Out of the Depths: A Romance of Reclamation

  CHAPTER VI

  A TEST OF CALIBER

  When he opened his eyes the sun was beating down into his face. He hadslept far into the morning. He stood up to stare around. His horse wascropping the grass near the lower side of the grove. There was no signof any wolves. He walked over to his fireplace. The fire had burned toashes hours ago. He started a fresh one with his patent lighter, andturned to where he had left the veal. It was gone.

  He went a few steps farther, and found a bone gnawed clean of everyshred of meat and gristle. A fox is a far less cunning thief than acoyote. The quantity of calf meat had alone saved his saddle andbridle, and even at that, one of the bridle reins was slashed and thestirrup leathers were gnawed. He looked from the white bone to thesaddle, and ripped out a half dozen vigorous Anglo-Saxon oaths. It wasnot nice, but the explosion argued a far healthier frame of mind thaneither his morbid hysteria of the previous afternoon or his frenzy ofthe night.

  After the outburst of anger had spent itself, he realized that he washungry. The feeling became acute when he remembered that he hadabsolutely nothing on hand to eat. He hastened to saddle up. As he wasabout to mount he paused to look uncertainly up the trail on which hehad thrown away the cigarettes. While he stood vacillating, his handwent to his hip pocket and drew out the silver-cased brandy flask. Helooked at it, and its emptiness reminded him that he was thirsty. Hewent down to the pool for a drink. Having filled his flask, hereturned up the bank and sprang into the saddle.

  His horse, in fine fettle after the night's rest and grazing, startedoff on the jump, cow pony fashion. Ashton gave him his head, and thehorse bore him at a steady lope down along the stream, crossing overto the other bank of the dry bed, of his own volition, when the goingbecame too rough on the near side. The direction of the railway wasnow off across the sagebrush flats to Ashton's right, but he allowedhis horse to continue on down the creek. About four miles from thewaterhole he approached a bunch of grazing cattle. He drew rein andwalked his horse past them, looking for a herder. There was none insight. The animals were on their home range. He rode on down the creekat a canter.

  A mile farther on, as he neared another scattered bunch of cattle,something thwacked the dry ground a little in front and to the left ofhim, throwing up a splash of sand and dust. His pony snorted andleaped ahead at a quickened pace.

  Ashton turned to look back at the spot--and instinctively ducked as abullet pinged past his ear so close that he felt the windage on hischeek. He did not lack quickness of perception. He glanced up the openslope to his left, and grasped the fact that someone was shooting athim with a rifle from the crest of the ridge half a mile distant.

  Instantly he flung himself flat on his pony's neck and dug in hisspurs. The pony bounded forward with a suddenness that spoiled the aimof the third bullet. It whined past over the beast's haunches. Thefourth shot, best aimed of all, smashed the silver brandy flask inAshton's hip pocket. Had he been upright in the saddle, thesteel-jacketed bullet must have pierced him through the waist.

  With a yell of terror, he flattened himself still closer to his pony'sneck and dug in his spurs at every jump. The beast was already goingat a pace that would have won most quarter-mile sprints. Just afterthe fourth shot he swept in among the scattered bunch of cattle,running at his highest speed. Still Ashton swung his sharp-roweledspurs. He knew that the range of a high-power rifle is well over amile.

  To his vast surprise, the shooting ceased the moment he raced intoline with the first steer. The short respite gave him time to recoverhis wits.

  As the pony sprinted clear of the last steer in the bunch, a fifthbullet ranged close down over Ashton's head. He pulled hard on theright rein and leaned the same way. The sixth shot burned the skin onthe pony's hip as he swerved suddenly towards the edge of the creekchannel. He made a wild leap out over the edge of the cut bank andcame plunging down on a gravel bar. At once he started to race alongthe dry stream bed. But instead of spurring, Ashton now tugged at thebridle.

  The pony swung to the left and came to a halt close in under the bank.Ashton cautiously straightened from his crouch. When erect he was justhigh enough to see over the edge of the bank. Looking back and up theridge, he saw the figure of a man clearly outlined against the sky.His lips closed in resolute lines; his dark eyes flashed. Jerking outhis rifle, he set the sight for fifteen hundred yards, and beganfiring at the would-be murderer as coolly and steadily as a marksman.

