a single flow of motion. The bullet caught the vaquero in the chest. The narrow bladed knife, plucked from its neck scabbard and poised for hurling, dropped from his long fingers as he slammed sideways, and fell from the saddle. Dade wasted no second glance on him. The gunshot was all the cattle needed to start them down the arroyo at a hard run.

  * * * * *

  Roxie, sitting in her father’s old leather chair in the open doorway, eyes on the alert for signs of the raiders, brushed back a stray lock of dark hair and sighed quietly. She had been there, off and on, for almost the entire day, and vigilance was becoming boring. But she would not neglect the task. Dade Lockett had impressed her with the importance of not being caught unaware, an effort on his part that was totally unnecessary. She guessed she should be making some plans, now that she had fully made up her mind—“crossed her Rubicon,” as old Miss Gayley, one of her girl-school teachers had the habit of saying. Miss Gayley was great on such things, always had some sort of a Latin quotation to fit the occasion.

  Dade would be returning sometime tomorrow night with the $500 he’d get from Bern Pogue for the steers. She could depend on it, she was certain; likely Dade would have no trouble on the short drive, but if he did he’d be able to handle it. He was that kind, thus the money was as good as in her hands. What he would do then was problematical; he might stay with the thought of helping them or he might decide that taking the cattle to Pogue was enough of a favor, and ride on to complete this all-important business he had in mind. That should be her first step, she decided—talking him out of that, keeping him here. Offering herself to him she supposed was the most effective means, becoming his woman, his wife if need be. It wouldn’t matter—it was whichever suited him. Then she would have him with her permanently and the rebuilding of the place should be no great chore. With a man like Dade on the premises the work would go fast and John Grosinger would undoubtedly give up all thought of taking over the place. Then, in a few years, she’d really have something in the way of a cattle ranch—a spread her father could be proud of were he aliv
e. It was best she get rid of Clint. He hated the life, always would. He simply wasn’t cut out for ranching and unlike her wasn’t interested enough in making an effort to change. Possession was no part of his make-up and he could care less about owning anything. He preferred to be no more than a city dweller, enjoying the products and offerings of such civilization with no plans or hopes for the future. She had been that way, too—at the start. But a metamorphosis had occurred, one brought about she supposed by John Grosinger and his night riders and their attempts to wrest from her something that was hers. Dade Lockett, too, could have had something to do with it.

  Regardless, the best thing was to get Clint out of the way; he would only be a hindrance in the future. She would take some of the money Dade would be bringing back, give a part of it to her brother—enough to buy passage on a stagecoach to Indiana or Kentucky, whichever he preferred, with some left over to keep him until he found himself a job. Later, when the ranch began to do well, she would send him more. All that would have to wait, of course, until he was able to travel, but that shouldn’t be more than a week or two. Renzo could stay on. He wasn’t of much use, being all crippled up the way he was, but he was handy to have around, and he was loyal. Dade liked him, too, so she should have no problems persuading him to keep the old man on when they began hiring regular hands to work the ranch, which could be soon once things were settled with Grosinger and they could get down to working the ranch. Meanwhile—until Dade got back—there was nothing to do but wait and watch and see that nothing more happened to her property.

  XI

  Raking the chestnut hard, Lockett surged alongside the racing herd. If he could draw abreast the leaders, he might be able to turn them into the break in the arroyo wall and up onto the flat. The rest of the steers would follow. Pistol ready, he veered the gelding toward the big wall-eyed dun that was slightly ahead of the others. Pointing the weapon down, he triggered two quick shots. The blast, so near the straining animal, caused him to swerve against the steer at his flank. The opening in the bank of the wash lay a dozen strides farther on. Without hesitation the rangy old dun headed into it, buck-jumped his way through the low brush, and clambered out onto the level ground above. The remainder of the herd, in a crowding, heaving mass of noise and color, poured in behind him.

  Lockett holstered his gun and pulled to a halt a short distance away. When the last steer had made it to the higher ground, he rode up onto the flat and, putting the chestnut to a good lope, set out after the cattle. They would not run for long in the closing darkness; it was immaterial anyway since they were bearing west.

  A half hour later he caught up with the steers. They had stopped in a swale deep in the pocket of a cluster of low hills. Having run themselves out, they were now ready to settle down for the night. Lockett glanced over his shoulder. It would have been better if he could have put more distance between the herd and the arroyo where the outlaws had corralled them. He had what could hardly be called a generous lead should they decide to follow and make an effort to recover the herd.

  He swung his eyes then to the west, wondering just where and how far away Bern Pogue’s ranch was. He had been thrown off course by the outlaws and now had no idea whether he was far south or well north of the spread. It would be foolish, of course, to double back to the arroyo where the raid had occurred and head out from there. That would only be a waste of time. He could do nothing but continue on westward, he decided, and rode on in close to the herd. Some of the steers had already bedded down but the majority was still on their feet, heads low and swinging back and forth, tails whipping nervously. They had gone all that day without water and their natural thirst had been further heightened by two short, if fast, stampedes; he could expect to find them hard to handle, but it had to be done.

