Chapter Three
The Strange Letter
Slim, his hands reaching toward the heavens, turned slowly around in themoonlight. He was careful to make no false move for the bitterness inthe voice of his unknown captor almost cut the night air.
The rays of the thin moon shone full on Slim's face. The other man washidden in the shadows, but Slim knew that a gun was trained on themiddle of his body. He waited patiently. There was a snort of disgustfrom the unseen gunman.
"You can let your hands drop. I've got the wrong one. Just my luck."
Afraid of a trick, Slim was slow in lowering his hands but once theywere at waist level he felt safe. His revolver was still in the holsterat his side and in a move almost too fast for the eye to follow he coulddraw the gun and fire with amazing rapidity and accuracy.
Shoes scraped over rocks and a form loomed out of the shadows. Then themoonlight revealed a youth about Slim's own age. A rifle was cradled inone arm.
"Looks like we're a fine pair," chuckled the newcomer. "After you savedmy hide from the skunks who tried to ambush me I turn around and show mygratitude by bushwhacking you. Darned wonder someone didn't get killedin here tonight."
"Who are you and what do you want?" snapped Slim, his anger still nearthe boiling point.
"I don't blame you for being a mite peevish," said the stocky cowboy."Matter of fact, I don't know altogether what has happened."
"Who shot your horse down?"
"That's another mystery. I was taking it easy down the trail when arifle cracked and my horse just folded up and pitched me off. The oldcayuse never knew what hit him. Then the lead started pouring my way andI scuttled into that blind canyon."
"About that time I came along and voted myself a hand," put in Slim.
"That's about right. You cut in just in time to save my hide. I'm mightygrateful for what you did and doggone sorry that I held you up a fewminutes ago. After what had happened I wasn't going to take anychances."
"Oh, I don't blame you for that a whole lot."
"My name's 'Chuck' Meade," the newcomer volunteered. "I'm off the CircleFour. It's a little better than a hundred miles south of here on theSweetwater."
"I'm Slim Evans. Home brand is the Flying Arrow over near Sunfield."
They coolly looked each other over and an almost instant liking wasstruck up between them.
Slim was tall, as his name implied. A little better than five feeteleven inches, he packed 163 pounds on a frame that was built of sinewymuscle. His hands were long and slender and there was the grace of amountain lion in his walk. His blue eyes were frank and inquiring, butat times a deadly light flickered in them, a light that warned anopponent that here indeed was a cow hand who could take care of himselfin almost any emergency.
Chuck tipped the beams at 195 pounds and stood only five feet seven withhis boots on. His shoulders were massive and his short arms had thepower of a grizzly bear. He was champion of all wrestlers in theSweetwater valley and at catch-as-catch-can scrapping was without apeer. A mop of curly hair was inclined to scatter in almost everydirection and his eyebrows were heavy. But under the bushy brows gleamedbrown eyes that were warm and friendly and he had a likeable smile.
Chuck looked down at the tattered socks on Slim's feet.
"This is a bad place to go wandering around in your stocking feet," hesuggested.
"I left my boots down the valley," Slim explained. "Figured that in mystocking feet I could creep up on the two fellows who were trying tobushwhack you. They got away from me and stole my horse."
"What!" exploded Chuck, quick anger darkening his face.
"While I was playing good Samaritan, those fellows doubled around behindme and made away with my horse."
"That's tough. Means we're both on foot, for my old cayuse will neverbuck again."
"Standing here won't get us any place. Let's get my boots."
Slim picked up his rifle and led the way over the rocky ground. Everystep pained him and there was little left of his socks when he finallyreached the huge boulder where he had cached his boots.
He sat down and stripped off his socks, rubbing his aching feet with hishands.
"I've got a change of socks in my blanket roll," said Chuck. "I'll slideover and get my stuff."
Slim massaged the soles of his feet until Chuck returned with hisbedroll. The cowboy from the Circle Four unrolled it and brought out apair of heavy, serviceable socks.
Slim drew them on gratefully, wiggled his toes in comfort, and then slidhis feet into his boots.
"Now I'm ready for action," he said, standing up.
"Where you heading?" asked Chuck.
"Down the Sky High trail," replied Slim, who in spite of his liking forhis new-found companion was cautious not to give away any essentialinformation.
"That's fine. I'm heading the same way. Since we're both going to hoofit from now on, we might as well throw in together."
"Suits me," agreed Slim. "If those boys who took a little targetpractice at you should show up again they may be surprised to findthey've got two instead of one to fight."
Chuck surveyed the heavy gun and the well worn holster at Slim's side.He whistled softly.
"I've got a hunch that in a pinch you'd be right handy with that sixgun."
"I can make it speak a piece," admitted Slim. "What about your saddle?"
"It's just on the other side of the trail. I'll pick it up when we startdown."
"Then we'll go up to my camp. I was just sitting down to supper when thefiring started."
Chuck slung his blanket roll over his shoulder and followed Slim up thetrail.
They reached the patch of timber and found that the small fire hadburned itself out. The bacon was cold and greasy and the coffee bitter.
"I'll rustle more wood," said Chuck and Slim set about the simplepreparations for the joint meal.
In a short time the fire was glowing again and the savory odor of fryingbacon and boiling coffee filled the night air.
"That sure smells good to me," said Chuck, squatting on his heels on theother side of the fire. "I've been traveling a little too light. Grubran low and I cut out my noon meal figuring that I'd be far enough downthe trail tonight to reach some ranch house and get a real supper."
"Guess you don't know much about this country," said Slim as he deftlyflipped the bacon.
"Why?"
"There isn't a ranch within miles. We've got a good thirty miles ofhoofing it down the trail before we'll be anywhere near a place we canget horses."
"You been through this country before?" Slim thought that Chuck's eyeswere peering at him intently from beneath the bushy eyebrows.
"Never been over the crest of the Cajons until this afternoon," repliedthe cowboy from the Flying Arrow, "but my Dad's ridden through here onceor twice and he told me something about the lay of the land before Istarted out."
"Kind of a lonesome country, then."
"Lonesome and darned inhospitable, especially the Creeping Shadowscountry over to the northwest."
"Yeh, I've heard that was a good place to stay away from."
Slim, who was serving as cook, used a forked stick to pull the coffeepot out of the coals. Doubling up a glove, he grasped the handle andpoured the steaming beverage into the battered tin cups each cowboycarried in his duffel roll.
The night air near the summit of the Cajons is crisp and cool even on aJuly night and the warmth from the fire was cheering. They ate insilence, draining the last drop from the coffee pot and gleaning thefinal bit of crisp bacon from the greasy pan.
"I'll turn dish washer," said Chuck, gathering up the simple utensilsthey had needed for the meal. He went down to the creek where Slim couldhear him splashing water on the cups and the frying pan.
Slim piled more fuel on the fire and as the flames leaped higher and thelight brightened, his eyes fell on an envelope which Chuck had dropped.
Slim leaned over and picked up the lette
r. It was face up and theaddress, "Chuck Meade, Circle Four Ranch," stared at him. But the thingthat really caught his attention was the name of the sender of theletter in the upper left hand corner. It was from Bill Needham,secretary of the Mountain States Cattlemen's Association.
There was almost an irresistible temptation to read the letter, but Slimconquered that impulse and tossed the envelope over on Chuck's blanketroll.
It was strange that both should have letters from the secretary of thecattle association and that both should be riding down the Sky Hightrail at almost the same hour.