Gunsight Pass by William MacLeod Raine

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Hart did not argue. He knew how Dave stuck to a thing like a terrier
to a rat. He would not leave the ground till orders came from Emerson
Crawford.

"Lemme go an' report," suggested Shorty. "I wanta get my bronc an' light
out pronto. Never can tell when Applegate might drap around an' ask
questions. Me, I'm due in the hills."

"All right," agreed Bob. "See Crawford himself, Shorty."

The outlaw pulled himself to the saddle and cantered off.

"Best man in my gang," Dave said, following him with his eyes. "There to
a finish and never a whimper out of him. Dragged a man out of the fire
when he might have been hustling for his own skin."

"Shorty's game," admitted Hart. "Pity he went bad."

"Yes. He told me he didn't kill Harrigan."

"Reckon Dug did that. More like him."

Half an hour later the relief came. Hart, Dave, and the three
fire-fighters who had stayed to watch rode back to camp.

Crawford had lost his voice. He had already seen Hart since the fire had
subsided, so his greeting was to Sanders.

"Good work, son," he managed to whisper, a quaver in his throat. "I'd
rather we'd lost the whole works than to have had that happen to the
boys, a hundred times rather. I reckon it must 'a' been mighty bad up
there when the back-fire caught you. The boys have been tellin' me. You
saved all their lives, I judge."

"I happened to know where the cave was."

"Yes." Crawford's whisper was sadly ironic. "Well, I'm sure glad you
happened to know that. If you hadn't...." The old cattleman gave a
little gesture that completed the sentence. The tragedy that had taken
place had shaken his soul. He felt in a way responsible.

"If the doc ain't busy now, I reckon Dave could use him," Bob said. "I
reckon he needs a li'l' attention. Then I'm ready for grub an' a sleep
twice round the clock. If any one asks me, I'm sure enough dead beat.
I don't ever want to look at a shovel again."

"Doc's fixin' up Lanier's burnt laig. He'd oughtta be through soon now.
I'll have him 'tend to Dave's burns right away then," said Crawford. He
turned to Sanders. "How about it, son? You sure look bunged up pretty
bad."

"I'm about all in," admitted Dave. "Reckon we all are. Shorty gone yet?"

"Yes. Lit out after he'd made a report. Said he had an engagement to meet
a man. Expect he meant he had an engagement _not_ to meet the sheriff. I
rec'lect when Shorty was a mighty promisin' young fellow before Brad
Steelman got a-holt of him. He punched cows for me twenty years ago. He
hadn't took the wrong turn then. You cayn't travel crooked trails an' not
reach a closed pocket o' the hills sometime."

For several minutes they had heard the creaking of a wagon working up an
improvised road toward the camp. Now it moved into sight. The teamster
called to Crawford.

"Here's another load o' grub, boss. Miss Joyce she rustled up them
canteens you was askin' for."

Crawford stepped over to the wagon. "Don't reckon we'll need the
canteens, Hank, but we can use the grub fine. The fire's about out."

"That's bully. Say, I got news for you, Mr. Crawford. Brad Steelman's
dead. They found him in his house, shot plumb through the head. I reckon
he won't do you any more meanness."

"Who killed him?"

"They ain't sayin'," returned the teamster cautiously. "Some folks was
guessin' that mebbe Dug Doble could tell, but there ain't any evidence
far's I know. Whoever it was robbed the safe."

The old cattleman made no comment. From the days of their youth Steelman
had been his bitter enemy, but death had closed the account between them.
His mind traveled back to those days twenty-five years ago when he and
the sheepman had both hitched their horses in front of Helen Radcliff's
home. It had been a fair fight between them, and he had won as a man
should. But Brad had not taken his defeat as a man should. He had
nourished bitterness and played his successful rival many a mean
despicable trick. Out of these had grown the feud between them. Crawford
did not know how it had come about, but he had no doubt Steelman had
somehow fallen a victim in the trap he had been building for others.

A question brought his mind back to the present. The teamster was
talking: "... so she started pronto. I s'pose you wasn't as bad hurt as
Sanders figured."

"What's that?" asked Crawford.

"I was sayin' Miss Joyce she started right away when the note come from
Sanders."

"What note?"

"The one tellin' how you was hurt in the fire."

Crawford turned. "Come here, Dave," he called hoarsely.

Sanders moved across.

"Hank says you sent a note to Joyce sayin' I'd been hurt. What about it?"

"Why would I do that when you're not hurt?"

"Then you didn't?"

"Of course not," answered Dave, perplexed.

"Some one's been stringin' you, Hank," said Crawford, smiling.

