Chapter IV: Part 4

“The Double O had always been a tough outfit, but I never figured old man Anderson would stand for murder. If we find one of their riders is riding a horse with a shoe like that, watch out for trouble in great big chunks.”

The Box B riders remounted and started north into the Double O territory. From the trail, it was evident that the cattle had been driven hard, but the small herd had been fairly easy to handle.

They penetrated more than a mile into the Double O range when a group of riders galloped into sight over a low hill.

“Here comes trouble,” grinned Chuck, loosening his rifle and making sure that it was ready for fast action. The other Box B riders looked at their guns and Slim’s heart tightened. Tempers were at a fighting pitch. It would require some real diplomacy to get through the next few minutes without someone being hurt, perhaps seriously.

The two groups of riders swept toward each other at a furious pace, slowing down only when they were less than two hundred yards apart. At a hundred yards they stopped, eyeing each other warily, waiting for the first break.

“Old man Anderson’s with his boys and he’s wearing two guns,” said Joe. “That means he’s on the warpath sure.”

Slim counted the Double O riders. Five men were ranged behind their boss and he recognized one of them as Al Bass, the range rider they had seen the day before.

“They’ve got our cattle,” said Walt Kelly impatiently. “What are we going to do, talk or shoot?”

“We’ll talk first,” said Joe, curbing his first impulse to shoot it out, for the Box B was outnumbered.

Joe held up his hand and started forward, calling to Slim, “You ride with me and the rest stay here and watch for any break.”

Nels Anderson and Al Bass rode forward from the Double O group and they met halfway between.

The owner of the Double O was a gigantic Swede, well over six feet tall and as broad as an ox. His huge hands rested easily on the pommel of his saddle and the butts of his six guns protruded from the holsters on each leg. The light blue eyes peered out from beneath shaggy eyebrows and his whole face was a picture of intense rage. He burst into an immediate accusation.

“You fellows got nerve,” he roared. “Stealing my cattle and then riding over here in the daytime hunting more. By gar, this is going to stop and stop right here!”

“What do you mean, stealing your cattle?” replied Joe angrily. “All we’re doing is trailing a herd of our own stuff that you’ve driven into your range. Fine thing for a man’s neighbor to turn rustler.”

The Swede’s face flushed an angry red and his right hand clawed at his gun, but Al Bass reached out quickly and seized the hand with a firm grip.

“Hold it, Nels,” he said. “There’s something wrong here. I saw Box B cattle on our range better than a mile back. They’re hunting their stuff on our territory and we’re looking for some of our choice beef on their side of the line.”

It was with difficulty that the owner of the Double O controlled his surging temper, and when he spoke his voice was filled with emotion.

“Don’t you call me a rustler again,” he warned Joe. “Next time maybe Al won’t be here to stop me.”

“Sorry, Nels, but my temper got away from me. We’ve been losing cattle right and left and this time we figured we’d trailed some of our prime beef right into your back yard.”

“Yeh,” grunted Al Bass. “There’s a trail a quarter mile west of here where about sixty head of our stuff was driven onto your range last night. Laugh that one off.”

“Looks to me like a clever attempt to get the Box B and the Double O into a lot of gun play and clean both outfits out while they were busy trying to settle grievances,” said Slim.

He turned to Nels Anderson. Briefly he told him of the attempt to kill Adam Marks and how he had trailed the bushwhacker, only to be beaten back by the storm.

“The man who shot Adam Marks was riding a horse that had a V-shaped mark on the left rear shoe,” said Slim. “We found the same mark left by one of the horses used to drive our cattle onto your range last night.”

“So you figured that it was a Double O rider who tried to kill your boss,” said Al Bass.

“That’s about the ticket,” said Joe.

Nels Anderson’s big frame shook with anger.

“Fools, fools,” he cried. “Why, Adam and I came here together. We don’t always agree, but by gar I sure wouldn’t let anyone take a shot at him.”

Al Bass leaned forward.

“I was the fellow who found out our cattle had been rustled and I got a good look at the hoofprints left by the rustlers’ horses. There’s just such a mark as you described on one of the left rear prints.”

Slim smiled a little grimly.

“I’d kind of figured there would be. Seems like these two outfits ought to forget any past troubles and realize that through a clever trick the rustlers almost had them fighting each other to death. We figured one of your boys tried to get our boss, and that your whole outfit was stealing our cattle, while you fellows were dead sure we rustled off your beef last night.”

Nels Anderson leaned over toward the Box B foreman, thrusting out a huge hand.

“Joe, your boy is right. We have been blind. You tell Adam that from now on we ride together. I’ll come see him soon. Now we better throw in together. We’ll round up your stuff and drive it back on your range and then bring our cattle back.”

They united forces and turned back into the Double O range to hunt out the Box B cattle. Slim felt that real progress had been made. The differences between the Double O and the Box B had been smoothed over and the two largest outfits in the Creeping Shadows had united for a stand against the rustlers. He looked over the cowpunchers. They were a hard riding lot, every one of them capable of a good fight and Slim knew that the rustlers were going to be in for some dangerous hours before many more days passed.

Chapter Sixteen

Telltale Marks

It was sundown when the Double O and the Box B riders finished the task of getting the cattle back on their own ranges. They stopped at the boundary between the ranches and the Double O cattle plodded northward onto their own range.

