Stetson low over his forehead, and cast a wistful glance at the rumpled, warm bed before following Wes downstairs.
Pandemonium was in full swing in the saloon. Most of the ranchers had come directly from their beds and showed it. They may have lacked some of the lesser necessities of sartorial equipment, but none of them had forgotten guns. Rifles were in evidence everywhere, across laps, leaning against chairs, under arms, and on the bar top, while the conventional six-gun was prominent on every leg. When Masters entered the room with his deputy, the furor swelled into a demanding, snarling tirade that roared and rumbled like a major waterfall of hoarse anger.
Jack shook his head slowly and held up his hand. “Dammit, one at a time, boys. Now, then, when do you figger it happened?”
Cal Prouty and his brother were sitting at a vacated poker table. He frowned darkly. “No tellin’, Jack… sometime last night is about all we know. The night hawk was knocked over the head. He’s over at Everhart’s place, still unconscious. The relief guards found him and set up the alarm. We tried trackin’ ’em, but, when they got to the river, we had to drop it. Too dark.” He got up suddenly and draped his stubby carbine over his arm. “It’s light enough now, though. Come on, we’ll show you where we last seen the sign.”
The night was begrudgingly giving way before the advance of the new day. Stars were flickering out, one by one, and the cold air was bracing in a man’s lungs. There were at least a dozen in the bitter-faced clutch of cowmen that picked up the trail of the rustled cattle a mile this side of the Modoc. The trail was about eighty feet wide and easily discernible by the churned-up, blotched earth. Now and then the men found a horse hoof imprint. None of the hoof marks found, however, was made by a shod horse; apparently all of the rustlers rode barefoot horses. The trail went over the flat land in a straight line for the riverbank. Brush—waist high—was crushed to rubble in the dust. The men rode down a gentle slope and stopped at the riverbank. Several of them looked at Masters. He stared at the cold, uninviting water and made a wry face.
“Let’s go to the ferry an’ cross over there. Won’t be wastin’ much time, an’ there’s likely to be a lot of ridin’ yet to come that none of us’ll want to do wringin’ wet.”
The ranchers were of a like mind and rode the spongy riverbank downstream until they came to the still buildings of Cobb’s Ferry. The noise of many horsemen was clear and sinister in the cold morning. Someone peeked out of the cabin, and Bud Prouty rode in close with his swarthy brother beside him.
“Come on out of there an’ get that ferry unhitched. We want to get across that river.”
There was no answer, and Masters, sensing the antagonism in the Prouty boys, kneed his horse up close to them. “Probably no one’s in there.”
The taller Prouty boy swore and dismounted. “Yes there is. We seen the door open a crack.” He was up to the door when he finished speaking. Jerking his .45, he lunged out and swung a violent kick at the door. It flew inward with a
Jack led the posse men who stormed up, red-eyed and lusting for blood. It was over as quickly as it had started. Bud Prouty came out of the house, ashenfaced and numb. He holstered his gun and knelt by his brother.
Jack Masters put a strong, gentle hand on his shoulder and the boy raised his eyes in disbelief. “Through the heart, Bud.”
Someone was cursing as he dragged a limp body out of the adobe. Jack arose and went over to look at it. He nodded to the crowd of grim men. “It’s one of the hardcase Tollivers that wasn’t goin’ to let me arrest Link yesterday.”
One old rancher, who seemed rather exultant, kicked the body with a pointed-toed boot. His spur tinkled a knell in the quiet. “Well, he’s one o’ the scum that won’t play hardcase no more. Four slugs in his mangy carcass. The last one right atween the eyes.” He spat contemptuously on the warped planks beside the body and turned away.
The ranchers loaded themselves and their horses on the larger of the two wormy-hulled ferryboats and pulled silently for the other side while Bud Prouty had two of the younger hands strike out in a sad little procession for the Pothook with the burden of the dead cowboy athwart his led saddle horse.
“Let’s go boys.” Masters unloaded his horse, swung aboard, and headed back along the far bank for the spot where the stolen beef had been made to swim across. Once on the wide, rambling trail again, the cowmen swung into a mile-eating lope. Jack sent three of the younger cowmen, including Bud Prouty, on ahead to search for the herd. The sun was warming up the chilly air and the pristine light bathed the cold land in a blanket of fresh clearness. The trail was wider for a while, where the rustlers had allowed the critters to spread out over the grassy plain. Jack rode along silently. He alternated between scanning the broad distances and studying the unshod hoof marks. One of the outriders he had sent ahead came back driving two footsore steers before him.
“Brung these back to show you. They’s eleven more in that skunk-brush thicket up yonder. Reckon they didn’t want to bother with a few weary ones.”
One rancher swore and pointed to the brand on the right rib of the critters. “Mine, by golly, Diamond E on ’em.” He looked them over speculatively, noticed the slight shrink, and shrugged. “All right, leave ’em here. We’ll pick ’em up on the way back.”
The cavalcade moved on again. They rode for another hour before the distant sound of gunfire came riding down the still air to them.
Jack Masters held up a gloved fist and they came to an abrupt stop. “Two quick shots. Fan out boys, they must be up ahead.”
The cowmen spurred into a run, brandishing their rifles in savage anticipation. Jack looked up and down the rough line of hard-riding cowmen that strung out over the plain and felt pride in their co-operation and courage. Suddenly, up ahead, he could see the milling herd of cattle, their red backs glistening under the sun, and then they were up to the herd. Bud Prouty rode a stiff-legged trot down to meet them. Jack set his horse as Bud came in close. “Ain’t nobody here, Jack.”
“The hell.” Jack’s eyes raked over the herd where it stood bunched up, heads down and weary. He scanned the surrounding plain in every direction and saw only a few straggling beeves but no riders. “D’ya see ’em, Bud?”
“Nary a sign. When we got up to the critters, they were standin’ here like you see ’em. Wore out from bein’ pushed half the night, but without no rustlers anywhere in sight.” He wagged his head in perplexity. “Can’t figger it at all.”
Masters started in the saddle and ripped out an oath. He swung, wide-eyed, to Wes Flourney who was watching him with a puzzled look on his face. “A trap, boys, pure an’ simple.”
One of the ranchers was sliding his carbine back into the saddle boot as he spoke. “What in hell d’ya mean, a trap?” He rammed the butt down hard and swung his hand over the herd. “We got the critters back, ain’t we?”
“Yeah,” another cowman growled. “Not only got ’em back, but they’re halfway to the shippin’ pens at Rawlins. We might just as well take them the rest o’ the way.”
Jack was staring broodingly back over the trail they had just traveled. “Those men had no intention of stealin’ your cattle. They just wanted to draw all of us away from Mendocino.”
“What the hell for?”
“So’s they could ride back an’ bust Link Tolliver out of jail, that’s what for.”
Wes Flourney swore bitterly. “What a bunch of fools we are.” His face mirrored complete disgust. “I’ll bet they left that one
