Range Ghost (3 page)

The sheriff shook his head. “Not a darn one I can really call a suspect,” he admitted. “That’s the worst of it. When you were here before and chasin’ your Veck Sosna, you at least knew who to look for.”

“Yes, that was an advantage,” Slade agreed. “Well, we’ll see what we shall see.”

“And meanwhile, keep your eyes skun and watch your step,” cautioned the sheriff. “Mighty apt to be certain hellions around who don’t care much for you, and the word El Halcon is in town will get around mighty fast.”

“I’ll be careful,” Slade promised carelessly.

Carter stuffed tobacco into his pipe, Slade rolled a cigarette and they sat smoking in silence, each busy with his own thoughts.

Abruptly, Slade raised his head in an attitude of listening. His unusually keen ears had caught a sound, a tiny metallic sound that seemed to come from the front door, as if a cautious hand had touched the knob. Another moment and he heard another sound, equally tiny but different, a faint wooden creaking—such a sound as would be made by a foot pressing a slightly loose floor board. Seemed almost as if someone had approached the door, then stealthily retreated.

Instantly “El Halcon,” sensitive to anything out of the ordinary or not immediately explainable, was in the ascendancy. Slade listened a moment more, then noiselessly rose to his feet, motioning the sheriff to stay where he was. Gliding across the room, he seized the door knob and by almost imperceptible
degrees turned it. Standing well to one side, with a quick jerk he flung the door wide open.

There was a booming explosion. Buckshot screeched through the opening and splattered the far wall.

Slade went backward in a cat-like leap, a gun in each hand, his eyes fixed on the open door, through which drifted smoke rings. Nothing happened. He cast a swift look out the door; there was nobody in sight. Gliding forward again, he glanced up and down the street. Still nobody in sight; but there was a corner only a few yards distant. He holstered his guns and stepped out the door onto the porch.

The sheriff was raving profanity. “What the blankety-blank blue blazes!” he stormed.

“Looks like you were right when you said the word El Halcon is in town would get around fast. Take a look,” Slade replied.

Sheriff Carter, gripping his gun butt, glared at the contraption roped to one of the porch posts, a sawed-off shotgun, its double muzzles trained on the door. He outdid his former efforts at swearing.

“If we’d opened the door to go out, we’d have gotten those blue whistlers dead center!” he bawled.

“Yes, there would have been enough to take care of both of us,” Slade agreed cheerfully as he cut the cords that held the shotgun to the post. From the triggers dangled a broken wire, the far end of which hung from the door knob.

“How in blazes did you catch on?” demanded Carter.

“When the sidewinder looped the wire over the knob he touched the knob and it rattled,” Slade
explained. “Then when he slid off the porch he stepped on a loose board and it creaked. I thought it sounded a little funny and decided a mite of investigation was in order.”

“Thank Pete you did!” growled the sheriff, wiping his moist brow. “The nerve of that hellion, shootin’ up the sheriff’s office!”

“Yes, plenty of savvy, and plenty of cold nerve,” Slade agreed. “Just luck he didn’t get away with it.”

“Luck!” snorted Carter. “I call it something else. Blazes! I got the shakes. Of all the things for anybody to do!”

“Yes, it was a mite original,” Slade agreed. “I very nearly ran into a somewhat similar scheme once, a scattergun set up inside a room, but this is different and most unexpected. You plumb sure Veck Sosna was dead when you buried him? Looks exactly like one of his capers.”

“Well, he sure didn’t climb up the handle of the spade,” replied Carter. “Hope there hasn’t another of his caliber coiled his twine hereabouts, but I’m hanged if it don’t look like there has.”

“Let’s get inside,” Slade suggested. “I see some folks coming up the street; they may have heard the reports and are trying to locate where they came from. Best to keep what happened under our hats—may tend to puzzle the hellions responsible.”

Reentering the office, they closed the door. A moment later they heard the voices of the passers-by, receding into the distance.

“Chances are they’ll figure it was just some cowhands skylarking, which is to be expected on payday night,” Slade said. He passed the shotgun to the sheriff.

“Lock it up,” he directed. “A nice souvenir for you.”

“I can do without such souvenirs,” Carter growled as he slammed the sawed-off in a desk drawer and turned the key. “Might turn out to be evidence of some sort, though.”

“Doubtful, but it might,” Slade conceded. “Well, suppose we drop over to the Trail End; I can stand a cup of coffee about now.”