“How many cattle you figure you’ve lost?” Joe asked the owner of the Double O.

“Right around 350,” replied Nels. “How many have you?”

“It’s more than that. A good 500 head and maybe a few more have been stolen in the last few months. I tell you, it’s hit us mighty hard.”

Nel’s pale eyes hardened and his huge hands moved convulsively for he was a man of deep emotion.

“We shall stop that, and soon,” he roared. “Tomorrow we go see Cook and line him up. After that we’ll clean out Dirty Water and maybe that will stop the rustling.”

Joe looked thoughtful.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to swing Cook along with us,” he said, “and when it comes to cleaning up Dirty Water, we’ll have to have some proof.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” said Nels. “Action I got to have. There’s no law in the valley unless we make it ourselves.”

“You’re right,” agreed Slim, “but let’s wait until we’re sure of the gang responsible for this rustling.”

Nels grumblingly agreed that Slim’s advice was logical and they parted with the agreement that the Box B foreman would ride over to the Double O in the morning and that Nels would accompany him on a visit to the Cook ranch.

“What sort of a fellow is this Cook?”

“All bad,” replied Joe. “He runs the Diamond Dot, a small outfit that lies east of the Double O and the Box B and north of Dirty Water. His range backs right up against the Cajons. We’ve had lots of trouble with him over our water rights.”

“Has he been losing cattle the last year?”

“Claims he’s lost a bunch, but I wouldn’t take his word for anything. Unless we keep a close watch, he runs his cattle over on our range and they clean up some of our best grazing land.”

“Then it won’t be much use to see him tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so, but it will satisfy Nels, and if Cook has really been losing beef he may throw in with us. He has a lot of riders and they’re all tough birds. If the three outfits made a united stand, we’d sweep this valley clean of every undesirable hombre that’s come in here the last couple of years.”

When they reached the home place, Joe went at once to report the events of the day to the owner of the Box B while the cowboys hurried into the cookhouse, where Lee Wu had supper ready.

“Golly, but I thought there was going to be trouble when Joe called Nels Anderson a rustler,” said Walt Kelly, between mouthfuls of bread.

“There would have been if Al Bass hadn’t grabbed his hand,” put in jovial Pat Beals. “I’m telling you, my hair was standing on end.”

“We’re finally getting started on the right track,” said Walt, “even if it almost took bloodshed to get these outfits together. Believe me, it’s going to be tough for the rustlers from now on.”

Slim had been watching Doug Huston and he thought he saw the cowboy’s face twitch slightly. One thing, Doug had expressed no elation at the peacemaking with the Double O.

There was only the faintest tinge of light over the Three Soldiers as they left the cookhouse. Up at the ranch house, a light glowed in Adam Marks’ bedroom and Slim knew that the foreman was recounting in great detail the happenings of the day.

Slim walked down to the corral and whistled softly. Out of the shadows came Lightning, and Slim climbed up to the top rail and ran his hands through the sorrel’s thick mane.

“We made a little progress today,” he said softly and Lightning tossed her head in agreement. “But we’ve got a long way to go,” added Slim, and again the sorrel nodded.

Chuck came down from the bunkhouse and climbed atop the corral.

“Doing a little heavy thinking?” he asked.

“Trying to, but the results are about zero.”

“I’d like to know how the 800 and some head that have been stolen from the Box B and the Double O were taken out of the valley,” said Chuck.

“When we discover how that’s been done, we’ll be just about at the end of this mystery.”

“They’ve been rustled in small lots, but even then cattle can’t fly.”

“That’s one reason I’m anxious to see what kind of a place the Diamond Dot runs. Joe Haines don’t like that outfit a bit.”

“He didn’t like the Double O until he realized that somebody was trying to get the two outfits to fighting,” pointed out Chuck.

“There won’t be any more trouble along that line and I feel we’ve made a little progress, but not enough.”

Slim’s fingers, exploring an inside pocket, came in contact with the cartridge he had found at the scene of Adam Marks’ ambush. He had two definite clues, the exploded shell and the V-shaped hoofprint. Somewhere in the valley he must find the rider of that horse.

The cowboy detectives returned to the bunkhouse. The foreman was still at the ranch house and the other Box B riders were engaged in various personal tasks.

Slim and Chuck rolled in early, and a few minutes later the others were in their blankets.

Slim fell into a restless sleep, for even after his body relaxed his mind was working on the rustling mystery. Thus it was that he heard a slight noise down at the corral and awakened almost instantly.

Slim pulled on his trousers, picked up his boots, and left the bunkhouse silently. Someone was in the corral saddling a horse. Slim moved swiftly forward. The moon, which had topped the Cajons, was shrouded with clouds.

The cowboy detective paused beside the main gate of the corral to see what was going on inside and had just stuck his head above the top rail when a rope swished out of the shadows and settled over his head. Before he could utter a sound, it was jerked tight and he fell sprawling to the ground, gasping for breath.

Slim clawed at the rope, but it was too tight. Someone was running toward him, coming out of the corral.

The moonlight brightened for an instant and Slim looked up into a masked face.

