With Hoops of Steel Part 6

"Whoo-oo-oo-ee-ee!"

Spur met with flank and the three horses bounded forward, over the fence of the Mexican's garden, and up the street at a breakneck gallop. They clattered across the _acequia_ bridge and past Delarue's place, where Mead, eagerly sweeping the house with a sidewise glance, had a brief glimpse of a brightly lighted room. Instantly his memory went back, as it had done a thousand times, to that day, more than a year before, when he had stood at the door of that room and had first seen Marguerite Delarue. As they galloped up the street the vision of the room and of the girl came vividly back--the inviting, homelike room, with its easy-chairs, its pictures and shaded lamps, its tables with their tidy litter of papers and fancy work, its pillowed lounges, and deep cus.h.i.+oned window-seats, and the tall, anxious-eyed girl with the sick child in her arms, held close to her breast. Unconsciously he turned his head, possessed for the moment by the vision, and looked back at the dark ma.s.s of the house and trees, lighted by the one gleaming window.

"Think they'll follow us?" asked Tuttle, noticing the movement.

"Who? Oh! No, I guess not."

Beyond the town, in the edge of the rising plain, they drew rein and listened for the sound of pursuing hoof-beats. Facing their horses roundabout, they bent forward, their hands hollowed behind their ears.

Out of the darkness, where it was gemmed by the lights of the town, came the sound of galloping horses.

"They're after us!" cried Nick. "Three of 'em!"

Mead took off his sombrero and as his left hand sent it twirling through the air, a vague, black shape in the darkness, his right drew his revolver from its holster and three quick, sharp explosions flashed through the night. A pressure of his heels, and he was leaning far over from his darting horse and s.n.a.t.c.hing the hat as it barely touched the gray earth. He held it up toward the sky and in the starlight three bullet holes showed dimly through the crown, inside the s.p.a.ce a silver dollar could cover. Ellhorn waved his hat and sent his peculiar "Whoo-oo-ee-e!" back through the darkness toward the town. They listened again and heard the pursuing hors.e.m.e.n clattering over the _acequia_ bridge and into the street through which they had come.

"I reckon we could keep ahead of 'em if we wanted to," said Mead, "but we'll make the pa.s.s, and then if they are still following we'll teach them some manners."

Ellhorn shouted out again his yell of defiance and clicked the trigger of his gun to follow it with a challenging volley of bullets, but Mead stopped him with a cautioning word that they might need all their cartridges.

They spurred their horses forward again and galloped over the rolling foothills, neck to neck and heel to heel. The cool, dry night air streamed into their faces, braced their nerves and filled their hearts with exultation. Behind them they could hear the hoof-beats of their pursuers, now gaining on them and again falling behind. On and on they went, sometimes sending back a defiant yell, but for the most part riding silently. They reached the steep grade leading to the mountain pa.s.s and eased their horses, letting them walk slowly up the incline.

But the others took it at a furious pace, and presently, at the entrance to the pa.s.s, a voice shouted Mead's name and ordered him to halt. Mead, laughing aloud, sent a pistol ball whizzing back through the darkness. Ellhorn and Tuttle followed his example, and their three pursuers discharged a volley in concert. The fugitives put spurs to their horses, and, turning in their saddles, fired rapidly back at the vague, moving shapes they could barely see in the darkness. Ellhorn heard an angry oath and guessed that somebody had been injured. The bullets whistled past their ears, and now and then they heard the dull ping of lead against the rocky walls of the narrow pa.s.s. Their horses had kept their wind through the slow walk up the hill and sprang forward with fresh, willing speed. But the others had been exhausted by the fierce gallop up the steep ascent, and could not hold the pace that Mead and his friends set for them. Slowly the officers fell back, until they were so far in the rear that they ceased shooting. Mead, Tuttle and Ellhorn put away their revolvers and galloped on in silence for some distance before they stopped to listen. Far back in the darkness they could hear the faint footfalls of the three horses.

"They blowed their horses so bad comin' up the hill," said Mead, "that they'll never catch up with us again. I reckon they won't try now.

They'll stay in Muletown to-night and go on to the Fillmore ranch to-morrow."

"If they don't turn round and go back," said Ellhorn. "I don't believe they'll want to try this thing on at the ranch."

"We'll sure be ready for 'em if they show up there," said Tuttle, the grim note of battle in his voice.

Ellhorn laughed joyously. "I guess we're just goin' to everlastingly get even with that Fillmore outfit!"

"Well, it will keep us busy, but we'll do our best," Mead cheerfully a.s.sented.

They galloped down the long eastern declivity of the mountain, stopping once at a miner's camp, a little way off the road, to water and breathe their horses. A little later they stopped to listen again, but they could not catch the faintest sound of hoof-beats from the mountain side. They did not know whether their pursuers had turned about and gone back to Las Plumas, or were taking the road leisurely, intending to stop at Muletown until morning.