“And I can stand a coupla dozen snorts,” growled the sheriff. “I still got the shakes. Let’s go!”

When they entered the Trail End, big, burly, and bony Swivel-eye Sanders, the owner, came hurrying foward with hand outstretched.

“Mr. Slade!” he exclaimed. “Heard you were coming in and have been waiting for you. Come along, Mr. Fletcher has saved a couple of chairs at his table for you fellers. Said you should be along soon. I’ll rustle some drinks.”

There was no doubt, Slade thought, but that Swiveleye came rightly by his peculiar nickname. His eyes did seem to swivel in every direction. One eyelid hung continually lower than the other and viewed from a certain angle lent his otherwise rather saturnine face an air of droll and unexpected waggery; he seemed to glower with one eye and leer jocosely with the other. One profile appeared jovial, the other sinister. A sudden full-face and the viewer was bewildered and didn’t know just what conclusion to arrive at. However, he had a well-shaped mouth and a good nose, and Slade knew him to be a square shooter and dependable.

Fletcher, already well fortified, whooped a greeting. “Not much past dark and things are beginning to hop,” he said. “Shoulder? Don’t hurt a bit, thanks to Slade and old Doc. Guess it was shock more than anything else that sorta knocked me out for a spell.
Anyhow, I feel fine now. Here comes Swivel-eye with drinks; that’ll help.”

Sipping his drink, and ordering coffee with which to wash it down, Slade glanced about the Trail End, a typical cow-town saloon only bigger and better appointed than most. There was the usual long bar, a dance floor, roulette wheels, a faro bank, poker tables, and others for diners who preferred leisurely eating to grabbing a snack at the spotlessly clean lunch counter.

Fletcher downed his drink and said, “I’m going over to the bar with the boys for a little while. You sticking around, Slade?”

“Yes, for a while, anyhow,” the Ranger replied. “Later I figure to amble about town for a bit. Want to drop down to the lake and see Thankful Yates at his Washout saloon.”

“That rumhole!” growled the sheriff. “Always something happening thereabouts. Ain’t safe to be alive down there.”

“But interesting,” Slade replied. “I found it quite so the last time I was here.”

“That time you had Jerry Norman, old Keith Norman’s niece with you,” the sheriff pointed out. “As you said, she’s a good luck piece.”

“She sure was that day in the Canadian Valley when the drygulchers jumped us,” Slade said. “If she hadn’t downed the one who was lining sights with me, I wouldn’t be here talking about it.”

“She’s a real gal, all right,” said Carter. “Hope you get to see her this trip.”

“I’m sure going to try to,” Slade replied.

He was destined to, sooner than he expected.

The sheriff went back to the former subject under discussion—

“I can’t get over the nerve of that wind spider, riggin’ up that infernal contraption to the post outside, where anybody passin’ by could see him working at it.”

“Not much traffic on that side street, and it was quite dark,” Slade pointed out. “He worked smooth, all right, didn’t make a sound roping the scattergun to the post. If he hadn’t touched the door knob when he looped the wire over it, he might well have been successful.”

“And if it wasn’t for you having ears like nobody else has, he
would
have gotten by with it,” Carter declared. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Perhaps you weren’t listening close,” Slade smiled. The sheriff snorted, and called for another drink. Slade settled for a cup of coffee. After finishing it, he glanced around the room, which was crowded, noisy, but to all appearances harmless enough, so far.

“Brian,” he said, “I’m going to walk down to the Washout; will be back soon.”

“Okay,” replied Carter. “Only be careful, it’s a rough section.”

“I will,” Slade promised and left the saloon.

The walk to the Washout was uneventful. When he arrived there, Thankful Yates, big, burly, and fiercely mustached as before, spotted him at once and came hurrying with outstretched hand.

“Mr. Slade!” he exclaimed. “Well, well, it’s fine to see you again. Wait just a minute till I tie onto a bottle of my private stock.” He hustled to the back room.

Glancing about, Slade’s attention centered on a group of half a dozen or so cowhands standing at the bar who were regarding him intently. As Yates
departed, one, a hulking fellow with bristling red hair and truculent eyes, detached himself from the group and swaggered toward Slade, pausing a few feet distant and looking him up and down.

“Guess you’re the feller I’m looking for,” he said.

“Yes?” Slade replied, his voice deceptively mild. Thankful Yates, who was approaching with a bottle, made no move to interfere. Only he stared hard at the other cowhands and nodded significantly toward the bar, behind which his head drink juggler stood with a sawed-off shotgun ready for business.