“Smart guy,” came a hard, chilling voice. “Well, you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

Slim tried to dodge, but the other man struck him with a short, heavy club, and the cowboy detective lost consciousness. When he finally opened his eyes, the moon was well toward its zenith and his head throbbed dismally.

He tried to move, but found his arms and feet securely bound and a tight gag in his aching mouth. He managed to roll over and lift his head. He had been carried a hundred yards from the corral and deposited beside the creek. Slim tried to wriggle along the ground, but he made little progress and it was an exhausting effort. He rolled over on his back and looked up at the moon. There was nothing to do but wait for morning.

It was well after midnight when Slim heard a horse approaching the Box B. It was coming slowly as though the rider was afraid of discovery. Then the gate of the corral was opened and Slim knew that his assailant had returned. There was no question now but that one of the Box B riders was allied with the rustlers for Slim felt sure that the unknown rider had slipped away to inform the other members of the gang that the Box B and the Double O were standing shoulder to shoulder to resist any further depredations.

The aching hours went by slowly. The moon dropped behind the Three Soldiers and for over an hour the Creeping Shadows country was cloaked in the deepest night. Then the peaks of the Cajons were touched with the first streaks of another day and Slim moved a little to rest his tortured body.

It was an hour later before he was found and then Chuck saw him lying beside the creek and hurried to slash his bonds.

Slim had to be helped to a sitting position, for the circulation had long since stopped in his feet and hands. Chuck worked carefully, rubbing the bruised members. Slim cried out in pain once or twice as the blood again coursed through the arteries and veins. His tongue was badly swollen and Chuck ran for a cup of water. Returning, he took a clean handkerchief and soaked it with water. This Slim placed in his mouth, sucking gratefully at the cool liquid.

Joe Haines heard that something was wrong and came hurrying down, the other Box B riders following him. Slim waved aside their questions for his jaws ached too much to talk and it was not until he had downed a bowl of breakfast food that he told them the full story.

“Have any idea who it was?” asked Joe.

“Not the slightest,” replied Slim, deciding not to reveal that he had heard the rider return to the Box B.

Walt Kelly hurried down to the corral to look at the horses.

“Every cayuse is there,” he said when he returned.

“Then I can’t figure out what anyone was doing in our corral,” said Joe.

“Maybe he was going to run off with the horses and Slim came along just in time to give him a scare,” suggested Doug.

“Well, maybe,” agreed Joe, but it was plain that such an explanation did not satisfy him.

When they left the cookhouse, Joe turned to Slim.

“Feel like riding over to the Double O with me?”

“I’ll be all right in a few minutes. Count me in. I want to be along when you talk with the boss of the Diamond Dot.”

Slim went to the bunkhouse while the others hastened down to the corral to get their mounts. The cowboy detective was firmly convinced that someone in the bunkhouse had slugged him the night before and left him hog-tied along the creek.

With quick, deft hands he searched one bunk after another. It was not until he reached Doug Huston’s duffel bag that he found anything. Wadded in the bottom was a black cloth which might easily be tied around the lower part of the face to form a mask. Slim nodded grimly. His suspicions that Doug was the rustlers’ key man on the ranch were rapidly being confirmed.

Slim rammed the black cloth back into the duffel bag and slipped on his chaps, slung his gun belt around his hips, and started for the corral.

An excited group was gathered at the gate, looking at tracks which led into the corral.

“Look here, Slim,” cried Chuck. “One of the rustlers, the guy that took a shot at the boss, rode right into our own corral last night. Here’s his tracks going in, but there’s none coming out.”

Slim looked down at the hoofprint to which Chuck pointed. There was the telltale V-shaped mark.

Chapter Seventeen

The Night Alarm

There was no mistaking the V-shaped nick. It was clearly outlined in the dust and Slim stooped to look at it closely.

“Kind of looks like the mysterious rider was the guy who roped me around the neck and then left me down by the creek to hear the crickets sing,” he said.

“Maybe he was trying to get another shot at the boss,” said Walt Kelly.

“If he was, he wouldn’t have ridden right into our corral. Anyway, there’re no marks like this one coming out,” Chuck pointed out.

Slim sat back on his heels, puzzled at the turn of events, while Chuck ambled into the corral. A minute later he shouted for them to join him and they hurried inside.

Chuck was looking at his own horse but as they approached he pointed at the dust.

“My gosh, fellows, my own horse has that V-shaped mark on his left rear shoe!”

“That kind of puts you in a hole,” spoke up Doug Huston.

“Nothing of the kind,” retorted Slim sharply. “Chuck wasn’t on the range when the boss was shot and you fellows know darned well where he was the other night when the rustlers were chasing our cattle onto the Double O range. This is just a trick of the rustlers to cause suspicion in our own outfit. The fellow who slugged me last night rode away on Chuck’s horse and while he was away from the ranch he had the V-shaped mark filed in the shoe. It was clever trick, but it didn’t work.”

Joe Haines, who had been strangely silent, stepped forward.

“You’re right, Slim,” said the foreman. “Putting that nick on the shoe of that cayuse was aimed to throw us on the wrong track. What’s troubling me is how the rustlers learned we were after a horse with a shoe marked like that. As far as I know only our own outfit knew about it and Nels Anderson and Al Bass.”

“I didn’t think the Double O would shoot straight,” said Doug.