  Before he had pulled the trigger the third time the man leapedsideways and knelt to return his fire. At once Ashton gripped hisrifle still more firmly and drew back the automatic lever. Thecrackling discharge was like the fire of a miniature Maxim gun. Puffsof dust spouted up all around the man on the ridge crest. He sprang tohis feet and ran back out of sight, jumping from side to side like anIndian.

  "Ho!" shouted Ashton. "He's running! I made him run!"

  He sat up very erect in his saddle, staring defiantly at the placewhere the murderer had disappeared.

  "The coward! I made him run!" he exulted.

  He shifted his grip on his rifle, and the heat of the barrel remindedhim that he had emptied the magazine. He reloaded the weapon to itsfullest capacity, and stood up in his stirrups to stare at the ridgecrest. The murderer did not reappear. Ashton's exultance gave place todisappointment. He was more than ready to continue the duel.

  He rode down the creek, searching for a place to ascend the cut bank.But by the time he came to a slope he had cooled sufficiently torealize the foolishness of bravado. Not unlikely the murderer waslying back out of sight, ready to shoot him when he came up out of thecreek. He reflected, and decided that the going was quite good enoughin the bottom of the creek bed. He rode on down the channel, over thegravel bars, at an easy canter.

  After a half mile the bank became so low and the creek bed so sandythat he turned up on to the dry sod. As he did so he kept his eyewarily on the now distant ridge. But no bullet came pinging down afterhim.

  Instead, he heard the thud of galloping hoofs, and twisted about justin time to see a rider top a rise a short distance in front of him.He snapped down his breech sight and faced the supposed assailant withthe rifle ready at his shoulder. Almost as quickly he lowered theweapon and snatched off his sombrero in joyful salute. The rider wasMiss Knowles.

  She waved back gayly and cantered up to him, her lovely face aglowwith cordial greeting.

  "Good noon!" she called. "So you have come at last? But better latethan never."

  "How could I help coming?" he gallantly exclaimed.

  "I see. The coyotes stole your cutlets, and you were hungry," shebantered, as she came alongside and whirled her horse around to ridewith him down the creek.

  "How did you guess?" he asked.

  "I know coyotes," she replied. "They're the worst--" She stoppedshort, gazing at the bleeding flanks of his pony. "Oh, Mr. Ashton! howcould you? I did not think you so cruel!"

  "Cruel?" he repeated, twisting about to see what she meant. "Ah, yourefer to the spurring. But I simply couldn't help it, you know. Therewas a bandit taking pot shots at me as I passed the ridge backthere."

  "A bandit--on Dry Mesa?" she incredulously exclaimed.

  "Yes; he pegged at me eight or nine times."

  The girl smiled. "You probably heard one of the punchers shooting at acoyote."

  "No," he insisted, flushing under her look. "The ruffian was shootingat me. See here."

  He put his hand to his left hip pocket, one side of which had beentorn out. From it he drew his brandy flask.

  "That was done by the third or fourth shot," he explained. "Do youwonder I was flat on my pony's neck and spurring as hard as I could?"

  The girl took the flask from his outstretched hand and looked it overwith keen interest. In one side of the silver case was a small, neathole. Opposite it half of the other side had been burst out as if byan explosion within. She took off the silver cap, shook out theshattered glass of the inner flask, and looked again at the smallhole.

  "A thi
rty-eight," she observed.

  "Pardon me," he replied. "I fail to--Ah, yes; thirty-eight caliber,you mean."

  "It is I who must ask pardon," she said in frank apology. "Your rifleis a thirty-two. I heard a number of shots, ending with the rattle ofan automatic. Thought you were after another deer."

  He could afford to smile at the merry thrust and the flash of dimplesthat accompanied it.

  "At least it wasn't a calf this time," he replied. "Nor was it a doe.But it may have been a buck."

  "Indian?" she queried, with instant perception of his play on theword.

  "I didn't see any war plumes," he admitted.

  "War plumes? Oh, that _is_ a joke!" she exclaimed. She chanced to lookdown at the shattered flask, and her merriment vanished. "But thisisn't any joke. Didn't you see the man who was shooting at you?"

  "Yes, after I jumped my pony down into the creek. Perhaps the banditthought he had tumbled us both. He stood up on top the ridge, until Icut loose and made him run."

  "He ran?"

  Ashton's eyes sparkled at the remembrance, and his chest began toexpand. Then he met the girl's clear, direct gaze, and answeredmodestly: "Well, you see, when I had got down behind the bank ourpositions were reversed. He was the one in full view. It's curious,though, Miss Knowles--shooting at that poor calf, under the impressionit was a deer, I simply couldn't hold my rifle steady, while--"

  "No wonder, if it was your first deer," put in the girl. "We call itbuck fever."