“Yes,” said the redhead. “Guess you’re the feller who shot the boss in the hand, ain’t you?”

“Possibly,” Slade conceded, his voice still mild.

“Guess hitting him in the hand was sorta accident, eh?” said the big fellow.

“I don’t think so,” Slade replied.

“I figure it was,” said the redhead, scowling ferociously. “And I figure you ain’t as good as folks say you are.” He dropped a hand to his gun butt. Thankful Yates chuckled softly. Slade made no move.

“Go ahead and pull it,” he said.

The big fellow tried to—and looked into two rock-steady black muzzles that yawned hungrily toward him. And back of those muzz’es were the terrible eyes of El Halcon!

“Still think it was an accident?” Slade asked softly.

The other gaped and blanched. “I—I—” he began dazedly. A voice interrupted—

“Crowly! What the devil are you trying to do, get yourself killed?”

The speaker was a freckle-faced young fellow sitting at a nearby table, his bandaged right hand resting on the tab’e top.

“I—I figured he was overrated,” Crowly gulped.

“Well, I reckon now you know better,” said the other. “Behave yourself while you’re still in one piece.”

Stifling a grin, Slade holstered his guns with the same blinding speed with which he had drawn them, turned his back on the dazed Crowly and approached the table.

“Sorry I had to do it, Mr. Brent,” he said, glancing at the bandaged hand, “but you didn’t give me much choice.”

“Oh, forget it,” said Brent. “I was wrong, but I thought you were another of those Diamond F hellions. Sit down, won’t you?”

Thankful Yates, making no mention of what for a moment had looked like grim drama in the making but which had quickly deteriorated to a farce, filled glasses with great deliberation, and one for himself.

“Mr. Slade only drinks my private stock,” he observed. He grinned at Crowly. “Guess you’d better have one, too, Pete. You ’pear to need it.”

Crowly, who looked like a man who had just glanced across into eternity and saw it wasn’t far, nodded his bristly head. “I need a dozen,” he mumbled. “Much obliged, Yates.” Brent grinned also and regarded Slade.

“Mighty glad you dropped in when you did,” he said. “We came down here so there’d be less chance of running into the Diamond F bunch; I’m not looking for trouble.”

“They’re up at the Trail End,” Slade replied, sipping his glass. “And I think it would be a good idea for you to come along with me and shake hands with Fletcher.”

“Huh!” gurgled Brent, very nearly choking over his drink. “Do you mean it?”

“I do,” Slade answered. “Fletcher promised me he wouldn’t start trouble with you fellows. He meant it. Yes, I think it would be a good idea for you follows to get together and let bygones be bygones. What do you say? Bring your bunch along with you if you wish to.”

“Well, if you say it’s so, I guess it is,” sighed Brent. “All right, we’ll take a chance, just as soon as we finish our drinks.”

He joined his hands at the bar and began speaking to them. They looked a bit startled, but nodded agreement. Slade turned to Yates.

“I’ll be back,” he said. A few moments later, with Brent on one side and big Crowly on the other, the hands trailing behind, he led the way from the Washout and uptown to the Trail End.

When Slade arrived at Trail End with his slightly apprehensive entourage, there were stares a-plenty. Old John Fletcher gulped and goggled, but when Slade said, “Mr. Fletcher, Mr. Brent would like to shake hands with you and forget the past,” he didn’t hesitate, but thrust out his big paw.

“Okay, Brent,” he said. “Let’s see if we can’t make a go of it from now on. Might as well. There’s no arg’fyin’ with
him!
Just gets you nowhere. Have a drink, all of you.”

When Slade entered the Trail End, sweeping the room with his glance, as usual, he saw a face he instantly recognized. Seated alone at a table was a modishly dressed young lady. She was a rather small girl with great dark eyes, very red lips, and dark hair inclined to curl. Her figure left nothing to be desired.

With a word to Fletcher, Slade strode across to her table. “Jerry!” he exclaimed.

The girl, whose attention appeared fixed on the bar, or its occupants, turned her head.

“Good evening, Mr. Slade,” she said coolly, and turned back toward the bar.

Somewhat taken aback by the casual greeting, Slade stared at her. For a moment he seemed at a loss for words, something quite unusual for El Halcon. He tried a jocular remark—

“Looking for your gentleman friend?”