The teamster scratched his head. "No, sir. I was there when she left.
About twelve o'clock last night, mebbe later."

"But Sanders says he didn't send a note, and Joyce didn't come here. So
you must 'a' missed connections somewhere."

"Probably you saw her start for home," suggested Dave.

Hank stuck to his guns. "No, sir. She was on that sorrel of hers, an'
Keith was ridin' behind her. I saddled myself and took the horse to the
store. They was waitin' there for me, the two young folks an' Juan."

"Juan?"

"Juan Otero. He brought the note an' rode back with her."

The old cattleman felt a clutch of fear at his heart. Juan Otero was one
of Dug Doble's men.

"That all you know, Hank?"

"That's all. Miss Joyce said for me to get this wagonload of grub out
soon as I could. So I come right along."

"Doble been seen in town lately?" asked Dave.

"Not as I know of. Shorty has."

"Shorty ain't in this."

"Do you reckon--?"

Sanders cut the teamster short. "Some of Doble's work. But I don't see
why he sent for Keith too."

"He didn't. Keith begged to go along an' Miss Joyce took him."

In the haggard, unshaven face of the cattleman Dave read the ghastly
fear of his own soul. Doble was capable of terrible evil. His hatred,
jealousy, and passion would work together to poison his mind. The corners
of his brain had always been full of lust and obscenity. There was this
difference between him and Shorty. The squat cowpuncher was a clean
scoundrel. A child, a straight girl, an honest woman, would be as safe
with him as with simple-hearted old Buck Byington. But Dug Doble--it
was impossible to predict what he would do. He had a vein of caution in
his make-up, but when in drink he jettisoned this and grew ugly. His
vanity--always a large factor in determining his actions--might carry
him in the direction of decency or the reverse.

"I'm glad Keith's with her," said Hart, who had joined the group. "With
Keith and the Mexican there--" His meaning did not need a completed
sentence.

"Question is, where did he take her," said Crawford. "We might comb the
hills a week and not find his hole. I wish to God Shorty was still here.
He might know."

"He's our best bet, Bob," agreed Dave. "Find him. He's gone off somewhere
to sleep. Rode away less than half an hour since."

"Which way?"

"Rode toward Bear Canon," said Crawford.

"That's a lead for you, Bob. Figure it out. He's done--completely worn
out. So he won't go far--not more than three-four miles. He'll be in the
hills, under cover somewhere, for he won't forget that thousand dollars
reward. So he'll be lying in the chaparral. That means he'll be above
where the fire started. If I was looking for him, I'd say somewhere back
of Bear, Cattle, or San Jacinto would be the likeliest spot."

"Good guess, Dave. Somewheres close to water," said Bob. "You goin' along
with me?"

"No. Take as many men as you can get. I'm going back, if I can, to find
the place where Otero and Miss Joyce left the road. Mr. Crawford, you'd
better get back to town, don't you think? There may be clues there we
don't know anything about here. Perhaps Miss Joyce may have got back."

"If not, I'll gather a posse to rake the hills, Dave. If that villain's
hurt my li'l' girl or Keith--" Crawford's whisper broke. He turned away
to conceal the working of his face.

"He hasn't," said Bob with decision. "Dug ain't crazy even if his actions
look like it. I've a notion when Mr. Crawford gets back to town Miss
Joyce will be there all right. Like as not Dug brought her back himself.
Maybe he sent for her just to brag awhile. You know Dug."

That was the worst of it, so far as any allaying of their fear went. They
did know Doble. They knew him for a thorough black-hearted scoundrel who
might stop at nothing.

The three men moved toward the remuda. None of them had slept for
forty-eight hours. They had been through a grueling experience that had
tried soul and body to the limit. But none of them hesitated for an
instant. They belonged to the old West which answers the call no matter
what the personal cost. There was work to do. Not one of them would quit
as long as he could stick to the saddle.

CHAPTER XLII

SHORTY IS AWAKENED

The eyes that looked into those of Joyce in the gloom of the cabin
abruptly shook off sleep. They passed from an amazed incredulity to a
malicious triumph.

"So you've come to old Dug, have you, my pretty?" a heavy voice jeered.

The girl writhed and twisted regardless of the pain, exerting every
muscle of the strong young arm and shoulder. As well she might have tried
to beat down an iron door with her bare hands as to hope for escape from
his strong grip. He made a motion to draw her closer. Joyce flung herself
back and sank down beside the bunk, straining away.

"Let me go!" she cried, terror rampant in her white face. "Don't touch
me! Let me go!"