  "Yes, but wouldn't you have thought my first bandit--Why, I couldn'thave aimed at him more steadily if I had been made of cast iron."

  "Guess he had made you fighting mad," she bantered; but under herseeming levity he perceived a change in her manner towards himimmensely gratifying to his humbled self-esteem.

  "At first I was just a trifle apprehensive--" He hesitated, andsuddenly burst out with a candid confession--"No, not a trifle!Really, I was horribly frightened!"

  This was more than the girl had hoped from him. She nodded and smiledin open approval. "You had a good right to be frightened. I don'tblame you for spurring that way. Look. It wasn't only one shot thatcame close. There's a neat hair brand on your hawss's hip that wasn'tthere yesterday."

  "Must have been the shot just before we took the bank," said Ashton,twisting about to look at the streak cut by the bullet. "The first wasthe only other one that didn't go higher."

  "But what did the man look like?" questioned Miss Isobel. "I can'timagine who--Can it be that your guide has a grudge against you onaccount of his pay?"

  "I wouldn't have thought it possible before yesterday, though he was asurly fellow and inclined to be insolent."

  "All such men are apt to be with tenderfeet," she remarked, permittingherself a half twinkle of her sweet eyes. "But I should have thoughtyours would have kept on going. Whatever you may have owed him, he hadno right to steal your outfit. He must be a real badman, if it's truehe is the party who did this shooting."

  "I shouldn't be at all surprised," agreed Ashton. In her concern overhim she looked so charming that he would have agreed if she had toldhim the moon was made of green cheese.

  She shook her head thoughtfully, and went on: "I can't imagine evenone of our badmen trying to murder you that way. Their usual coursewould be to come up to you, face to face, pick a quarrel, and beat youto it on the draw. But whoever the cowardly scoundrel is, we'll turnout the boys, and either run him down or out of the country."

  "If it's my guide, he probably is running already."

  "I hope so," replied the girl.

  "You do! Don't you want him punished?" exclaimed Ashton.

  "Of course, but you see I don't want Kid to--to cut another notch onhis Colt's."

  "I must say, I cannot see how that--"

  "You could if you realized how kind and good he has been to me allthese years. Do you know, when I first came West, I couldn't tell ajackrabbit from a burro. Daddy had told me that each had big ears, andI got them mixed. And actually I didn't know the off from the nighside of a hawss!"

  "But we--er--have horses and riding-schools in the East," put inAshton.

  She parried the indirect question without seeming to notice it. "Youproved that yesterday, coming down from High Mesa. I felt sure I wouldhave you pulling leather."

  "Pulling leather?" he asked. "You see, I own to my tenderfootness."

  "Grabbing your saddle to hold yourself on," she explained. Before hecould reply, she rose in her stirrups and pointed ahead with herquirt. "Look, that's the top of the biggest haystack, up by thefeed-sheds. You'll see the buildings in half a minute."

  Unheeded by Ashton, she had guided him off to the left, away from DryFork, across the angle above its junction with Plum Creek. They werenow coming up over the divide between the two streams. Ashton failedto locate the haystack until its two mates and the long, half-openshelter-sheds came into view.

  A moment later he was looking at the horse corral and the group of logranch houses. Below and beyond them the scattered groves of Plum Creekstretched away up across the mesa--green bouquets on the slendersilver ribbon of the creek's midsummer rill.

  "Well?" she asked. "What do you think of my home?"

  "Your summer home," he suggested.

  "No, my real home," she insisted. "Auntie couldn't be nicer or fonderthan she is; but her house is a residence, not a home, even to her.Anyway, here, where I have Daddy and Kid--I do so hope you and Kidwill become friends."

  "Since you wish it, I shall try to do my part. But it is a matter thatmight take time, and--" he smiled ruefully and concluded with seemingirrelevance--"I have no home."

  She gazed at him with the look of tender motherly sympathy that he hadbeen too distraught to really feel the previous day. "Do not say that,Mr. Ashton! Though a ranch house is hardly the kind of home to whichyou are accustomed, you will find that we range folks retain theold-fashioned Western ideas of hospitality."

