Sheriff on the Spot (12 page)

Pat roused himself from his thoughts to say, “There'll be a station not so far down the road from here, I reckon.”

“'Bout five miles. They got change-stations scattered every ten miles 'tween El Paso an' Denver, they tell me. This'n down the road,” he added casually, “is the one Ezra's gonna have charge of. An' Sam Sloan'll be ridin' the ten miles into Dutch Springs an' back ever' day.”

Pat looked at the rancher sharply to see if his mention of Sam and Ezra carried any knowledge of the part they had played in last night's affair, but he could get no hint from the impassive expression with which Estis met his glance.

Pat said, “Sam ought to make a good Express rider. He don't weigh but a hundred an' twenty soakin' wet.”

“Yeh. Sam'll do good,” Lon agreed.

Pat squatted down and picked up a short piece of stick. A vague idea was beginning to come to him. He thoughtfully formed some brands in the soft ground with the piece of stick. A Lazy J and a Flying T. Then he made a B Bar B, and put wings on both of the B's. Lon Estis watched him with casual interest.

“Some folks in Dutch Springs,” Pat said finally, “have got an idea Sam ain't going to ride the mail today.”

“That so?” Lon looked surprised. “Sam sick?”

“No. It ain't that.” Pat dropped his stick and rolled a cigarette. “Just some things that Sam's said, I reckon. Or done.”

“
That
so?”

Pat nodded. “Would you do me a favor, Lon?”

“You bet. Want me to saddle out a hawse an' ride with you after them robbers?”

Pat shook his head. “I'm takin' care of that myself. You figurin' on going into Dutch Springs any time today?”

“Well, now, I could, I reckon.” Lon rubbed his chin, regarding Pat soberly. “I'm sorta short on tobaccy.”

“If you do ride in,” said Pat carefully, “I wish you'd tell folks you talked with me this mornin'.”

“Shore, I'll do that. Anything else special?”

“Yes. I'm tellin' you flat that Sam Sloan's gonna ride the mail this afternoon. Don't make no mistake about that. An' I'd like mighty well to have that piece of news spread around Dutch Springs good, so ever'one will know it.”

“Sam's gonna ride the mail?” Lon Estis repeated in a tone of perplexity. “Awright, Pat. I'll scatter the word around.”

“Don't say I told you particular to tell it. Just say we were talkin' an' you mentioned something about hearin' he
wouldn't
make that first Express ride, an' how I rose up on my hind legs and said he
would.”
Pat's voice was quietly emphatic.

“I got you, I reckon. What-for you want that told in town?”

Pat looked at him squarely. “Do you trust me to know what I'm doin'?”

“Shore I do.”

“All right. I'd rather you didn't ask no questions. Just tell that where it'll get scattered around town good. In at the Gold Eagle, an' up to the Jewel. Kitty Lane would like mighty well to know it, I reckon.”

Lon grinned broadly. “They do say Sam's got a real case on Kitty.”

Pat grunted a noncommittal “U-m-m.” He got up and stretched. “I better be ridin' if I'm goin' to get that bank money back.”

“You shore you know what you're doin', Pat? Goin' it alone?”

“I'll make out. An' thanks, Lon.” Pat went out the back gate and closed it, mounted his roan and started back at a fast trot along the road leading down to the foot of the steep pass.

11

Pat did a lot of intensive thinking while he rode back to a point where he could turn off the road westward. The fact that Sam and Ezra had not crossed the pass convinced him that they did not expect to be followed by him. They must have heard the posse go past the crossroads in the wrong direction, he reasoned, and felt they were reasonably safe from pursuit.

Thus, they wouldn't have ridden too fast, and probably planned to hole up during the daylight hours and do most of their riding at night, taking it by easy stages to the other pass and over the mountains to the Mexican Border.

They had had practically the entire night to make their first ride. That meant, maybe thirty miles—forty at the most. And Ezra was a mighty big hunk of human flesh for any horse to carry fast or far. Thirty miles would be more like it. Maybe less, if Sam remained dead drunk very long and had to be tied in the saddle.

That meant they couldn't have reached a point more than ten or fifteen miles west of the road by the time sunup caught them. And that would take them just about to the old Windrow range cabin standing high and desolate on the northern slope of the mountain.

Pat nodded with satisfaction when his reasoning took him to that point. The Windrow line cabin was just about it. Sam and Ezra would have thought of it at once, for it afforded an almost perfect stopping point for the dangerous daylight hours. Situated high on the mountain slope, the only way of approach was by the front and it gave down on a clear vista in that direction for almost two miles. There was a mountain spring just behind the cabin, and plenty of feed for their horses. There was always a supply of canned goods and a stack of firewood inside the cabin for any stray rider who chanced to get caught by darkness in that vicinity; and Sam and Ezra knew that because they, with Pat, had made several overnight stops at the cabin in past years.

Having definitely decided that the Windrow cabin would have been the fugitives' objective, Pat began watching for the first favorable chance to turn off the road in that direction. He knew the point Sam and Ezra would have selected, several miles ahead, but by cutting a little north of due west he could cross their route and save several precious miles.

The descent was quite steep, winding sharply down the heavily wooded mountainside, but when presently it was cut by a shallow valley, Pat turned off the road without hesitation. The valley led almost due west, dropping downward at an easy grade, and flattening out after a few miles into a wide grassy park stretching northward for many miles toward Dutch Springs.

Pat reined his roan down to a slow trot as he started across the open park at an angle. If his calculations were correct, Sam and Ezra would have had to cross this same park to reach the Windrow cabin, coming in from the northeast.

The grass had been grazed to a short stubble by hungry cattle during the past season, giving a rider a fair chance to discern any fresh hoofprints he might come upon.

Pat leaned far forward in the saddle, resting his right forearm on the roan's neck and searching the ground carefully while he held to the slow pace. Luckily, there were no horses pastured here and the only tracks were those left by the cleft hooves of cows.

He had progressed more than a mile across the park when he pulled his roan up with a grunt of satisfaction. He swung out of the saddle and dropped to his knees to examine the print of shod hooves heading southwesterly.

Pat was only a fair trail-reader, but it didn't require any particular ability to read these signs right. Two horses had passed that way within a few hours. Their riders had not been pushing them, and the animals were not badly winded. That's about all Pat could make out of the tracks, but it was plenty.

He took time to roll a cigarette before remounting. The tracks were headed straight in the direction of the Windrow cabin about four miles distant. Pat was as sure he'd find Sam and Ezra as he had been sure last night that Sally would be waiting up for him when he got back from town.

He lit his cigarette and swung back onto the roan, turned him to follow the double set of tracks leading across the park.

He didn't bother to follow the tracks, but rode erect in the saddle with his eyes fixed on the mountainside rising sharply from the edge of the park a couple of miles distant.

The lower portion of the mountain was dotted with juniper and scrub oak. Higher up, above the point where he knew the cabin to be located, were towering pines interspersed with clumps of quaking aspen.

The small cabin was old and weathered, built of stout, logs, and was difficult to make out against the rocky background until one was very close. But Pat knew exactly where to look for it, and as he neared the edge of the park, his keen eyes picked it out.

He stopped his horse to study the little cabin carefully, and a slow grin stretched his mouth wide. A tiny threadlike wisp of vaporish smoke was rising from the chimney of the cabin. That was Sam and Ezra all right. They'd be careful to build the kind of fire that would send up just such a faint wisp of smoke like that. A very hot blaze of small dry sticks, fed carefully one at a time so the blaze remained uniform and very hot, never letting it die away, yet never feeding it more wood at one time than it could consume swiftly and thoroughly.

Pat had a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach as he started his roan up the slope toward the cabin. One of them would certainly be on guard. He knew one of them must be watching him now, must be reporting his presence to the other. One-eyed Ezra with his scarred face and huge frame, or small, wiry, dark-featured Sam Sloan.