“I wouldn’t jump at conclusions,” said Slim. “When this thing is finally cleared up there’s going to be a lot of surprised people in the Creeping Shadows country.”

“Oh, you talk like a cattle detective,” snapped Doug.

“If I was a cattle detective,” replied Slim smoothly, “I’d probably be slipping the iron bracelets on these rustlers and starting them for the state penitentiary.”

“Better get a file and smooth out that mark,” Joe told Chuck. “There’s no use your cluttering up the landscape with V-shaped signs.”

Chuck departed for the blacksmith shop and Slim and Joe saddled and mounted their horses.

Joe gave the riding orders for the day to the other punchers. Then with Slim he rode north toward the Double O. After a time he spoke.

“Do you think it was someone on the ranch who waylaid you last night and rode away on Chuck’s horse?”

Slim picked his words carefully as he replied for even though he had absolute faith in the integrity of the foreman, he did not intend to reveal that he was in the employ of the Mountain States Cattlemen’s Association and working under Old Bill Needham until the showdown.

“I’m inclined to believe someone on the ranch is tipping the rustlers off to every move. That’s the only way the gang could have learned the boss was carrying money with him the night they shot him and it’s the only way they could have learned about the nick in the horseshoe. Whoever is doing the thinking for this gang is clever and dangerous.”

“He’s all of that, but he’ll never match the power of the cattlemen if we line up Hack Cook.”

Nels Anderson and Al Bass were waiting for them and they swung into their saddles as the Box B men approached.

“Anything happen last night?” asked Nels. Slim related what had occurred at the Box B corral.

“That’s no good,” he said. “It means there’s a traitor in your outfit.”

“Don’t say that until we’ve got the proof,” Joe warned him, for although he was privately convinced that Nels was right, he wasn’t going to let any outsider cast any reflections on his riders until he had ample proof.

With Nels and Joe ahead, they rode toward the Diamond Dot. Slim found Al Bass a pleasant companion and they discussed the range war at length.

“Your outfit’s pretty well loaded with men,” Slim said.

“The Box B would be if they could keep their hands on,” grinned Al, “but after those two cattle detectives were killed and a couple of the other boys got winged, a bunch of them blew out of the country.”

“The present outfit won’t blow,” said Slim.

“I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t count too much on Doug Huston. He looks like a weak sister to me.”

It was nearly noon when they reached the Diamond Dot, which lay north and well to the east of the Box B although almost directly east of the Double O.

Water on the Diamond Dot was not as plentiful as on the neighboring ranches and the grass was thinner. The buildings, almost under the Cajons, were in a poor state of repair and the corral was a ramshackled affair. Two cowboys in front of the bunkhouse looked up as the riders approached and four more men appeared to watch the visitors. On the porch of the ranch house a man pulled himself out of an old rocking chair. He was in his stocking feet and had been dozing and smoking his pipe at intervals.

“That’s Hack Cook on the porch,” said Al. “He’s a tough customer and I’ve got a hunch we won’t get any cooperation from him.”

Slim looked at the owner of the Diamond Dot. Hack Cook was almost square. His shoulders were tremendously broad and his chest was like a barrel. His face was red and his neck so short that it disappeared into his body.

“Hello, Hack,” rumbled Nels as the riders stopped in front of the porch.

“Howdy,” replied Hack, but he gave no hint that he intended to ask them to dismount and have dinner at the ranch. “What’s on your mind?”

“Plenty,” said Nels. “It’s about the rustlers. The Double O and the Box B are joining forces.”

Hack’s face reddened and his voice trembled. “Joining forces? It’s about time you big outfits did that. Now you’ll try to ruin me altogether. You haven’t been able to do it singly so you’re doubling up on me. Well, I’m serving notice on you right now that I’ve got fighting men on my payroll and we’re going to fight to the end.”

“Why you crazy fool,” broke in Joe Haines, “we’re not looking for trouble. We’re offering you a chance to join us and run the rustlers out of the valley. You claim you’ve been losing stock. Here’s your chance to prove it by throwing in with us. We’re going to give this valley the once-over with a fine-toothed comb.”

Slim had been making a survey of the Diamond Dot layout. He was surprised at the number of cowboys at the bunkhouse. There were six outside, more than the Box B carried and as many as the Double O, which were much larger ranches than the Diamond Dot.

There was the movement of a faded curtain at a window on the second floor of the ranch house and Slim started involuntarily as he got a glimpse of the face peering out from behind the curtain. It was that of Hal Titzell, the cattle buyer from Dirty Water. It was true that Titzell had visited the Box B two days before, and it was possible that he was trying to buy cattle from the Diamond Dot, but Slim didn’t like the looks of the thing as he recalled the early warning Doc Baldridge had given him about Titzell.

Nels and Joe argued for some time with Hack Cook, but the owner of the Diamond Dot was adamant and no amount of cajoling on the part of the visiting cattlemen could make him change his mind.

“Then go it alone,” exploded Nels at last, “and I hope to heaven you lose every one of your cattle, that your grass burns up and your water holes go dry.”

“They probably will if you can do anything about it,” retorted Hack.

The visitors whirled their horses about and departed at a gallop.

“What burns me up is that he didn’t ask us to eat,” grumbled Al Bass. “Our cook quit last night and one of the boys had to rustle grub this morning. We fed light.”