  "My dear Miss Knowles!" he exclaimed with ardent gallantry, "the merethought of being under the same sky with you--"

  "Don't, please," she begged. "This _is_ the blue sky we are under, nota stuccoed ceiling."

  "Well, I really meant it," he protested, greatly dashed.

  "Kid often says nice things to me. But he speaks with his hands," sheremarked.

  "Deaf and dumb alphabet?" he queried wonderingly.

  "Hardly," she answered, dimpling under his puzzled gaze. "Actionsspeak louder than words, you know."

  "Ah!" he murmured, and his look indicated that she had given him foodfor thought.

  They were now cantering down the long easy slope towards the ranchbuildings. The girl's quick eye perceived a horseman riding towardsthe ranch from one of the groves up Plum Creek.

  "There's Kid coming in," she remarked. "He went out early this morningafter a big wolf that had killed a calf. He reported last evening thathe found the carcass over near the head of Plum Creek. A wolf thatgets to killing calves this time of year is a pretty costly neighbor.Daddy told Kid to go out and try to get him."

  "I'm glad you didn't let him get _this_ calf-killer," observedAshton.

  "Oh, as soon as we saw your tenderfoot riding togs--!" she rejoined."Seriously, though, you must not mind if the men poke a little fun atyou. Most of them are more farmhands than cowboys, but Kid will be aptto lead off. I do so want you to be agreeable to Kid. He is almost amember of the family, not a hired man."

  "I shall try to be agreeable to him," replied Ashton, a triflestiffly.

  The puncher had seen them probably before they saw him. He was ridingat a pace that brought him to the horse corral a few moments ahead ofthem. When they came up he nodded carelessly in response to Ashton'sstudiously polite greeting, "Good day, Mr. Gowan," and turned toloosen the cinch of his saddle.

  "You've been riding some," remarked the girl, looking at the puncher'sheaving, lathered horse.

  "Jumped that wolf--ran him," replied Gowan, as he lifted off hissaddle and deftly tossed it up on the top rail of the corral.
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  "You're in luck," congratulated Miss Isobel. She explained to Ashton:"The cattlemen in this county pay fifteen dollars for wolf scalps.That's in addition to the state bounty."

  Ashton sprang off to offer her his hand. But she was on the ground assoon as he. Gowan stared at him between narrowed lids, and replied tothe girl somewhat shortly: "I didn't get him this time, MissChuckie."

  "You didn't? That's too bad! You don't often miss. I wish you had beenwith me, to run down the scoundrel who tried to murder Mr. Ashton."

  Gowan burst into the harsh, strained laughter of one who seldom givesway to mirth. He checked himself abruptly and cast a hostile look atAshton. "By--James, Miss Chuckie, you don't mean to say you let atenderfoot string you?"

  "How about this?" asked the girl. She held out the silver flask, whichshe had not returned to Ashton.

  Gowan gave it a casual glance, and answered almost jeeringly: "Easyenough for him to set it up and plug it--if he didn't get too faraway."

  "His rifle is a thirty-two. This was done by a thirty-eight," shereplied.

  "Thirty-eight?" he repeated. "Let's see." He took the flask from her,drew a rifle cartridge from his belt, and fitted the steel-jacketedbullet into the clean, small hole. "You're right, Miss Chuckie. Itshore was a thirty-eight." He turned sharply on Ashton. "Where'd ithappen? Who was it?"

  "Over on that dry stream," answered Ashton. "Unfortunately the fellowwas too far away for me to be able to describe him."

  "But we think it may have been his guide," explained the girl.

  "Guide?" muttered Gowan, staring intently at Ashton.

  "Yes. You see, if he was mean enough to help steal Mr. Ashton'soutfit, he--"

  "Shore, I savvy!" exclaimed the puncher. "I'll rope a couple of freshhawsses, and go out with Mr. Ashton after the two-legged wolf."

  "That's like you, Kid! But you must wait at least until you've bothhad dinner. Mr. Ashton, I'm sure, is half starved."

  "Me, too, Miss Chuckie. But you know I'd rather eat a wolf or arustler or even a daring desperado than sinkers and beans, any day."

  "You'll come in with us and see what Daddy has to say about it," thegirl insisted.

  She started to loosen her saddle-cinch. Gowan handed back the silverflask, and stripping off saddle and bridle from her horse, placed themon the rail beside his own. Ashton waited, as if expecting a likeservice. The puncher started off beside Miss Isobel without looking athim. Ashton flushed hotly, and hastened to do his own unsaddling.