“Which one?” she asked, without turning her head. Again the normally poised and thoroughly selfsufficient Ranger appeared somewhat off balance. And he experienced a sense of irritation. Or was it wounded vanity? His black brows drew together and he regarded her in silence, with the sense of irritation or whatever the devil it was completely taking over.

“Sorry to have intruded,” he said stiffly, and half turned to go, failing to note the slyly sideways glint of the big eyes.

Suddenly she laughed—a gay, ringing laugh, her little teeth flashing white against the scarlet of her lips.

“Don’t look so put out, my dear,” she said. “I saw your name on the hotel register and just thought I’d have a little fun. Sit down, darling, and don’t mind me.”

“Jerry Norman,” he replied, “you are a devil!”

“Uh-huh, but you used to say I was a nice devil,” she said.

“And I still say it,” he answered, “but you’ve got the sense of humor of an imp!” He sat down
and gazed appreciatively at her elfinly beautiful little heart-shaped face.

“So you did come back!” she voiced the obvious.

“Didn’t I tell you I would?” he countered.

“Yes, but of course I didn’t believe you. Or at least that it would be so soon, with all the stops you must have had to make.”

“Stops?”

“Of course. How are all your women?”

“Women!” He endeavored to look indignantly innocent, and failed signally. Jerry giggled and regarded him with dancing eyes.

“Oh, I don’t mind, too much,” she said. “I think I’d worry more if there were only one; then you might get really interested in her.”

“It’s just possible that I am really interested in only one,” he replied with a meaningful glance.

“Perhaps,” she conceded, her beautiful eyes suddenly slightly wistful, “but remember the last lines of your song—I’ll never forget them—

‘But oh, the wind upon the trail!

And the dust of gypsy feet!’

“As I said once before, the wind and the dust and the gypsy trails—those are the real rivals.”

Walt Slade was silent.

Very quickly she was gay and laughing once more. “Uncle Keith was overjoyed when he saw your name on the register and knew you were in town, and so were the boys, and old Pedro, the cook, of course,” she said.

“I’ll be glad to see all of them, and it’s wonderful to see you again,” he replied.

“Nice of you to say it,” she said. “And are you going to take me down to that lovely place, the Washout, again, and that nice Mr. Yates?”

“I’ve a notion that adjective has never before been applied to the Washout,” he answered. “But Thankful Yates is nice. Yes, I’ll take you, if you really wish to go. Don’t forget, things were a bit rough the last time we were there.”

“And I liked it, even though I was scared stiff for a minute,” she said. “Soon as I saw you were all right, I really enjoyed the excitement.”

“Yes, I think you did,” he replied. “But remember what the sheriff said—flying lead plays no favorites.”

“And perhaps you’ll remember that flying lead doesn’t frighten me to an extent I don’t know what’s the right thing to do,” she countered.

“Yes, I remember,” he admitted soberly. “I’m not likely to forget it.”

“Uncle Keith and the boys will be here after a while,” she said. “They stopped at a place on Filmore Street, where they have some friends. We don’t have to wait for them, though; we’ll see them later.”

Slade glanced toward the bar, where old John Fletcher and Clyde Brent, glasses in hand, were conversing animatedly, the two outfits mingling.

At the moment, Sheriff Carter entered. He stared at the group at the bar and shook his head resignedly.

“So you did it again,” he said accusingly to Slade as he drew up a chair and sat down. “Hello, Jerry. As usual, the young hellion made peace between a couple of outfits on the prod against each other. I don’t know how the devil he does it, but he does.”

“Yes, he always makes everybody do just what he wants them to do,” answered Jerry.

“Perhaps,” Slade put in, “it’s just that I sort of provide them with an opportunity to do what they really wanted to do all along, if they could just dig up an excuse for doing it. Right, Jerry?”

Miss Norman wrinkled her pert nose at him and did not deign to reply.

“I just came up from the Washout,” Carter commented reflectively. “Yates told me what you did to Pete Crowly; sure took him down a peg. He holds his comb pretty high when it comes to handling a gun, and he’s a trouble hunter. Brent usually manages to keep him fairly well in line, but now and then he kicks over the traces, or tries to. Guess he’s still trying to figure out just what happened.”

“How was that?” Jerry asked.

Carter told her, in detail. She shook her curly head and sighed.

“Yes, I guess Pete learned a lesson, too,” she said.

“Uh-huh, and one I figure he won’t forget soon,” said the sheriff. “May do him good to know there’s better men in the world than him.”