On again they galloped, neck to neck and heel to heel, with the starry sky above and the long level of the plain before them. Mead glanced to the north, where the Big Dipper, pivoted on the twinkling pole star, was swinging its mighty course through the blue s.p.a.ces of the sky, and said, "It's about midnight, boys." The dim, faintly gleaming, dusty gray of the road contracted to a lance-like point in front of them and sped onward, seeming to cleave the wall of darkness and open the way through which they galloped. The three tall, broad-shouldered, straight-backed figures sat their horses with constant grace, galloping abreast, neck to neck and heel to heel, without pause or slackened pace. The rhythmical, resounding hoof-beats made exhilarating music for their ears, and now and again Ellhorn's yell went calling across the empty darkness or the sound of Mead's or Tuttle's gun cleft the air. On and on through the night they went, their wiry ponies with ears closely laid and muscles strained in willing compliance, the starry sky above and the long level of the plain behind them.

At Muletown they stopped to water their horses at the br.i.m.m.i.n.g pump-trough in the plaza and, as the thirsty creatures drank, Ellhorn glanced at the swinging starry Dipper in the northern sky again and said, "I reckon it's three o'clock, boys." Then on they went, clattering down the long adobe street, flanked by dim houses, dark and silent; and out into the rising edge of the plain, where it lifted itself into the uplands. The black silence was unbroken now save as a distant coyote filled the night with its yelping bark, or a low word from one or another of the riders told of human presence. On and on they galloped, neck to neck and heel to heel, without pause or slackened pace. At last they swerved to the right and began mounting the low, rolling foothills of the Fernandez mountains. The cold night air, dry and sharp, stung their faces and cooled the sweating flanks of their horses. The creatures' ears were bent forward, as if they recognized their surroundings, and their springing muscles were still strong and willing. Over the hills they galloped, the lance-like point of the road cleaving the black wall in front and the hoof-beats volleying into the silence and darkness behind them.

The gray walls of an adobe house took dim shape in the darkness, and beyond it a ma.s.s of trees, their leaves rustling in the night wind, told of running water. The three men halted and with lowered bridles allowed their horses to drink.

"Is this old Juan Garcia's ranch?" Tuttle asked.

"Yes," Mead replied, "old Juan still lives here. And a very good old fellow he is, too. He isn't any lazier than he has to be, considering he's a Mexican. He keeps his ranch in pretty good order, and he raises all the corn and _chili_ and wheat and _frijoles_ that he needs himself and has some to sell, which is a very good record for a Mexican."

"What's become of his pretty daughter?" asked Ellhorn. "Is she married yet?"

"Amada? She's still here, and she's about the prettiest Mexican girl I ever saw. She's a great belle among all the Mexicans from Muletown to the other side of the Fernandez mountains, and with some of the Americans, too. Will Whittaker used to hang around here a good deal, and Amada seemed to be pretty well stuck on him."

Again the horses sprang to the pace they had kept so gallantly, and on and on their hoofs flew over the low, rolling hills. The riders sat their horses as if they were part and parcel of the beasts, horse and rider with one will and one motion, and all galloping on with rhythmic hoof-beats, neck to neck and heel to heel, without pause or slackened pace, while the cold, dry night wind whistled past their ears and the stars measured their courses through the violet blue of the bending vault above. On they went over the slowly rising hills, and the slender, silver sickle of the old moon shone brightly in the graying east. Soon the mountains ranged themselves against the brightening sky, and as they galloped, on and on, the stars vanished, and from out the black void below the plain emerged, gray-green and grim, spreading itself out, miles and miles into the distance, to the r.i.m.m.i.n.g ma.s.s of mountains in the west. Still the hoof-beats rang out as the sky blushed with the dawn and the cloud-flecks flamed crimson and the peaks of the distant mountain range glittered with the first golden rays.

Neck to neck and heel to heel they galloped on over the faint track of the road, which now they could see, winding over the hills in front of them. The men spoke cheerily to the horses and patted their wet sides, and the spirited beasts still bent willingly to their task. The three riders sat erect, straight-shouldered, graceful in their saddles and the gentle morning breeze bathed their faces as on they rode over the hills, while the sun mounted above the Fernandez range and flooded all the plain with its soft, early light.

They swept around the curving bend in the road, where it half-circled the corrals, and Ellhorn's l.u.s.ty "Whoo-oo-oo-ee-ee" rang out as they drew rein at Mead's door; Las Plumas, the night and ninety miles behind them. Ellhorn's yell brought the cook to the door, coffee-pot in hand, with two _vaqueros_ following close behind. One of these took the horses to the stables and the three friends stood up against the wall in the suns.h.i.+ne, stretching themselves. Mead took out his pocket-knife and began cutting the cactus spines from his swollen hands.

"I'm glad to have a chance to get rid of these things," he said.

"They've been stinging like hornets all night."

CHAPTER VII

Emerson Mead's ranch house was a small, white, flat-roofed adobe building, with cottonwood trees growing all about it, and the water from a spring on the hillside beyond, flowing in a little rill past the kitchen door. Inside, on the whitewashed walls, hung the skins of rattlesnakes, coyotes, wild cats, the feet, head and spread wings of an eagle, and some deer heads and horns. There were also some colored posters and prints from weekly papers. A banjo stood in one corner of the dining room, while guns and revolvers of various kinds and patterns and belts heavy with cartridges hung against the walls or sprawled in corners.