Slim could sympathize with Al, for even though he had enjoyed one of Lee Wu’s good breakfasts, he was hungry. When they reached the Double O, the Box B riders paused only long enough to water their horses, before pressing on toward the home ranch.

Nels and Joe had decided on night riding and Slim knew that there would be little rest for him until after the dawn of another day. When they returned to the ranch, Joe explained the new plan of action.

“We’re splitting up the range,” he said. “Most of the stuff has been stolen along our north and east line and along the south and east line of the Double O. We’ll load up a chuck wagon at once and start for our north line where we’ll make camp. Get a move on, boys, and help Lee Wu get ready. The Double O’s lost their cook and Lee’s got to cook for both outfits.”

It was just before sunset when a team was hitched to the chuck wagon and Wu, his shotgun over his knees, cracked the whip, yelled a wild Chinese chant, and the team leaped away to the accompaniment of many crashing pots and pans.

Walt Kelly, in spite of his protests, was left at the ranch to guard the boss and to feed and care for him while the others trailed out behind the fast-wheeling Wu.

It was deep twilight when they reached the site which had been selected for the camp. There was a good spring and plenty of timber. The Double O boys were waiting and they greeted Wu with wild shouts of joy for the Chinaman’s reputation as a cook was known the length and breadth of the valley.

It was well after dark before supper was ready and they fell to with ravenous appetites. The Double O riders were loud in their praises of Wu’s cooking and the grinning Chinaman served them again and again until he finally spread his hands and said, “All gone, too much hungry.”

They grinned and leaned back on the ground, waiting for orders from Nels and Joe. Slim looked them over. In addition to the Double O boss and Al Bass, there were five riders from that ranch. All of them were clean, capable-appearing fellows. In the Box B contingent were Joe, Doug, Pat Beals, Chuck and himself. With Wu to guard the camp, that meant twelve riders were available for riding the range.

Nels, by virtue of his years, took command and assigned each rider to his night’s work. Three shots, fired in rapid succession, were to be the signal that trouble was ahead.

“This is a finish fight,” Nels warned them. “The word’s gone out that we mean business. Shoot first and ask questions afterward.”

The riders scattered to their horses and a few minutes later were stringing along the east range of the Double O and the Box B. East of them lay the Diamond Dot. Slim and Chuck rode south together. They were to patrol near the trail which led from the Box B to Dirty Water.

“Think we’ll get anything by this night riding?” asked Chuck.

“We may not get anything, but neither will the rustlers,” replied Slim. “I’ve got a hunch that the key to the whole mystery is somewhere around the Diamond Dot. I saw Hal Titzell there this afternoon. He was watching us from a second story window.”

“You mean that the Diamond Dot is rustling the stuff from the Double O and the Box B and then Titzell steps in and buys the cattle?” asked Chuck.

“It might be something like that,” admitted Slim, “but I’m not going to advance too many theories. We’ve got to be careful they don’t spot us as cattle detectives.”

They parted near the trail to Dirty Water, Chuck riding further south along the east line of the Box B.

Midnight passed, and up and down the long line of riders there was nothing reported out of the way. Pat Beals was on one side of Slim and Chuck on the other. He contacted them at intervals and they talked briefly before starting the return ride down their section of the line. It was lonely work, riding the range at night, with the feeling that rustlers might be encountered at any minute. Slim fingered the six gun at his side and made sure that it was free in the holster. Then he slipped his rifle in and out of the scabbard to satisfy himself that it was ready for instant action.

The thin moonlight faded and the night became doubly black. Another hour and the sky over the Cajons would brighten, but in the interval before that Slim had the feeling that many things might happen.

He was riding north when trouble started. Behind him and from Chuck’s section of the range came three shots, one after another. Slim wheeled and listened. There was a sharp, terrible fusillade. Then silence.

Whipping his own gun from his holster he fired three times in the air and urged Lightning into a mad gallop. From behind him he could hear the alarm signal echoing up the line as other riders repeated the warning shots and he knew that they were pounding along in his wake. The rustlers were riding somewhere before him and he knew they had already silenced Chuck’s guns. With black anger in his heart, he leaned over Lightning and urged the great sorrel to even greater speed.

Chapter Eighteen

On A New Trail

Slim and Lightning sped through the darkness at a mad, headlong pace that fairly devoured distance. They passed the end of Slim’s patrol and entered Chuck’s territory.

Slim pulled the sorrel up short and listened. From far behind him came the pounding of hoofs, the other Box B and Double O riders coming to the alarm but ahead of him there was only a dismal silence. The sound of gun shots had long since died away and Slim progressed more slowly.

There was a chance that he might walk into a trap, but an even greater chance that if he hurried he might pass Chuck in the dark.

It was nerve wracking to hold Lightning down to a walk, but Slim kept up the steady pace as the sound of the riders behind him came nearer.

Pat Beals was the first to catch him.

“What’s happened?” he shouted.

“I don’t know,” replied Slim. “I heard Chuck give the alarm and then there was a volley of shots. I haven’t heard a thing since then and haven’t been able to find Chuck.”

Other riders joined them and they spread out to hunt for the missing cowboy. The sky was graying before they found the first clue. Joe Haines stumbled on the trail. His gun blazed three quick shots into the sky and they rallied to him at a gallop.

Joe pointed to a broad trail before him.

“There goes one of our choice bunches of beef,” he said bitterly. “That means Chuck stumbled on the rustlers on our range.”

“Comb this section again,” roared Nels angrily. “Maybe they left Chuck wounded some place just out of our sight. Get him first, then the cattle.”

Again the riders, grimly silent, spread out and through the early hours of the morning they rode in search of the missing Box B puncher. It was mid forenoon before they gathered around the chuck wagon, weary and hungry from the all-night vigil and the search.

Squatting on their heels, with pans of piping hot food before them, they listened as Joe Haines outlined the next step in their campaign against the rustlers.

“It’s pretty evident that the rustlers captured Chuck and forced him to go with them,” he said. “The thing to do now is to go after the cattle. The trail’s fresh and even though they’ve a few hours start, we’ll be able to overtake them.”

“That trail’s heading for the Diamond Dot,” said Nels harshly.

“I know it. Look to your guns, boys. There’ll be trouble before the day’s over. If any of you want to pull out now, that’s all right with us.”

No man moved as though to leave and after the hearty breakfast, each one examined his guns.

With Nels and Joe in the lead, they swung into their saddles. It was an earnest, silent group of riders that trotted south along the Box B line to pick up the trail of the missing cattle. They found the trail and turned east into Diamond Dot territory, with the rugged foothills of the Cajons only a few miles ahead of them.

Al Bass leaned over and spoke to Slim.

“Once the rustlers get the cattle to the Cajons, it will be tough finding them. They’ll break up the herd and we’ll have to comb every valley.”

Slim nodded and gave voice to his thoughts.

“Aren’t we likely to run into the Diamond Dot, going through their range this way?”

“I’m kind of hoping we will,” shot back Al. “My own hunch is that the Diamond Dot is in thick with the rustlers. If they aren’t actually doing the rustling, they know who it is. Why, the Box B or the Double O would never let rustlers drive a herd across their range.”

It was shortly after noon and they were well into the Diamond Dot country when Slim, who was now in the lead, sighted a cloud of dust coming toward them. A few minutes later a plodding herd of cattle was visible and behind it was ranged a cordon of riders.

The Box B and Double O punchers paused to survey the scene. Then Joe exploded.

“What nerve!” he roared. “Those are Box B cattle and that’s a Diamond Dot gang riding behind them.”

His hands flashed to his side and his gun leaped up, ready for instant action, but Nels reached out a huge hand and restrained him.

“Wait a minute, Joe. They’re driving the cattle toward your range. Hold your temper and we’ll see what’s up.”

A lone rider broke away from the group behind the cattle and galloped toward the visitors. Slim recognized the powerful, squat figure of Hack Cook, owner of the Diamond Dot.

Cook pulled up sharp and his horse reared as he jerked savagely on the bit.

“What’s the idea of invading my range?” asked Cook angrily, his heavy face flushing.

“What’s the idea of driving our cattle around on your range?” countered Joe.

“We’re bringing them home. Found them here a couple of hours ago and started back with them. I don’t want those scrubs eating up my grass.”

“So you found them?” drawled Nels, his light blue eyes little more than slits under his shaggy brows. “Well, mister, let me tell you, those cattle were rustled last night off the Box B’s east line and one of their riders is missing. Someone’s going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

“I’m not explaining anything,” replied Cook. “We found the cattle this morning. Go get ’em and take them home.”

“Your horse looks about worn out, Hack,” put in Joe. “Must have been doing a lot of night riding.”

“We don’t ride our range at night,” replied the Diamond Dot boss.

“Well, anyway, your horse is about worn out. Better get another or this nag may collapse and you’d have to walk home, which would be just too bad.”

Cook growled something under his breath, but wheeled and galloped back to join his own riders. They soon drew away from the Box B cattle, heading back for their ranch house.

The Box B and Double O riders circled the herd and started it again on the journey back to the home range.

Joe scanned the cattle with practiced eye.

“Holy mackerel,” he exclaimed. “We’ve been gyped right. There should be at least 250 head in this bunch and I can’t count more than 185 or 188.”

Slim and Nels checked the number in the herd. Joe was right. At most there were not more than 190 in the herd.

“Which means the rustlers skimmed the cream of the herd and turned the rest back. It would be too easy to trail a bunch this size. Also, turning them back allays our suspicions,” said Joe.

“Darned if I don’t think it was the Diamond Dot that rustled the stuff last night, took what they wanted, and started back with the rest when they figured we’d be on the trail,” said Al Bass.

“I think you’re right,” agreed Slim. “I want to know what’s happened to Chuck.”

Nels looked at the Cajons with a critical eye. “I expect the answer’s some place in the mountains, but it would take weeks to comb them and we can’t leave our own range unprotected that long. We’ll just have to play along and hope that we can get the rustlers and find your friend at the same time.”

But Slim was sick at heart for he knew what had happened to the other cattle detectives sent into the Creeping Shadows country. They had disappeared, never to be heard from again and he was afraid that a similar fate had befallen Chuck.

They herded the cattle back to the Box B range and then Slim drew Joe to one side.

“I’m riding alone for a while,” he said. “If I get the breaks, I’ll turn up some valuable clues on the rustlers and also find Chuck.”

“Good luck, boy,” said Joe.

Slim turned away from the other riders and headed straight back into the Diamond Dot range. There was at least three hours of daylight left and he soon reached the place where they had met the Diamond Dot riders. Slim pressed on along the trail of the cattle, following it into the first of the Cajon foothills.

There he saw that the cattle, driven at a hard pace after being taken from the Box B range, had been watered and the bulk of the herd turned back toward their home range. It was evident that the rest of the cattle had been driven in small groups into the foothills. This, in itself, did not interest Slim greatly, for he had been convinced of what had happened. He was seeking a clue that would lead him to the hideout where he hoped he would find Chuck.

Half a dozen trails led away from the water hole and Slim finally decided on one which led toward the heart of the Cajons. It was sound reasoning that the hideout of the rustlers would be in some mountain fastness.

Slim followed the trail cautiously, wary lest he ride into a trap. The trail branched in several places, but Slim pressed deeper into the mountain country, climbing higher and higher.

The trail was well worn and he knew that it had been used recently so he kept on. To his surprise, it followed a low pass through the mountains and it was mid evening when he reached the summit.

Behind him spread the Creeping Shadows country while to the east and north the moon was coming over the horizon. Far away he saw the flash of a locomotive headlight and he determined on a new course of action. Undoubtedly this trail, unknown to anyone on the Box B or the Double O as far as he knew, led down to the railroad, perhaps even to Mopstick, the shipping point for cattle from the Creeping Shadows country.

Chapter Nineteen

More Clues

Slim rode for another hour and then, with the moonlight bright, found a suitable camping place away from the trail. He tethered Lightning and unrolled his own blanket. In spite of his worry over Chuck’s disappearance, he was soon asleep, worn out by the previous night ride and the long day in the saddle.

He was up with the dawn and a few minutes later, astride Lightning, was going down the trail. It was nearly mid morning when he reached the railroad and turned to his left to follow the line to the cattle shipping point.

A locomotive hooted a few minutes later and Slim moved away from the track as a transcontinental limited roared by. Passengers on the rear platform waved to the lone rider and Slim returned the greeting. Far down the rails he could see the cluster of buildings that was Mopstick, but the limited shot by without stopping.

Mopstick consisted of a water tank, a blistered station, three boxcars which had been set on the ground for the families of the section men, and the stockyards. There was no store.

Slim tied Lightning in the shadow of the water tank where a trough overflowed with cool water. Entering the depot, he found the operator busy copying orders for a freight that was wheezing along in the wake of the limited.

Slim had reached the point where he needed information and needed it in a hurry. When the agent turned around he produced the small badge of authority from the governor and found that it opened, as though by magic, the way to obtain the facts he sought.

“I want to see your records on cattle shipments in the last year,” said Slim.

Without protest, the agent produced the large book with carbons of the bills of lading. The Diamond Dot, the smallest outfit in the north end of the Creeping Shadows, had shipped as many cattle as the Double O and the Box B combined.

“The Diamond Dot is a pretty good customer of this railroad,” said Slim.

“Just about the best we’ve got around here. They’ve been shipping a lot more stuff in the last year than ever before.”

“Ever hear anything about any rustling going on in the Creeping Shadows country?” asked Slim, watching the agent intently.

“Sure. There’s been bad talk for a couple of years, but nothing seems to come of it. Lots of people think the Box B and the Double O are getting ready to grab the Diamond Dot.”

“Who says so?”

“Why I’ve heard Hack Cook of the Diamond Dot tell how the big outfits were trying to run over him.”

“Then doesn’t it seem kinda queer that Cook’s shipping as many cattle as the other two combined?”

“I asked him about that once,” replied the railroad man, “and he said he was cleaning out his range so if they chased him out he wouldn’t lose so much.”

Slim grunted. It was an explanation, but a pretty thin one. He went out to the yards. They had not been used for some weeks, but he recalled that the last bill of lading had been dated only the week before. He turned back to the station.

“Your last bill of lading was dated only a week ago,” he told the agent, “but those yards haven’t been used for at least a month. Something funny’s going on around here. You’d better talk and talk fast.”

“I didn’t say the cattle had been shipped from here,” replied the agent. “You didn’t ask me where they were shipped from. Just keep your temper and I’ll tell you.”

The freight whistled in, stopping only long enough for water and orders, and then clanked out again. When he had reported the passage of the freight, the agent turned to Slim.

“Cook drives his cattle through a low pass in the Cajons and hits the main line about fifteen miles below here. In order to save time we load direct on a way freight, using a portable chute.”

“Then Cook lets you know a couple of days in advance so you can have the chute on the way freight?”

“Sure. I have to see that the freight’s carrying enough empty cattle cars to take care of his stuff. He’s shipping two cars out tomorrow night.”

“You’re certain about that?”

The agent handed Slim a copy of an order he had sent the dispatcher, asking for two empty cattle cars in the way freight the next night.

Slim tossed the order back.

“Keep your mouth shut about my visit. If a word leaks out that I’ve been here, I’ll know who’s to blame and I’ll see that you get in plenty of trouble.”

He hurried out of the station, his mind buzzing with plans. Cook was shipping cattle the next night fifteen miles down the line. It was time for action. There wasn’t a minute to lose. Hours of hard riding faced him, but he felt that within the next two days the mystery of the rustling in the Creeping Shadows country would be solved.

Chapter Twenty

The Cloudburst

It was on the ride back to the line camp of the Double O and the Box B that Lightning showed her magnificent stamina. Mile after mile the big sorrel covered at a trail-eating lope.

Slim didn’t dare return to the Creeping Shadows country through the low pass. Instead, he rode miles out of his way and came in further north, cutting across a corner of the Diamond Dot range and then racing along the east line of the Double O.

It was late afternoon when threatening clouds rolled out of the Three Soldiers in the west. The air grew still and moist. Nature seemed to hush as the angry clouds climbed higher. The sun was blotted out. It was one of those quick, terrible storms of midsummer and Slim looked for shelter. There was none. He could only ride, hoping that the rain would not come down too hard.

The first big drops pelted him. Then the skies opened, a gray wall of water rushing down from the heavens. In spite of the poncho, Slim was soon soaked and the water rushed off Lightning’s flanks in torrents. Heads down, horse and rider plodded on.

It was impossible to see more than a few hundred feet, but Slim knew he was in a valley. That was bad. The rain was of almost cloudburst proportions and a wall of water might come sweeping along at any moment.

Slim urged Lightning to a faster pace, and the faithful sorrel responded. The cowboy looked for higher ground, but instead they seemed to be going down a gentle slope. Then they looked down on what had been a dry wash. It was running several feet deep with water and rising all the time. On the other side lay higher ground and as Slim debated what to do, the dull rumble of oncoming water could be heard above the noise of the storm.

If he turned back, it might be hours before he could cross the stream. He leaned over and spoke to Lightning. “Let’s go,” he urged her and the sorrel started down the bank. Slim almost held his breath as the water swirled about them. Lightning walked carefully, for a slip would send them both into the torrent.

The sound of the oncoming water filled the heavens with its terrible roar and Slim looked upstream. Around a bend poured a wall of water, black, raging, death-dealing.

Lightning’s hoofs touched the other bank and with a great leap the sorrel left the water. But danger still lurked for horse and rider. The wall of water was spreading out. They were far from safety.

As though sensing that death was riding hard behind them, Lightning shot ahead, mud flying from her hoofs. In great leaps the sorrel kept ahead of the madly rushing waters, angling always toward the higher ground.

Slim looked behind. The water was gaining. He urged Lightning to another burst of speed and the great horse responded. It didn’t seem possible that they would escape, but with a last noble effort, Lightning flashed over the muddy ground and they reached safety just as the flood waters swept by.

Slim pulled up his horse and watched the torrent roar down the valley. Gratefully he leaned over and stoked Lightning’s head.

“That’s another score in your favor, girl,” he said. “Maybe I’ll be able to repay you some day.”

Almost as suddenly as it had descended the storm broke and the sky cleared. The sun went down behind the Three Soldiers in a crimson aura of light and Slim and Lightning pressed on over ground that had hardly been dampened by the rain. They reached the line camp just at dusk and found the Double O and Box B riders getting ready for the night patrol. Slim swung out of the saddle as Joe and Nels hurried toward him.

“What luck?” asked Joe.

“Plenty,” replied Slim, “but first I’ve got to take care of Lightning and then get a little grub for myself. I’m starved.”

Half an hour later, with a plate of steaming food before him and the Double O and Box B riders grouped around, he related the events of the last few hours.

“I’ve suspected Hack Cook for some time,” said Joe Haines, hitching his gun belt higher when Slim told them that another shipment of stolen cattle was to be dispatched the next night.

“They’ve shipped the last of _our_ cattle,” rumbled Nels, his hands shaking with rage. The other cowboys backed up his remarks with determined expressions.

“What’s the plan of action?” Joe asked Slim, for the young rider, by his resourcefulness, had become the acknowledged leader now in planning the campaign against the rustlers.

“I think we’d better hit the trail for Mopstick. Then swing south along the railroad and lay a trap for the rustlers. They’ll drive the cattle through the low pass in the Cajons and we’ll catch them red-handed. That will give us all of the evidence we’ll need.”

Nels nodded his approval and Joe looked around at the others.

“You boys all set for a clash with the rustlers?” he asked.

“You know it,” replied Al Bass.

Less than an hour later, the Box B and the Double O cowboys left the line camp, Slim taking the lead and Nels and Joe trailing close behind. At the pace they planned to travel, it would be an all night ride to Mopstick, where they would water their horses, rest, and then ride leisurely down the railroad and lay their trap for the rustlers.

They crossed the country where Slim had almost been trapped by the cloudburst and found the stream nearly back to normal. Hour after hour they moved along the trail, cutting through the foothills and then over the Cajons and down the other side.

Slim was thinking of the action that would come the next night, considering first one plan and then another for cornering the rustlers. He didn’t want bloodshed if it could be avoided. If things went well, the rustling in the Creeping Shadows country would be broken soon.

It was nearly dawn when they reached Mopstick, where they watered their horses at the trough under the railroad tank. A fast mail thundered through the hamlet, and Al Bass was taken for a ride by his cayuse, which went wild at the sound of the locomotive whistle.