Knights of the Range Page 3

  Dobe Cabin had been the home of a settler who had been murdered by Utes. A fine stream of water babbled down out of the pass; the aspens were out in their spring dress of fresh green, every leaf quivering in the still air; white-rumped antelope edged up the slope; wild turkeys were gobbling from a lofty wooded bench. Britt recalled the legend of Paso del Muerte, which concerned the massacre of some Spaniards by Apaches a century and more ago. It might have happened on a beautiful, serene, sunny New Mexico morning such as this. And he had a premonition that those bygone days of the old padres had been tame to those that were still to come.

  Britt heard the bony crack of unshod hoofs on the rocks beyond the grove of aspens. Then gleams of brown and gray and black showed through the leaves. Soon horses appeared slipping leisurely between the slim white tree-trunks. Some splashed into the brook to drink while others trotted out of the grove into the sunlight. The foremost shot up long ears and halted with snorts. Others coming from behind forced them onward. Presently the band, sighting and scenting Britt, sheered to one side, and trooped to the left. Stragglers followed to join the main bunch.

  The foreman climbed up on the high fence and sat on the top pole next to the gate. Shrill whistles from the driven animals would certainly acquaint the raiders that the advance had been halted. Britt counted two score and more of horses that had been selected from the stock by men who knew horses. These were all young, notable for thoroughbred points and the fact that they were unbranded.

  “Cuss the luck!” growled Britt. “Another show-down. Stock we haven’t time to brand is just lost. Thet’s all. If I had twice as many cowboys I couldn’t put an iron on all the colts an’ calves thet belong to us.”

  The horses stopped at the fence, stood head on for a while, and then began to graze toward the slope. Britt saw the riders before they discovered him. There were eight in sight. He rather inclined to the opinion that more were yet to come. Voices came clearly to him.

  “Bill, somethin’ turned the dogies.”

  “Gate closed.”

  “Look thar!”

  “Who’n hell’s thet?”

  After a trenchant pause one of the riders answered: “Thet’s Cap Britt, foreman of the Ripple outfit.”

  Britt recognized that surly voice as belonging to Mugg Dillon, one of his cowboys.

  “Ride ahead—you,” ordered one of the group, sharply. “Take a peek in thet cabin.”

  Dillon rode on out of the aspens and up to the open door of the cabin. Peering in he called gruffly: “Nobody hyar.”

  Then the riders advanced, separating in a manner which told the Texan much; and in this formation they rode to within a hundred paces of the fence. Dillon fell in behind them. Britt’s swift eye took in many significant points. These men were superbly mounted on dark bays and blacks. They were heavily armed. A harder looking gang Britt had not seen on the range. Whatever else they were, they surely were cowmen. Britt needed only a glance to link the lithe, easily poised riders, all evincing the incomparable saddle-seat of cowboys, to the stone-faced, matured type of range-rustler and horse-thief.

  “Hyar, Dillon,” rasped the leader, a swarthy man whose features were vague in the shadow of a wide sombrero. The rider called made haste to get out in front. “Come on an’ introduce me to your boss.”

  “Easy, Bill,” cracked a dry voice from the line. “Thet hombre was a Texas Ranger.”

  Warily the leader urged his horse all of fifty steps toward the fence. Dillon lined up beside him. At this distance Britt gathered from the cowboy’s ashen face that he was in a predicament from which there seemed to be no escape. Britt had never seen this man Bill. He had brawny shoulders and unkempt hair low on his thick neck. The foreman could catch only a gleam of rapacious eyes.

  “Dillon, is this your boss?” he queried, gruffly, without looking at the cowboy.

  “Yes.”

  “Howdy, Britt.”

  “Howdy, yoreself,” rejoined Britt, curtly.

  “Enjoyin’ the scenery roundabout?” went on Bill, sarcastically.

  “Not particular, leastways not in front.”

  “Reckon you shut the gate on us.”

  “Wal, it’s our gate.”

  “You can open it pronto.”

  The foreman vented a short dry laugh, but vouchsafed no other answer.

  “What’s the idee, Britt?” went on the raider.

  “I seen a bunch of our hawses comin’ an’ I didn’t want them to get out.”

  “Your hosses?—How you goin’ to prove thet? They ain’t branded.”

  “Wal, I reckon I cain’t prove it. But my ootfit knows ’em an’ they’ll be comin’ pronto.”

  “Hell you say,” retorted Bill, flashing a plainsman’s gaze across the range. “Only one hossman in sight.”

  “Mugg, where’d you leave Stinger an’ Brazos Keene?” inquired Britt, coldly.

  “Boss, we left Stinger fer dead. An’ the last I seen of Brazos he was ridin’ hell-bent fer leather up the pass,” replied the cowboy, hurriedly.

  Dillon had been the last rider taken on by Britt for the Ripple outfit, and he was an unknown and doubtful quality. Britt knew his status would be defined shortly.

  “Mugg, how come you’re ridin’ with these gents?” drawled the foreman.

  “I—he … boss, I jest had—to,” burst out Dillon, disconnectedly. He was not yet old enough at this game to face death coolly from two sides. Britt knew he was guilty.

  “Bah!” ejaculated the raider, scornfully, and with a back sweep of his gloved left hand he struck Dillon from his saddle. The cowboy fell, and bounded up hatless, a cornered wolf. His horse plunged away dragging the bridle. “Britt, save me the trouble of borin’ the yellow pup.”

  “Mugg, I reckon I wouldn’t bore you for double-crossin’ me,” drawled Britt, ponderingly. “But these air Miss Holly’s hawses—an’ some she puts store in. What air Brazos an’ Jim goin’ to do aboot this deal?”

  “Britt,” interposed the raider, “I don’t mind tellin’ you thet Brazos took a flyin’ shot at Dillon an’ creased him, as you can see if you look close.”

  “Cowboy, fork yore hawse an’ ride,” said Britt, contemptuously, after verifying the raider’s statement. Dillon bent over to pick up his sombrero.

  “Suits me,” said Bill, laconically. “But fust open thet gate.”

  Dillon had no choice but to comply and Britt likewise had no choice but to sit on the fence and take this humiliating procedure. He had himself well in hand, though an unwonted heat boiled beneath his skin. Britt knew his job. His life was worth more to Holly Ripple than that of this insolent raider, and all his men. Nevertheless it galled the Texan to withhold his hand.

  “Thet fellar’s comin’ fast,” spoke up the raider, after Dillon had opened the gate.

  Britt did not turn, but he had an uneasy premonition. Certainly no single rider in his outfit would be bearing swiftly down upon that doubtful group.

  At this Britt wheeled so quickly as nearly to lose his seat on the fence. His sudden dread was verified. Scarcely two hundred paces distant came a black clean-limbed racer with Holly Ripple in the saddle. “Good Gawd!” groaned the foreman, in sudden distraction. Then, cupping his hands round his lips he bellowed stentorianly: “Holly, turn back! Hawse-thieves!”

  She did not hear, however, or did not heed, but came up swiftly, a striking figure on the racer.

  “Britt, you ain’t flatterin’, but I’ll pass it over,” remarked Bill, tersely.

  In what seemed only a moment, and one fraught with acute concern and uncertainty for Britt, the fleet-footed black slowed down and plunged to a gravel-scattering halt at the gate. Britt had seen his young mistress many times to thrilling advantage, but never like this. She had not taken time to don her riding-garb, yet she sat her saddle astride, as the black, silver-mounted chaperejos proved. A thin jacket, buttoned tight, emphasized the slender voluptuousness of her form, as did the red spots in her cheeks the singular creamy whiteness of her beautiful
face. Magnificent eyes, black as the wing of a raven, blazed levelly out upon the men. This was the first direct contact of Don Carlos’ grand-daughter with the riff-raff of the ranges.

  “Whoa, Stonewall. Steady,” she called to the spirited prancing horse, and she raked his flanks with her spurs. “Britt, is it—a raid?” she queried, pantingly.

  “Wal, this gent heah contests our ownership of these hawses,” drawled the foreman, with a mildness he was far from feeling.

  Holly rode inside the fence toward the raider chief.

  “Dillon, close the gate,” she ordered, and the cowboy obeyed with no less alacrity than when he had opened it.

  “I am Holly Ripple.”

  Bill awkwardly doffed his sombrero, exposing a lean head of dark hair streaked with gray, a swarthy face which, but for its curious awe and smile, would have been a seamed bronze cast of evil.

  “Howdy, Lady of Don Carlos’ Rancho. I sure am glad to meet you,” he replied. He appeared dazzled, not by the pride of that little regal head or the imperious contralto voice, but by the ravishing charm of this descendant of the dons.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Bill Heaver, at your service, Miss.”

  “What are you?”

  “I reckon I’m a little of all pertainin’ to the range,” he replied, with a broad grin. He had been momentarily impressed by her fearlessness, but that had passed.

  “Were you driving these horses?”

  “I sure was.”

  “They belong to me.”

  “You can’t prove thet, Lady. Not by unbranded stock on this range.”

  “Yes, I can. At least I can prove I own some of them…. I’ve ridden that roan. I know that bay…. That sorrel is two years old. There’s a scar on his left flank where the cowboys started to brand him and I stopped them…. The pinto there I called Paint-brush. Most of these horses have been in the corrals at the ranch. I know them. I never forget a horse I’ve looked at closely.”

  “Well, Lady, all thet makes no difference. They’re not wearin’ a brand. Thet’s all a hoss-dealer reckons with.”

  Heaver replaced his sombrero, hiding the tell-tale ghoulish eyes. But not before Britt had caught the birth of a hot glint, like a spark. The raider had succumbed to Holly’s allure. It was an old story to Britt, though this man was the first desperado to face Holly with it. Britt’s hand slipped to his gun. If driven far he would kill Heaver, and any other of the band that threatened, and then depend upon intimidating the rest. All of the raiders had ridden up close, to surround the principals in a half circle against the fence. It was here that Britt discovered the presence of two new riders, one of whom, hanging a little back, struck him as somehow remarkable among these conspicuously formidable men. But Britt had only time for a glance, as Heaver was urging his horse toward Holly’s. What was the hardened lout up to? Holly had not sensed any peril in the moment. She had expressed anger at this deliberate theft of her horses, but no other emotion. Britt knew to his sorrow that the girl had never yet felt fear. This situation, however, was deplorable, and might easily lead to a catastrophe. Already it had passed out of Britt’s control. If Heaver grew ugly and answered to the leap of passion, Britt must take a desperate chance, and he grew cold and steely at the certainty of its enaction.

  “So you’re the famous Holly Ripple?” queried Heaver, with a subtle voicing of his change to something intimately personal. Holly caught it, and was reining her horse aside when the raider stretched out a long arm and caught her bridle near the bit. “Hold on, my proud Señorita. Suppose you come in the cabin with me where we can have a little private confab about these hosses.”

  “You insolent ruffian! Let go that bridle.” Holly supplemented her sharp words by lashing down with her quirt. The leather thongs cracked on Heaver’s bare wrist. Cursing, he let go in a hurry.

  “You half-breed wench! I’ll——”

  “Heaver, you fool! Look out for Britt!” interrupted the cool dry voice of the raider’s subordinate.

  “Aw, to hell with him! You watch him, Covell. If he winks, bore him.”

  Before Holly could get out of his reach, the raider seized her arm so fiercely that he almost unseated her. The red spots left her cheeks. Suddenly Holly appeared to realize the actuality of brutal affront, if not real peril. She made no move to wrench free.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded, with incredulous amaze.

  “For two-bits I’d pack you off to the mountains,” he answered, thickly.

  “You—wouldn’t dare!” gasped Holly, shocked out of her poise.

  “The hell I wouldn’t!—But I’ll let you off easy…. With a little lovin’! Thet proud white face will go red from rubbin’ stiff whiskers. Haw! Haw! … Come on. We’re goin’ in the cabin.”

  “No!” she rang out.

  One powerful pull dragged Holly out of her saddle on to Heaver’s hip, but her far foot caught in her stirrup.

  “Britt, stop him!” she cried, struggling frantically. The horses began to plunge.

  In one leap Britt cleared the space between him and Dillon. He snatched the cowboy’s gun from its holster.

  “Open the gate,” he hissed, and with two guns extended low he wheeled to take his only chance. Heaver had hold of the girl and her bridle as well. The black was rearing, and the raider’s horse plunging. Heaver was at a great disadvantage in trying to hold Holly and draw her horse close so he could release her foot from the stirrup. The action of the horses and Holly’s furious struggle to free herself prevented Britt from getting in a shot at the outset of this fracas. He dared not fire for two reasons—fear of hitting Holly, and realization that if he killed Heaver while her foot was caught she would fall and be dragged. Suddenly Holly’s foot came free. The raider swung her clear, evidently oblivious to Britt’s rising gun. But as Britt had three horses between him and Covell he appeared momentarily protected from that quarter.

  “Stop!”

  A piercing command halted Heaver. It even shunted Britt for an instant from his deadly intent. Then from behind Britt and to one side a horse plunged in with screeching iron hoofs that sent sheets of gravel flying. Before he slid to a halt his rider leaped clear and with a single bound confronted Heaver and his men. The rowels of his long spurs kept up a whirling tinkle. This member of Heaver’s band was the striking new-comer whom Britt had glimpsed hanging in the background.

  “Frayne!” expostulated the raider, with a rising inflection of voice that had vast significance for Britt. He knew men. For twenty years he had observed and heard desperate characters of the frontier in meetings that were critical.

  “Let her go,” came the command, in icy staccato notes.

  “Wh-what?” stammered the raider chief, his swarthy face burning dark red.

  “Heaver, you heard me!” Frayne’s lithe form sank perceptibly, but even more significant were the quivering, claw-like hands that lowered as perceptibly over the big blue guns sheathed low on his thighs.

  “My Gawd—Man!—What’s eatin’ you?” yelled Heaver, hoarsely, and his red visage turned a dirty white. He lowered Holly to the ground and dropped her bridle. Hurriedly she snatched it up and dragged the black away out through the gate, where she mounted.

  Heaver leaned forward, shoving his huge sombrero back with nervous hand, showing his hard gray face beaded with sweat.

  “Frayne, you buckin’ me?”

  “What’s the sense of more talk?” queried the other, derisively.

  “But talkin’ is on the cairds,” went on the raider, hoarsely, his voice losing its tremble for a gathering might of rage. “This hyar is the second time you’ve bucked agin me. I’ll allow you had some reason, leastways this time. But I was only tryin’ to scare the gurl.”

  “Liar!”

  “Well, at that I might have hugged an’ kissed her till she swallowed her high an’ mighty talk…. What was it to you, anyway? I’ve seen before you was kinda touchy about wimmen. Holly Ripple sort of got you, huh, the pretty black-eyed
hussy of a half-breed?”

  “Shut up, you dirty foul-mouthed dog! Miss Ripple is a lady, which is something you can’t appreciate. Leave her out of this.”

  “Hellsfire! … Frayne, I’ll allow fer your stand, if you’re so testy over a gurl. But I let her off. An’ you’ll lay off more insultin’ talk—or we’re through.”

  “Heaver, you’re dense. When I called you we were through.”

  “Aha, we air, eh? All right. It’s damn good riddance,” fumed the leader.

  “You’re not rid of me yet.”

  Uncertainty ceased for Heaver. He changed again, not subtly, but with sudden hard realization that the breech was irremediable and something dire hung in the balance. Turning to Covell he cursed him roundly: “—— —— ——! This comes of your takin’ on men of his lone wolf stripe. I told you…. An’ now, —— —— you! Show yellow or come in!”

  Britt wrenched his gaze from the infuriated Heaver to the man who had opposed him so strangely. In a flash then he caught the drift of events. This Frayne loomed as inevitable as destiny. Seasoned as Britt was, he felt galvanized through with the man’s terrible presence. Among hordes of Westerners, desperadoes, outlaws, he would have been recognized then as one of the few. He epitomized the raw wild spirit of the frontier. His lips curled in a snarl, his white teeth gleamed, his eyes were slits of gray fire. All his features combined to express an appalling power. And Britt had seen that power expended by more than one implacable and unquenchable killer.

  “Frayne—I savvy,” choked out the raider chief, in hoarse passion. “But why you forcin’ me?”

  “I don’t trail with your kind,” replied Frayne, deliberately. “You lied, same as you lied on the other deal…. I didn’t like the way you worked on Dillon to make him betray his outfit. We rode out here to steal a bunch of unbranded horses. But that wasn’t enough. When chance threw Miss Ripple in your way, out bristled the dirty dog in you…. You insulted her, pawed her off her horse…. You would have carried her off … leaving your men to fight this Texan. You’d have made your men accomplices in a crime that Westerners never forgive. You’d have put that stigma on me…. Now, Bill Heaver, have I made myself perfectly clear?”