The cook and housekeeper was a stockily built, round-faced Englishman, whom Mead had found stranded in Las Plumas. He had been put off the overland train at that place because the conductor had discovered that he was riding on a scalper's ticket. Mead had taken a liking to the man's jovial manner, and, being in need of a cook, had offered him the place. The Englishman, who said his name was Bill Haney, had accepted it gladly and had since earned his wage twice over by the care he took of the house and by the entertainment he afforded his employer. For he told many tales of his life in many lands, enough, had they all been true, to have filled the years of a Methuselah to overflowing.

Mead did not believe any of his stories, and, indeed, strongly suspected that they were told for the purpose of throwing doubt upon any clue to his past life which he might inadvertently give.

Good-natured and jovial though he was in face and talk and manner, there was a look at times in his small, keen, dark eyes which Mead did not like.

As Haney bustled about getting a fresh breakfast for the three men he said to Mead, "It's mighty lucky you've come 'ome, sir. There's been merry 'ell 'erself between our boys and the Fillmore boys, and they're likely to be killin' each other off at Alamo Springs to-day. They 'ad shots over a maverick yesterday, and the swearin' they've been doin'

'ad enough fire and brimstone in it to swamp 'ell 'erself."

Haney's conversation contained frequent reference to the abode of lost spirits, and always in the feminine gender. Mead asked him once why he always spoke of "h.e.l.l" as "her," and he replied:

"Well, sir, accordin' to my reckonings, 'ell is a woman, or two women, or a thousand of 'em, accordin' as a man 'as made it, and bein' female it 'as to be called 'er."

As the three men mounted fresh horses after a hasty breakfast, Nick Ellhorn said to Mead:

"Emerson, you're in big luck that that confounded thug in the kitchen hasn't cut your throat yet."

"Oh, he won't do anything to me," Mead replied, smiling. "I reckon likely he is a thug, or a crook of some sort, but he won't do me any harm."

"Don't you be too sure, Emerson," said Tuttle, looking concerned.

"It's the first time I've ever seen him, but I don't think I'd like to have him around me on dark nights."

"He is a good cook and he keeps the house as neat and clean as a woman would. He won't try to do anything to me because I'm not big enough game. He knows I never keep money at the ranch, and that I haven't got very much, any way. Besides, he's seen me shoot, and I don't think he wants to run up against my gun."

They were hurrying to Alamo Springs, a watering place which Mead controlled farther up in the Fernandez mountains, where they arrived just in time to stop a pistol fight between the cow-boys of the opposing interests, half-a-dozen on each side, who had quarreled themselves into such anger that they were ready to end the whole matter by mutual annihilation.

Mead found that the round-up had progressed slowly during his absence.

There had been constant quarreling, occasional exchange of shots, and unceasing effort on each side to r.e.t.a.r.d the interests of the other.

The Fillmore Company had routed the cow-boys of the small cattlemen, Mead's included, and for the last two days had prevented them from joining in the round-up. Mead found his neighbors and their and his employees disorganized, angry, and determined on revenge. Accompanied by Tuttle and Ellhorn, he galloped over the hills all that day and the next, visiting the camps on his own range and on the ranges of his neighbors who were leagued with him in the fight against the Fillmore Cattle Company. He smoothed down ruffled tempers, inquired into the justice of claims, gave advice, issued orders, and organized all the interests opposed to the cattle company into a compact, determined body.

After those two days there was a change in the way affairs were going, and the allied cattlemen began to win the disputes which were constantly coming up. There were not many more attempts to prevent the round-up from being carried on in concert, but there was no lessening of the bad temper and the bad words with which the work was done. Each side constantly hara.s.sed and defied the other, and each constantly accused the other of all the cattle-crimes known to the raisers of hoofed beasts. The mavericks were an unfailing source of quarrels.

According to the Law of the Herds, as it is held in the southwest, each cattleman is ent.i.tled to whatever mavericks he finds on his own range, and none may say him nay. But the leagued cattle growers and the Fillmore people struggled valiantly over every unbranded calf they found scurrying over the hillsides. Each side accused the other of driving the mavericks off the ranges on which they belonged, and the _vaqueros_ belonging to each force declared that they recognized as their own every calf which they found, no matter where or on whose range it chanced to be, and they branded it at once with small saddle irons if the other side did not prevent the operation.

Mead was the leader of his side, and, guarded always by his two friends, rode constantly over the ranges, helping in the bunching, cutting-out and branding of the cattle, giving orders, directing the movements of the herds and deciding quarrels. Colonel Whittaker came out from Las Plumas, and was as active in the management of the Fillmore Company's interests as was Emerson Mead for those of his faction. Ellhorn and Tuttle would not allow Mead to go out of their sight. They rode with him every day and at night slept by his side. If he protested that he was in no danger, Ellhorn would reply: