Sagebrush, who had camped at the entrance of the cañon, listened with hearty approval to Ramsay’s recital of the morning’s events. His roar of laughter echoed back from the rocky walls and went thundering away up toward the mesa.
“Durned if I’ve laughed so much since my ol’ woman run off!” he exclaimed. “Shootin’s too good for that coyote Mesquite, anyhow. He’ll run into jail to Meteorite, ’cause he’s wanted there for robbin’ an Injun off the reservation last year. Yessir! That’s how mean that pesky critter is. Done robbed an Injun squaw what had been sellin’ beadwork to tourists on the trains.”
“Do you know those men he mentioned as the actual murderers?” queried Ramsay.
“Nope. Never heard o’ Cholo Bill—most likely he’s a halfbreed greaser, same’s that cuss Mendoza. Tom Emery’s different. He’s a bad man, real bad. Got out o’ jail in Arizona two year back, murdered a rancher in the White Mountains, and skipped out. I reckon there’s a reward for him.”
“All right. You collect all the rewards—what I’m after is scalps.”
“That suits me, Perfesser. She goes as she lays. What’s the program?”
Ramsay, having finished his breakfast, lighted his pipe and considered.
“The thing to do, of course,” he said tentatively, “is to apprise the nearest legal officers of conditions, get the sheriff to work, and round up the gang.”
Sagebrush eyed him askance, in no little astonishment.
“Is that there your program, then?”
“No.” Ramsay’s blue eyes twinkled. “No, it isn’t. I only mentioned it as the proper thing.”
“If we all done the proper thing, this would be a hell of a world,” and Sagebrush sighed in relief. “I nominates that we light a shtick out o’ yere, go over to that there Hourglass Cañon, and clean her up. Everybody there is wanted, you betcha!. We don’t need no warrants, nor no officers fussin’ around to see things is done right.”
“Nomination seconded,” said Ramsay promptly. “How far is it from here?”
“Hold on,” warned the desert rat. “This aint no picnic party, Perfesser. We got to git busy ’fore Sidewinder gits busy, but there’s no sense to rushin’ things. We can’t take no autybile over there. We got to hike. Ground’s durned rocky and rough. Yessir! We’re headin’ east on a rough and rocky road, and no mistake. That’s one reason nobody aint never follered none o’ that gang to the roost. Nobody much hint been along this yere range for ten or twelve year—she’s got the repytation of havin’ petered out. You and me can prob’ly git there sometime tonight, ease up the cañon, git the lay of the land toward sunup, and git into action. Wipe out the hull durned batch!”
Ramsay frowned. “That’s a trifle bloodthirsty, isn’t it? I want those two murderers; if I can get ’em alive to stand trial, all right. If not—”
“They’re all in the same kittle,” snapped Sagebrush. “Wipe ’em out! Yessir! I’m riled. But no sense goin’ too fast. We got to see who’s there and how many, and what things look like. That there cañon is shaped like the figger X, and where the lines cross is a right narrer gap. The back end is a box cañon, all right, with durned steep walls and lots of timber. Only green spot this side o’ them hills. Last time I was there was ten year back, when Chuck Martin busted his whiffletree, and we rode over yere to find a new stick. We had some liquor along them days, and Chuck he took a drap too much and went to sleep in an ol’ shack, and when he woke up it was dark, and they was a hull passel o’ ’phoby skunks holdin’ a carnival, and Chuck busted up the dance ’fore he knowed what it was. Gosh, I can smell him yet when I think of it. Yessir, ‘Look ’fore you sleep’ is a dad-blamed good rule to foller in these ol’ shacks—and anywheres else too, I reckon. Well, I’ll git the packs made up while you clean camp.”
The two men set to work. After the flivver was laid out of sight in the clump of piñon trees and thorny mesquite, the loads were assembled, and within twenty minutes the partners were on their way. What with grub and blankets, rifle and water-bag, Ramsay had all the weight to carry that he wanted, and he faced the prospect of a full day in rocky desert ground with a grimace.
His expectations were entirely fulfllled. Sagebrush led the way, skirting the high and precipitous mesa for a time and then striking directly off toward the hills to the northeast. The abundance of rocks showed Ramsay that no flivver could hope to cover this ground; the snow had all vanished long since, and no trace of moisture remained to mark its passing.
Fortunately for Ramsay, the old desert rat was used to the slow burro pace, and shuffled along at a steady plodding gait which was not difficult to sustain, and which ate up the distance slowly but surely. To anyone not used to it, there was something terrible in the thought of thus shuffling across the desert day in and day out for years, eternally seeking the yellow dust; and yet men did it, hundreds of them, and were not happy unless doing it.
Pat Ramsay faced the project which lay ahead of them, unblinking the facts, and not shirking what was to be done. He now knew what before he had only conjectured. Impossible as it seemed, he knew it to be true. Here at this back door of civilization existed a number of men whose business in life was robbery and if necessary murder—an abnormal situation, to be handled with other than normal methods. Ramsay was no innocent in the waste places. He knew that in these vast stretches of desert country there existed strange things, that in this apparently empty basin of forgotten seas there were still unsolved problems and undiscovered wonders. If he was to go seeking the men who had murdered his brother, he must put away all thought of haling them before the bar of justice; the only justice which obtained in the desert was that of the strong hand and the inexorable requisitions of nature. If men offended the laws of nature, a terrible punishment was exacted from them. If they offended the laws of man, as they did every day, the ordinary machinery of man’s justice could not always reach them—and they knew it.
“By gosh,” said Sagebrush, when they halted at noon in the shade of a towering pinnacle of rock, “ye done a good stroke when ye got to work this mornin’ and cut off Sidewinder from them fellers yonder! Yessir! I’d think twicet or maybe three times ’fore I tackled that there gent. Most likely that cholo and Mesquite rode in to git supplies, and cuttin’ them off was a right smart piece o’ work. Wisht we had a hoss apiece! Sing out next you see a nice fat chuckwalla. I’d like to git me a good chunk o’ lizard-tail for supper, Per-fesser.”
Before they had left the overhanging rock, indeed, Sagebrush located a fine big lizard and staged a battle royal. The lizard, ensconced in a rock cranny, inflated himself and could not be dislodged for all the tugging of Sagebrush, who in the end was content with taking the tail. This the chuckwalla gladly surrendered, and Sagebrush stowed it away in his pocket after Ramsay refused to share the delicacy.
The afternoon drew on. They did not hurry; yet the ground was covered steadily, and no moving object broke the dun expanse of glaring rock and sand. Gradually they approached a patch of green high on the hills, which served as landmark, but the entrance to Hourglass Cañon itself did not open up before them. When the sun was drawing down to the western horizon, Sagebrush halted.
“No use goin’ on now—we’ll be in the cañon in half an hour and can’t take no chances. Goin’ to be a clear night, and cold as hell. Why don’t preachers make hell a cold place, Perfesser? Dad blame if I can see anythin’ ornery in hell the way it’s laid out. I bet it aint no hotter’n the Ralston Desert up in Nevada, and that don’t stack up noways alongside what Imperial Valley used to be ’fore they started growin’ melons and garden truck there. Reckon I’m goin’ to freeze tonight ’thout no fire, but can’t be helped. Let’s git our victuals washed down, and then we’ll mosey along and take it easy till dark.”
When the sun was down, they moved on again, and before the last of the daylight died into the starry radiance of night, Ramsay descried the lines of the cañon opening out from the general mass of hills ahead. The night was clear, with a thin green-silver crescent of moon hanging high, but nothing could be seen of the environment, though old Sagebrush plodded along without a pause. A little later he broke into speech.
“Trail. No talkin’, now. Watch out underfoot.”
A trail indeed—at least, a path beaten by the hoofs of horses. Sagebrush had need to mind his own warning, for the next moment he jumped sharply aside, dropped his pack and picked up the nearest rock to crush a sidewinder in his path. After this both men kept a sharper watch for the nocturnal reptiles than on the surrounding scenery.
They had proceeded perhaps two miles when Ramsay found the cañon walls closing in ahead, apparently forming an unbroken barrier. Then he began to appreciate the strategic value of the place, which to anyone on the search would appear to be an empty cañon, while in reality there was a narrow passage opening into a second but completely hidden cañon. This was a freak of erosion and wind-carving, for the trail led them sharply to the right, and then into a black hole—a widening cleft in the rock, ten feet in width and twenty through to the other side. Sagebrush halted his companion and stole forward cautiously, then summoned Ramsay. The opening was unguarded.
Passing through, both men came to an astonished halt. They stood in an almost circular bowl which, so far as the deceptive light told them, was not more than a mile in diameter, closed in by gigantic walls of rock which, on the side opposite them, presented only blackness which was illumined by three yellow pin-points.
“Lamps,” said Sagebrush. “Got some shacks over there, by gosh!”
It was not this which had startled them both, however. In their immediate vicinity were great masses of jumbled rock, fallen from the walls that hemmed in the entrance. At a distance of fifty feet from them the scattered rock and sand gave place to a thick green carpet which seemed to cover the entire bowl, and across this carpet moved masses of horses, quietly grazing.
The explanation was simple. Just now, immediately after the rains, this hidden box cañon was saturated with drainage from the slopes above and behind. Either the growth of grass here was natural, or as was more likely, it had been sown by the occupants of the cañon.
“Set,” said Sagebrush, slipping off his pack and squatting down. Ramsay followed suit, and the desert rat softly elucidated the situation.
“We got things straight now, Perfesser. This yere crowd is right happily located, for a fact! The idee is, they slide acrost the hills to the Chuckwalla range and slide back with a few hosses picked up over there. When they get a right good remuda, they drive ’em over to the railroad at Meteorite, or maybe up north acrost the Salt Pans to Silver City. They keep ’em yere maybe six months till the hair’s growed out over the rebrand, and by that time everybody’s give up looking: they prob’ly git a lot o’ foals, too.”
“With a base of supplies at Stovepipe Springs, they’re safe,” commented Ramsay. “And Sidewinder Crowfoot is the brains of the outfit. All right. What d’you want to do?”
“Sneak up and look things over. Better let me do it when we git right close. Then I’ll come back yere and lay up in these yere rocks with both guns handy. You cut around and open fire on them shacks. You’ll jest naturally catch ’em penned up, and if they git away, I’ll catch ’em yere. If they don’t bust loose, I’ll come over and help you. How’s that strike ye, Per-fesser?”
“First rate,” said Ramsay. “What does Tom Emery look like?”
“Red whiskers. Can’t miss him. Let’s mosey along.”
They rose, picked up their loads, and set forth.
In the darkness of the upper cañon, with the stars glimmering far above, the scout was made, and all things considered, it was a good scout. But when it had been ended, the two men drew off together for consultation, upon both of them settled a silent consternation. For here was a factor they had not reckoned on.
Three cabins, and in one of them four men sitting playing cards, a lantern swinging from a rafter. One was Tom Emery—a brutal giant of a man with a great fringe of flaring red whiskers and matted red hair, a murderer and escaped jailbird with a price on his head. One, whom old Sagebrush did not know, was a swarthy halfbreed, doubtless the Cholo Bill mentioned by the dying Alec Ramsay—a slender, furtive man, on the surface all smiles, and all deviltry beneath. The third card-player was identified as Gentleman Jimson, an elderly man with handsome, ascetic features and the general air of a benevolent preacher. He had escaped from a California penitentiary three years previously, where he was serving a life term for murder and forgery. The last of the four men was a pure Mexican, one Manuel Ximines—a scowling, sullen scoundrel from below the border, a murderer of women. Not all this had given the two friends pause, however, but the shrill wail of an infant from one of the other shacks, and the thin voices of two Mexican women.
“Women everywhere. Aint it hell?” demanded Sagebrush, when they were at a safe distance. “And now what?”
“Walk in on the four of them,” said Ramsay promptly. “And we have ’em.”
“Nope. Them cholo women would jump us in the back in a minute. Then, if anything went wrong, the bunch would scatter in the darkness. We don’t know the lay o’ the ground.”
“All right. Then stick to our original plan.”
Sagebrush dissented with a grunt. “Pardner, it means the females fight with the men. Now, I jest naturally can’t abide that notion nohow. When it comes to puttin’ a bullet into a female, I pass. We got to sep’rate them fellers from the females.”
“Granted,” assented Ramsay at once. “How?”
“There aint but one way out o’ this yere cañon—the front way. Let’s you and me go back through that hole in the wall and wait. If anybody comes, we got him; if anybody leaves, we got him. Then, come sunup, we lights a fire out beyond. They see the smoke, and most likely that feller Ximines comes out to investigate. We got him. The other fellers come out when he don’t return—and we got ’em all.”
“Good,” said Ramsay. “Let’s go.”