The force of her recoil had drawn him to his side. His cruel, mirthless
grin seemed to her to carry inexpressible menace. Very slowly, while his
eyes taunted her, he pulled her manacled wrist closer.

There was a swift flash of white teeth. With a startled oath Doble
snatched his arm away. Savage as a tigress, Joyce had closed her teeth
on his forearm.

She fell back, got to her feet, and fled from the house. Doble was after
her on the instant. She dodged round a tree, doubled on her course, then
deflected toward the corral. Swift and supple though she was, his long
strides brought him closer. Again she screamed.

Doble caught her. She fought in his arms, a prey to wild and unreasoning
terror.

"You young hell-cat, I'm not gonna hurt you," he said. "What's the use o'
actin' crazy?"

He could have talked to the waves of the sea with as much effect. It is
doubtful if she heard him.

There was a patter of rapid feet. A small body hurled itself against
Doble's leg and clung there, beating his thigh with a valiant little
fist.

"You le' my sister go! You le' my sister go!" the boy shouted, repeating
the words over and over.

Doble looked down at Keith. "What the hell?" he demanded, amazed.

The Mexican came forward and spoke in Spanish rapidly. He explained that
he could not have prevented the boy from coming without arousing the
suspicions of his sister and her friends.

The outlaw was irritated. All this clamor of fear annoyed and disturbed
him. This was not the scene he had planned in his drink-inspired
reveries. There had been a time when Joyce had admired the virile force
of him, when she had let herself be kind to him under the impression she
was influencing him for his good. He had misunderstood the reaction of
her mind and supposed that if he could get her away from the influence
of her father and the rest of his enemies, she would again listen to what
he called reason.

"All right. You brought the brat here without orders. Now take him home
again," directed Doble harshly.

Otero protested fluently, with gestures eloquent. He had not yet been
paid for his services. By this time Malapi might be too hot for him. He
did not intend ever to go back. He was leaving the country pronto--muy
pronto. The boy could go back when his sister went.

"His sister's not going back. Soon as it gets dark we'll travel south.
She's gonna be my wife. You can take the kid back to the road an' leave
him there."

Again the Mexican lifted hands and shoulders while he pattered volubly,
trying to make himself heard above the cries of the child. Dug had
silenced Joyce by the simple expedient of clapping his big hand over her
mouth.

Doble's other hand went into his pocket. He drew out a flat package of
currency bound together with rubber bands. His sharp teeth drew off one
of the rubbers. From the bundle he stripped four fifty-dollar bills and
handed them to Otero.

"Peel this kid off'n my leg and hit the trail, Juan. I don' care where
you leave him so long as you keep an eye on him till afternoon."

With difficulty the Mexican dragged the boy from his hold on Doble and
carried him to a horse. He swung to the saddle, dragged Keith up in front
of him, and rode away at a jog-trot. The youngster was screaming at the
top of his lungs.

As his horse climbed toward the notch, Otero looked back. Doble had
picked up his prisoner and was carrying her into the house.

The Mexican formulated his plans. He must get out of the country before
the hue and cry started. He could not count on more than a few hours
before the chase began. First, he must get rid of the child. Then he
wanted to go to a certain tendejon where he would meet his sweetheart
and say good-bye to her.

It was all very well for Doble to speak of taking him to town or to the
road. Juan meant to do neither. He would leave him in the hills above the
Jackpot and show him the way down there, after which he would ride to
meet the girl who was waiting for him. This would give him time enough to
get away safely. It was no business of his whether or not Doble was
taken. He was an overbearing brute, anyhow.

An hour's riding through the chaparral brought him to the watershed far
above the Jackpot. Otero picked his way to the upper end of a gulch.

"Leesten, muchacho. Go down--down--down. First the gulch, then a canon,
then the Jackpot. You go on thees trail."

He dropped the boy to the ground, watched him start, then turned away at
a Spanish trot.

The trail was a rough and precipitous one. Stumbling as he walked, Keith
went sobbing down the gulch. He had wept himself out, and his sobs had
fallen to a dry hiccough. A forlorn little chap, tired and sleepy, he
picked his way among the mesquite, following the path along the dry creek
bed. The catclaw tore his stockings and scratched him. Stone bruises hurt
his tender feet. He kept traveling, because he was afraid to give up.

He reached the junction of the gulch and the canon. A small stream, which
had survived the summer drought, trickled down the bed of the latter.
Through tangled underbrush Keith crept to the water. He lay down and
drank, after which he sat on a rock and pitied himself. In five minutes
he would have been asleep if a sound had not startled him. Some one was
snoring on the other side of a mesquite thicket.

Keith jumped up, pushed his way through, and almost stumbled over a
sleeping man. He knelt down and began to shake the snorer. The man did
not awaken. The foghorn in his throat continued to rumble intermittently,
now in crescendo, now in diminuendo.

"Wake up, man!" Keith shouted in his ear in the interval between shakes.

The sleeper was a villainous-looking specimen. His face and throat were
streaked with black. There was an angry wheal across his cheek. One of
the genus tramp would have scorned his charred clothes. Keith cared for
none of these details. He wanted to unload his troubles to a "grown-up."

The youngster roused the man at last by throwing water in his face.
Shorty sat up, at the same time dragging out a revolver. His gaze
fastened on the boy, after one swift glance round.

"Who's with you, kid?" he demanded.

Keith began to sniffle. "Nobody."

"Whadya doin' here?"

"I want my daddy."

"Who is yore daddy? What's yore name?"

"Keith Crawford."

Shorty bit off an oath of surprise. "Howcome you here?"

"A man brought me."

The rustler brushed the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes and brain. He had
come up here to sleep undisturbed through the day and far into the night.
Before he had had two hours of rest this boy had dragged him back from
slumber. He was prepared to be annoyed, but he wanted to make sure of the
facts first.

As far as he understood them, the boy told the story of the night's
adventures. Shorty's face grew grim. He appreciated the meaning back of
them far better than the little fellow. Keith's answers to his questions
told him that the men figuring in the episode must be Doble and Otero.
Though the child was a little mixed as to the direction from which Otero
had brought him, the man was pretty sure of the valley where Doble was
lying hid.

He jumped to his feet. "We'll go, kid."

"To daddy?"

"Not right away. We got hurry-up business first."

"I wanta go to my daddy."

"Sure. Soon as we can. But we'll drift over to where yore sister's at
first off. We're both wore to a frazzle, mebbe, but we got to trail over
an' find out what's bitin' Dug."

The man saddled and took the up-trail, Keith clinging to his waist. At
the head of the gulch the boy pointed out the way he and Otero had come.
This confirmed Shorty's opinion as to the place where Doble was to be
found.

With the certainty of one who knew these hills as a preacher does his
Bible, Shorty wound in and out, always moving by the line of least
resistance. He was steadily closing the gap of miles that separated him
from Dug Doble.

CHAPTER XLIII

JUAN OTERO IS CONSCRIPTED

Crawford and Sanders rode rapidly toward Malapi. They stopped several
times to examine places where they thought it possible Otero might have
left the road, but they looked without expectation of any success.
They did not even know that the Mexican had started in this direction. As
soon as he reached the suburbs, he might have cut back across the plain
and followed an entirely different line of travel.

Several miles from town Sanders pulled up. "I'm going back for a couple
of miles. Bob was telling me of a Mexican tendejon in the hills kept by
the father of a girl Otero goes to see. She might know where he is. If I
can get hold of him likely I can make him talk."

This struck Crawford as rather a wild-goose chase, but he had nothing
better to offer himself in the way of a plan.

"Might as well," he said gloomily. "I don't reckon you'll find him. But
you never can tell. Offer the girl a big reward if she'll tell where
Doble is. I'll hustle to town and send out posses."

They separated. Dave rode back up the road, swung off at the place Hart
had told him of, and turned up a valley which pushed to the roots of the
hills. The tendejon was a long, flat-roofed adobe building close to the
trail.

Dave walked through the open door into the bar-room. Two or three men
were lounging at a table. Behind a counter a brown-eyed Mexican girl was
rinsing glasses in a pail of water.

The young man sauntered forward to the counter. He invited the company to
drink with him.

"I'm looking for Juan Otero," he said presently. "Mr. Crawford wanted me
to see him about riding for him."

There was a moment's silence. All of those present were Mexicans except
Dave. The girl flashed a warning look at her countrymen. That look,
Sanders guessed at once, would seal the lips of all of them. At once he
changed his tactics. What information he got would have to come directly
through the girl. He signaled her to join him outside.

Presently she did so. The girl was a dusky young beauty, plump as a
partridge, with the soft-eyed charm of her age and race.

"The senor wants to see me?" she asked.

Her glance held a flash of mockery. She had seen many dirty,
poverty-stricken mavericks of humanity, but never a more battered
specimen than this gaunt, hollow-eyed tramp, black as a coal-heaver,
whose flesh showed grimy with livid wounds through the shreds of his
clothing. But beneath his steady look the derision died. Tattered his
coat and trousers might be. At least he was a prince in adversity. The
head on the splendid shoulders was still finely poised. He gave an
impression of indomitable strength.

"I want Juan Otero," he said.

"To ride for Senor Crawford." Her white teeth flashed and she lifted her
pretty shoulders in a shrug of mock regret. "Too bad he is not here. Some
other day--"

"--will not do. I want him now."

"But I have not got him hid."

"Where is he? I don't want to harm him, but I must know. He took Joyce
Crawford into the hills last night to Dug Doble--pretended her father had
been hurt and he had been sent to lead her to him. I must save her--from
Doble, not from Otero. Help me. I will give you money--a hundred dollars,
two hundred."

She stared at him. "Did Juan do that?" she murmured.

"Yes. You know Doble. He's a devil. I must find him ... soon."

"Juan has not been here for two days. I do not know where he is."

The dust of a moving horse was traveling toward them from the hills. A
Mexican pulled up and swung from the saddle. The girl called a greeting
to him quickly before he could speak. "Buenos dios, Manuel. My father
is within, Manuel."

The man looked at her a moment, murmured "Buenos, Bonita," and took a
step as though to enter the house.

Dave barred the way. The flash of apprehension in Bonita's face, her
unnecessary repetition of the name, the man's questioning look at her,
told Sanders that this was the person he wanted.

"Just a minute, Otero. Where did you leave Miss Crawford?"

The Mexican's eyes contracted. To give himself time he fell again into
the device of pretending that he did not understand English. Dave spoke
in Spanish. The loafers in the bar-room came out to listen.

"I do not know what you mean."

"Don't lie to me. Where is she?"

The keeper of the tendejon asked a suave question. He, too, talked in
Spanish. "Who are you, senor? A deputy sheriff, perhaps?"

"No. My name is Dave Sanders. I'm Emerson Crawford's friend. If Juan will
help me save the girl he'll get off light and perhaps make some money.
I'll stand by him. But if he won't, I'll drag him back to Malapi and give
him to a mob."

The sound of his name was a potent weapon. His fame had spread like
wildfire through the hills since his return from Colorado. He had scored
victory after victory against bad men without firing a gun. He had made
the redoubtable Dug Doble an object of jeers and had driven him to the
hills as an outlaw. Dave was unarmed. They could see that. But his quiet
confidence was impressive. If he said he would take Juan to Malapi with
him, none of them doubted he would do it. Had he not dragged Miller back
to justice--Miller who was a killer of unsavory reputation?

Otero wished he had not come just now to see Bonita, but he stuck
doggedly to his statement. He knew nothing about it, nothing at all.

"Crawford is sending out a dozen posses. They will close the passes.
Doble will be caught. They will kill him like a wolf. Then they will kill
you. If they don't find him, they will kill you anyhow."

Dave spoke evenly, without raising his voice. Somehow he made what he
said seem as inevitable as fate.

Bonita caught her lover by the arm and shoulder. She was afraid, and her
conscience troubled her vicariously for his wrongdoing.

"Why did you do it, Juan?" she begged of him.

"He said she wanted to come, that she would marry him if she had a
chance. He said her father kept her from him," the man pleaded. "I didn't
know he was going to harm her."

"Where is he? Take me to him, quick," said Sanders, relapsing into
English.

"Si, senor. At once," agreed Otero, thoroughly frightened.

"I want a six-shooter. Some one lend me one."

None of them carried one, but Bonita ran into the house and brought back
a small bulldog. Dave looked it over without enthusiasm. It was a pretty
poor concern to take against a man who carried two forty-fives and knew
how to use them. But he thrust it into his pocket and swung to the
saddle. It was quite possible he might be killed by Doble, but he had a
conviction that the outlaw had come to the end of the passage. He was
going to do justice on the man once for all. He regarded this as a
certainty.

CHAPTER XLIV

THE BULLDOG BARKS

Joyce fainted for the first time in her life.

When she recovered consciousness Doble was splashing water in her face.
She was lying on the bunk from which she had fled a few minutes earlier.
The girl made a motion to rise and he put a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"Keep your hand off me!" she cried.

"Don't be a fool," he told her irritably. "I ain't gonna hurt you
none--if you behave reasonable:"

"Let me go," she demanded, and struggled to a sitting position on the
couch. "You let me go or my father--"

"What'll he do?" demanded the man brutally. "I've stood a heap from
that father of yore's. I reckon this would even the score even if I
hadn't--" He pulled up, just in time to keep from telling her that he had
fired the chaparral. He was quite sober enough to distrust his tongue. It
was likely, he knew, to let out some things that had better not be told.

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