  Working the chestnut into the herd, he began to swing his folded rope as a whip, got several of the steers into motion again. Despite the bright moonlight that was now flooding the land, they were reluctant to move, but he kept at them, fighting the stubborn ones that held back, hurrying to cut off the would-be strays that spurted from the main body in the hope of escaping into a brushy draw. Near exhaustion, sweat blanketing his body despite the coolness that had closed in, Dade continued the drive for a good hour and then, when they dropped into a deep sink, waterless but with a good stand of grass, he let the herd come to a halt.

  By daylight he was up and had the cattle on the trail once again, following the same westward course. As he rode, he maintained a watch to the east. Late in the morning such care paid off. Four riders appeared in the distance, coming abreast over the tracks left by the herd. At once Dade began to urge the cattle to a faster gait.

  Strangely the riders did not close in, simply maintained their position, neither gaining nor losing ground. And then abruptly, a short time later, they disappeared. Lockett puzzled over their behavior. He was certain they were the remaining members of the gang that had jumped him and taken the herd, yet they made no effort to recover the steers, or seek revenge for their two lost partners. He was at a loss as to what it was all about.

  The answer came minutes later. The herd, crossing a rolling plateau sparsely covered with bunchgrass, snakeweed, and clumps of prickly-pear cactus, topped out the last rise and started down a long slope into a wide, green valley. A scatter of ranch buildings lay at its upper end, and strung out for miles below were cattle, bunched and ready for the drive to the shipping point. Riders drifted slowly about the fringes of the herd, keeping it closely knit.

  Lockett grinned bleakly, brushed at his sweaty face. He had reached Pogue’s. The outlaws had backed off, fearing to attack since gunshots would have been heard by the men working the cattle. He’d made it.

  Riding to the front of the herd, Dade hazed the old dun leader into the general direction of the house. He supposed he could drive the cattle directly downgrade and turn them over to Pogue’s cowhands, but it seemed best to report in to the rancher himself first. As he came off the slope and quartered into the yard, two cowpunchers rode out to meet him, their dusty faces registering surprise and wonder when they drew near.

  “Steers from the Rakers,” Dade said, waving at the herd now crowding up to one of the watering ponds. “Fifty head. Be obliged if you’ll count them.”

  One of the riders, a slim, elderly man wearing scarred leather chaps and a hat that had lost half its brim, bobbed. “Sure thing, mister. You have yourself a spot of trouble?”

  “Some,” Lockett admitted. “Where’ll I find Pogue?”

  The cowpuncher pointed to a small, whitewashed cabin set a short distance from the main house. “That there’s his office. Reckon it’s where he’ll be.”

  Dade nodded his thanks, rode across the hardpan, and halted at the rack fronting the rancher’s business quarters. Dismounting, he stood for a minute looking off down the valley while the ache in his relieved muscles ebbed, and, then turning, strode to the entrance of Pogue’s office, noting only casually the strained features of several women peering at him from nearby windows. The rancher was sitting at a roll-top desk. Several piles of coins, mostly gold, were stacked before him along with a considerable amount of paper money. Evidently he was paying off some of his help and preparing for the trail drive. He glanced up as Dade entered, drew back sharply, his small, dark eyes registering shock.

  “Who the hell are …?”

  “Name’s Lockett,” Dade answered the half-finished question. “Drove in those fifty steers you bought from the Rakers.”

  Pogue, a gray, nervous sort of man, ran a hand over his balding head, frowned. Only then did Lockett realize that it was his appearance, blood-crusted, dusty, and haggard, that was creating a stir. “Sorry I ain’t much to look at,” he said. “Never had a chance to clean myself up. Be obliged if you’ll ask my pardon to your womenfolk. Reckon I gave them quite a start.”

  The rancher nodded. “Rustlers?”

  “Good a name as any for them,”
Dade replied, and half turned as the old cowpuncher with the ragged hat clomped noisily into the office. He raked Lockett again with a curious look, shifted his attention to Pogue.

  “Fifty head’s what he brung, boss. All prime stuff. You want me to …?”

  “Deal’s off,” the rancher said in a low voice. “I ain’t buying them.”

  Lockett drew himself up stiffly. The cowpuncher stared, pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Ain’t buying? I remember you saying …”

  “Forget it, Joe. Deal’s off, like I said.”

  Dade stepped closer to the desk. Anger was sweeping through him in a hot wave. “Why?”

  “Got my reasons,” Pogue said doggedly.

  “Well, that ain’t no reason far as I’m concerned,” Lockett snarled. “You made a bargain with the Rakers. The beef’s here … in time and in good shape. I’m holding you to your word.”

  Bern Pogue squirmed in his chair. “It ain’t that I wouldn’t like to. It’s only, well, I mean …”

  Dade’s eyes narrowed. “What you mean is that somebody told you not to buy them, that it?”

  “Not saying that,” the rancher protested, brushing at the sweat gathering on his forehead. “It’s only … I …”

  “Only that somebody put a bug in your ear about the Rakers, and sold you on the idea of helping drive them out!” Lockett’s voice had risen to a harsh shout.

  “Now hold on here. I …”

  “It’s you that’d best hold on, mister,” Dade snapped. Jerking out his pistol, he dug the bill of sale for the cattle from a shirt pocket with his free hand, threw it onto the desk in front of Pogue. “There’s your paper. Now count me out five hundred dollars.” The elderly cowpuncher began to ease toward the door. Lockett made a quick gesture to him. “Far enough. Get yourself back here alongside your boss. I don’t want to have to shoot you. Start counting, Pogue.”