“I’ve a notion he’s not a bad fellow, down at the bottom,” Slade observed.

“Maybe so, but if so, it’s way down,” said Carter. “And here comes another one I’ve been keepin’ an eye on.”

The newcomer was a big man, almost as big as Crowly, and had something of the same irascible countenance. His eyes were quick and bright and moving, sweeping the room with their glance. Shouldering his way rather roughly to the bar, he ordered a drink and, Slade thought, continued to survey the room in the backbar mirror.

“Why, it’s Neale Ditmar, our new neighbor on the east,” Jerry said.

“Uh-huh, and I wish he’d stayed a lot farther east,” grumbled Carter. “He’s another trouble hunter or I’m a heap mistook. Ugly customer in a rough-and-tumble, I gather. Had a ruckus with a couple fellers in one of those rumholes down by the lake and cleaned ’em both. One he had on the floor pulled a gun, but Ditmark kicked it outa his hand, busted a couple of fingers, I heard.”

“What was the row about?” Slade asked, mildly curious.

“Oh, over a dance-floor gal, I believe,” replied the sherfiff. “Or some similar sorta trifle.”

“Well! I like that,” said Jerry. “So a woman is just a trifle and not worth fighting for, eh?”

“I didn’t say that,” the sheriff protested. “I meant the ruckus was just a trifle.”

Miss Norman sniffed delicately and crinkled her eyes at Slade.

“Been quite a few changes since you were here last, Walt,” she said. “We’ve got a new neighbor to the west, too. A Mr. Tobar Shaw, a very pleasant person and gentlemanly. He bought the Hartsook place. Calvin Hartsook was murdered by wideloopers about five months back. His daughter was his only heir and she’s married to a bank clerk in Dallas who knows nothing about ranching and, I understand, cares less. So they put the spread up for sale at a low price and Mr. Shaw bought it. It isn’t very big but good grass, and he’s been running in some improved stock, almost as good as ours. I’ve a notion he’ll make a go of it. Appears to favor progressive methods.”

“Yes, Shaw seems to be all right,” put in Carter. “I’ve talked with him a couple of times. A notion you’d like him, Walt. I figure he’s a sorta educated feller.”

Slade nodded without speaking; he was studying Neale Ditmar’s profile and broad back. He experienced a feeling that Mr. Ditmar was a mite out of the ordinary.

Jerry jumped to her feet. “Come on, Walt, take me to the Washout,” she said. “It’s nice here, but too quiet.”

The sheriff wagged disapprovingly. “Everybody to their taste, as the herder said when he kissed the sheep. Hope you don’t get walloped by a thrown bottle or something.”

“I’ll chance it,” Jerry replied cheerfully. “Come on, Walt, Uncle Keith will take care of the check; he’ll feel bad if he isn’t allowed to. Be seeing you, Uncle Brian.

“This is better,” she said, snuggling closer as they turned into a quiet and fairly dark side street, and raising her face.

“And
that’s
a lot better,” she added, a moment later, when her lips were free for speaking. “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to—again.”

The Washout was not quiet, far from it. Jerry’s eyes were sparkling as they made their way to a table near the dance floor, which at the moment happened to be vacant. “There’s Mr. Yates, he’s seen us.”

Old Thankful came hurrying forward, bottles in hand. “Well! well!” he exclaimed. “Miss Norman again; she hasn’t been here since you brought her the last time, Mr. Slade.”

“As I told you before, Uncle Keith won’t take me to the really interesting places,” Jerry replied, extending her little sun-golden hand. “How are you, Mr. Yates? It’s good to see you again.”

“And it’s plumb wonderful to see you again,” Thankful said gallantly. “Here’s your favorite wine.
See, I didn’t forget. And a snort from my private bottle for Mr. Slade before he starts in on coffee.”

He filled glasses to the brim, chuckled, and hurried back to the far end of the bar, where his head drink juggler was making need-of-help motions.

“Even more crowded, busier and noisier than the last time we were here,” Slade remarked. “Quite a few people from uptown, in addition to the cowhands. Well, he runs a square place, and the word gets around.”

“And it seems everybody is in town tonight,” Jerry observed, gazing toward the bar. “There’s our other new neighbor, Mr. Shaw. The tall man with the yellow hair.” Slade regarded him with interest.

