LITMIR.BIZ

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“‘fore he struck off over here. Er else they was held up fer some reason, ‘cause them tracks is fresher a hull lot than what them was that passed the Injun ranch. Musta laid over here las’ night, by the looks. But I figgered that we’d best camp whilst we had water, ‘n’ take up the trail agin at daybreak. Ain’t that about the way you see it, Luck?”

      “Why, certainly,” Luck assured him with as much heartiness as his utter weariness would permit. “Men and horses, we’re about all in. If Ramon was just over the next ridge, I don’t know but it would pay to take our rest before we overhaul them.”

      “They’s grass here, yuh notice,” Applehead pointed out. “I’ll put the bell on Johnny, and if Pink’ll bobble that buckskin that’s allus wantin’ to wander off by hisself, I calc’late we kin settle down an’ rest our bones quite awhile b’fore anybody needs to go on guard. Them ponies ain’t goin’ to stray fur off if they don’t have to, after the groun’ they covered t’day—now I’m tellin’ yuh! They’ll save their steps.”

      There is a superstition about prophesying too boastfully that a certain thing will or will not happen; you will remember that there is also a provision that the rash prophet may avert disaster by knocking wood. Applehead should, if there is any grain of sense in the rite, have knocked wood with his fingers crossed as an extra precaution, against evil fortune.

      For after they had eaten and methodically packed away the food, and while they were lying around the cheerful glow of their little campfire, misfortune stole up out of the darkness unaware. They talked desultorily as tired men will, their alertness dulled by the contented tinkle-tinkle of the little bell strapped around the neck of big, bay Johnny, Applehead’s companion of many a desert wandering. That brilliant constellation which seems to hang just over one’s head in the high altitude of our sagebrush states, held hypnotically the sleepy gaze of Pink, whose duty it was to go on guard when the others turned in for the night. He lay with his locked fingers under his head, staring up at one particularly bright group of stars, and listened to the droning voice of Applehead telling of a trip he had made out into this country five or six years before; and soaking in the peace and the comfort which was all the more precious because he knew that soon he must drag his weary body into the saddle and ride out to stand guard over the horses. Once he half rose, every movement showing his reluctance.

      Whereupon Weary, who sprawled next to him, reached out a languid foot and gave him a poke. “Aw, lay down,” he advised. “They’re all right out there for another hour. Don’t yuh hear the bell?”

      They all listened for a minute. The intermittent tinkle of the cheap little sheep bell came plainly to them from farther down the draw as though Johnny was eating contentedly with his mates, thankful for the leisure and the short, sweet grass that was better than hay. Pink lay back with a sigh of relief, and Luck told him to sleep a little if he wanted to, because everything was all right and he would call him if the horses got to straying too far off.

      Down the draw—where there were no horses feeding—an Indian in dirty overalls and gingham shirt and moccasins, and with his hair bobbed to his collar, stood up and peered toward the vague figures grouped in the fire-glow. He lifted his hand and moved it slightly, so that the bell he was holding tinkled exactly as it had done when it was strapped around Johnny’s neck; Johnny, who was at that moment trailing disgustedly over a ridge half a mile away with his mates, driven by two horsemen who rode very carefully, so as to make no noise.

      The figures settled back reassured, and the Indian grinned sourly and tinkled the little bell painstakingly, with the matchless patience of the Indian. It was an hour before he dimly saw Pink get up from the dying coals and mount his horse. Then, still tinkling the bell as a feeding horse would have made it ring, he moved slowly down the draw; slowly, so that Pink did not at first suspect that the bell sounded farther off than before; slowly yet surely, leading Pink farther and farther in the hope of speedily overtaking the horses that he cursed for their wandering.

      Pink wondered, after a little, what was the matter with the darned things, wandering off like that by themselves, and with no possible excuse that he could see. For some time he was not uneasy; he expected to overtake them within the next five or ten minutes. They would stop to feed, surely, or to look back and listen—in a strange country like this it was against horse-nature that they should wander far away at night unless they were thirsty and on the scent of water. These horses had drunk their fill at the little pool below the spring. They should be feeding now, or they should lie down and sleep, or stand up and sleep—anything but travel like this, deliberately away from camp.

      Pink tried loping, but the ground was too treacherous and his horse too leg-weary to handle its feet properly in the dark. It stumbled several times, so he pulled down again to a fast walk. For a few minutes he did not hear the bell at all, and when he did it was not where he had expected to hear it, but away off to one side. So he had gained nothing save in anger and uneasiness.

      There was no use going back to camp and rousing the boys, for he was now a mile or so away; and they would be afoot, since their custom was to keep but one horse saddled. When he went in to call the next guard he would be expected to bring that man’s horse back with him, and would turn his own loose before he went to sleep. Certainly there was nothing to be gained by rousing the camp.

      He did not suspect the trick being played upon him, though he did wonder if someone was leading the horses away. Still, in that case whoever did it would surely have sense enough to muffle the bell. Besides, it sounded exactly like a horse feeding and moving away at random—which, to those familiar with the sound, can never be mistaken for the tinkle of an animal traveling steadily to some definite point.

      It was an extremely puzzled young man who rode and rode that night in pursuit of that evasive, nagging, altogether maddening tinkle. Always just over the next little rise he would hear it, or down in the next little draw; never close enough for him to discover the trick; never far enough away for him to give up the chase. The stars he had been watching in camp swam through the purple immensity above him and slid behind the skyline. Other stars as brilliant appeared and began their slow, swimming journey. Pink rode, and stopped to listen, and rode on again until it seemed to him that he must be dreaming some terribly realistic nightmare.

      He was sitting on his horse on a lava-crusted ridge, straining bloodshot eyes into the mesa that stretched dimly before him, when dawn came streaking the sky with blood orange and purple and crimson. The stars were quenched in that flood of light; and Pink, looking now with clearer vision, saw that there was no living thing in sight save a coyote trotting home from his night’s hunting. He turned short around and, getting his bearings from his memory of certain stars and from the sun that was peering at him from the top of a bare peak, and from that sense of direction which becomes second nature to a man who had lived long on the range, started for camp with his ill news.

Chapter XIV. One Put Over on the Bunch

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      “Sounds to me,” volunteered the irrepressible Big Medicine after a heavy silence, “like as if you’d gone to sleep on your hawse, Little One, and dreamed that there tinkle-tinkle stuff. By cripes, I’d like to see the bell-hawse that could walk away from ME ‘nless I was asleep an’ dreamin’ about it. Sounds like—”

      “Sounds like Navvy work,” Applehead put in, eyeing the surrounding rim of sun-gilded mesa, where little brown birds fluttered in short, swift flights and chirped with exasperating cheerfulness.

      “If it was anybody, it was Ramon Chavez,” Luck declared with the positiveness of his firm conviction. “By the tracks here, we’re crowding up on him. And no man that’s guilty of a crime, Applehead, is going to ride day after day without wanting to take a look over his shoulder to see if be’s followed. He’s probably seen us from some of these ridges—yesterday, most likely. And do you think he wouldn’t know this bunch as far as he could see us, even without glasses? The chances are he has them, though. He’d be a fool if he didn’t stake himself to a pair.”

      “Say, by gracious,” Andy observed

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