Pat could imagine the scene inside the cabin as he rode slowly onward up the exposed slope. The hurried confab, the consternation, and the efforts to identify the lone rider.

How near would they let him come before they betrayed their presence in the cabin? They would be certain, now, that he was no chance rider. If they'd only let him get close enough to shout to them, close enough so they'd see it was Pat Stevens—

He began to breathe a little more freely when he passed the half-way mark. Soon, he'd be close enough for them to recognize him. A little farther—

The sharp crack of a rifle shattered his hopes. A small puff of smoke rose from the north window of the cabin, and a bullet spanged off a rock ten feet in front of Pat.

He pulled his horse up abruptly. Stood in the stirrups and put his hands to his mouth to trumpet up the hillside:

“Sam! Ezra. This is Pat. Pat.”

He waited anxiously but there was no response from the cabin. It was still much too far for them to hear him, to recognize him. But it was plenty close for accurate rifle-shooting by either man. He'd seen them break a deer's back at a mile too often to have any doubts about that.

The first shot had been meant merely as a warning. He knew their natures, knew neither of them had any desire to kill. But he knew, also, that they would be grimly determined to keep him at his distance from the cabin. He had been with them in times of danger too much to hope that they would keep on bluffing. There might be another warning shot; or two or three more, but if he persisted in disregarding those, one of the next shots would be in earnest.

He couldn't draw his own rifle and start shooting back. In the first place, they were well protected by the thick log walls, and he had no desire to shoot it out with them even if the terms were even.

He started his horse forward cautiously.

He began to breathe again after the horse had gone twenty feet and nothing happened.

Then another puff of smoke rose from the tiny window far up on the hill. This time the bullet sang angrily through the air past his head and he instinctively ducked. He stopped his horse again, and the roan turned his head to peer at his rider with mildly speculative eyes. The roan seemed to be asking him, “How much longer are you going to be a damned fool? That man means business.”

Pat tried shouting again, but still it had no effect. No movement showed at the cabin. After the echoes of the shot died away, there was dead silence on the hillside.

Pat slouched back in the saddle and vented his irritation by angry cursing. This was a hell of a note. There were Sam and Ezra in the cabin, and here was he less than a mile away. The situation would have been funny had it not been so deadly serious. He was safe as long as he stayed where he was. But time was passing. The Pony Express mail had to be carried into Dutch Springs before nightfall. And he had sent word that Sam would be riding with it.

If he could only manage somehow to get close enough to yell to them!

He remembered something, and relief surged over him. That would do it! Behind the cabin was a shallow arroyo that carried off the excess water from the spring. Quite narrow and not more than four feet deep, it would afford shelter for a man on foot to approach within easy hailing distance of the cabin.

He wheeled his horse down the slope, and spurred him into a gallop, making a wide circle that was well beyond a mile in radius from the cabin.

He chuckled to himself as he imagined the emotions of Sam and Ezra watching him curiously. They wouldn't know what to make of the maneuver, would be asking themselves whether they had frightened the rider off or whether this was merely some ruse.

When he reached a point almost directly west of the cabin and on only a little lower level, he pulled his horse up and trotted him into a thick growth of cedar on the bank of the arroyo.

Out of sight of the cabin, he dismounted and ground-tied the roan, then cautiously crawled over the bank and down into the gully.

It was a little deeper here than at a point directly behind the cabin, and he was able to stand erect and stay out of the small stream trickling along the bottom for quite a distance without being seen over the bank.

Then it became narrower and shallower at the same time, and to remain concealed he was forced to bend low and splash along the rocky bottom through icy water.

His riding boots weren't waterproof, and the high heels made walking difficult along the slippery, wet rocks. Twice he fell to his knees, throwing his hands forward to break his fall and splashing himself quite thoroughly. He cut his left knee on a sharp rock the second time he fell, and a sharp pain stabbed through the limb as he lurched onward, bent almost double.

He lost all track of distance and time, was afraid to lift his head and look over the bank to get his bearings for fear Sam and Ezra had guessed what he was up to and would send a bullet through his brain before he could shout to them.