Unlike Neale Ditmar, who exuded personality, Tobar Shaw was not a man to catch the eye and hold it. In appearance and dress he differed little from any other fairly well-to-do rancher. He was mildly handsome, Slade thought, with his yellow hair inclined to curl, a broad forehead and deep-set eyes; at that distance, Slade could not ascertain their color. In build he was tall and lean but broad-shouldered.

At that moment, Shaw turned toward the table, nodded genially to Jerry and walked to the far end of the bar, where he engaged Thankful Yates in conversation. Jerry was speaking and Slade forgot all about him.

“Here come Uncle Keith and the boys!” she exclaimed. “Looking for us, I expect. You remember the boys, of course—Joyce Echols and Cale Fenton you kept from being murdered by the Sosna rustlers, and Bolivar, the range boss, and old Pedro, the cook, and the others. Look at them sift sand!”

The XT bunch came plowing through the crowd, whooping joyously at sight of Slade. After a gabble
of conversation and hand-shaking all around, the hands trooped to the bar. Old Keith Norman drew up a chair and ordered drinks for everybody.

“See there’s our new neighbor, Tobar Shaw, talking with Thankful,” he remarked. Catching the rancher’s eye, he waved a cordial greeting, which Shaw returned.

“Guess Jerry told you about him and Neale Ditmar, eh?” Norman went on. “Shaw kept the old Hartsook brand, the Bradded H, but Ditmar changed his and uses a Tumbling D burn. Shaw ’pears to be a nice friendly feller, but Ditmar is sorta uppity. Civil enough, but carries his comb sorta high. Oh, well, we’re getting all kinds. Funny, ain’t it, new folks coming in from every direction, but a lot of the oldtimers are pulling out, like Webb, who sold to Ditmar. Some of ’em say it’s getting too dadblamed crowded hereabouts and are heading for New Mexico and Arizona. Up at Tascosa, they’re leaving like fleas from a singed coyote’s back.”

Norman paused to take a drink, and then resumed, “Others say they just can’t make a go of it against the widelooping we’ve been having during the past few months; it’s bad. The way things are going, it begins to look like that soon there won’t be any real old fellers here ’cept John Fletcher and me—he don’t aim to move come hell and high water, unless he really has to. Saw Fletcher up at the Trail End. He swears you saved his life, and I’ve a notion you did. He won’t forget it. He told me about how you took Pete Crowly down a peg. Like to split my sides laughin’ over that one. Figured to pull against El Halcon, eh? Guess he’ll know better next time. Crowly’s another uppity cuss. I sorta like his boss, young Brent. You sure did a good chore in getting those two outfits together. We
were all scairt real trouble would come from their snappin’ at each other.”

“You have been losing stock, Mr. Norman?” Slade asked.

“Uh-huh, more’n I like to think about,” Norman replied.

“Any notion where they run them?”

Norman shrugged. “Guess there’s only one way they can run ’em, west by way of the Canadian River Valley,” he replied. “But they sure do it slick—nobody’s been able to catch ’em up. Sure no running them across the desert to the south of the Canadian, not over that flattened-out streak of hell with no water; no cows could make it.”

With which Slade was ready to agree.

“Trouble is, it’s just about impossible to track a herd across our range, to the Canadian or anyplace else,” Norman added. “The grass jumps right back up after a hoof has pressed it and don’t leave any mark at all.” He paused for a moment, looking reflective. Slade was again willing to agree with his statement; he recalled what was written by Pedro de Castaneda, Coronado’s scrivener, in his journal of that explorer’s expedition across the Texas Panhandle:

“Who would believe that a thousand horses and five hundred of our cows, and more than five thousand rams and ewes, and more than fifteen hundred friendly Indians and servants, in traveling over these plains, would leave no more trace where they had passed than if nothing had been there—nothing—so that it was necessary to make piles of bones and cow dung now and then, so that the rear guard could follow the army. The grass never failed to come erect after it had been trodden down.”

Which peculiarity worked in favor of the wideloopers; tracking them was almost an impossibility. Old Keith was speaking again.

“Funny thing happened,” he said. “A bunch of stock was run off from around a waterhole with a little crik running out of it. For some reason or other, along that crik for nearly half a mile the grass is sorta sparse, hardly any at all. My boys who were trying to trail the stock swore that the marks of their hoofs and the horses’ irons were plumb plain on that stretch, and that they headed not north to the Canadian, but
south.
That’s what they said, south. I told them they were loco, but Joyce Echols said, ‘All right, come and see for yourself.’ ”