CHAPTER II
ONE GRAY THIEF LESS
“There he goes; and it is a wolf, sure pop, Frank!” shouted Bob.
“And if you look close,” remarked his chum, “you’ll see that he wobbles just a little with that left hind leg of his. Reckon he got a thorn in his paw, or cut it on a sharp rock. After him, Bob!”
They gave the horses free rein. Both animals were comparatively fresh, and eager for a mad gallop over the open country that cool day in the Fall.
The steer did not seem to have sighted the fleeing wolf, or else must have decided that, with the two mounted boys in swift pursuit, there was little need of his exerting himself to overtake the hated enemy. At any rate he remained in the vicinity of the timber, as though bent on keeping the animal from again seeking refuge there.
“He’s heading for that swale near the rocky point; and if he reaches it we’ll have a hard time getting him!” exclaimed Bob, after a few minutes of racing.
“Don’t worry, he isn’t going to get there,” said Frank; “because we’re overhauling him right now. Look at him run! Lame or not, he can lope along as well as any wolf I ever chased. He knows he’s running for his life, the sly varmint. And he has hopes of giving us the slip.”
“I can see him look back every little while, Frank,” Bob remarked, as he bent low in the saddle, and felt his pulses thrill with the excitement of the chase. “What do you suppose he does that for?”
“Looking for the flash of the smoke of a gun, perhaps,” came the reply. “Some of these old prowlers are as wise as they make ’em. The boys declare they can dodge a bullet, if they happen to be looking back when you fire. Remember that, Bob, and be ready to shoot at the drop of the hat after I’ve let loose. Perhaps we can catch him napping that way.”
Bob was aware that he had much to learn about shooting while on the full gallop. Still, he would like to make a try. If he failed, then rather than see the wolf escape, he meant to be the one to take first shot, and let Frank try to nip the gray robber of the herds before he could recover.
Already had they decreased by one-half and more the lead with which the fleeing animal had started. Things were getting serious with the wolf now. His observations became more frequent. Evidently he expected that at any moment firing might begin; and he wanted to be ready to dodge.
“How about it now, Frank?” asked the Kentucky boy, as he held his rifle in readiness for instant use.
“We might give him a try,” came the reply; and as he spoke Frank threw his gun up to his shoulder, allowing the bridle to fall upon the neck of Buckskin.
The sharp report of the weapon sounded; but apparently there was no result. Quickly, after the first shot, came a second. Bob had pulled trigger, too; but the fleeing wolf did not show the least sign of having been struck.
“I missed him clean, Frank!” cried Bob, in dismay. “Hardly thought I’d be smart enough to hit such a flying target while going at this pace. But Frank, you were right; I plainly saw him dodge when you shot!”
“Well, let’s give him another round then, and see if you can do better, Bob.”
“I’m ready; let him have it,” yelled Bob, eagerly, his sporting instinct now fully aroused.
Again did Frank fire; and, seeing that the gray animal was still bounding along uninjured, Bob in turn discharged his gun.
“Poor shooting; that’s what!” he exclaimed; “I mean mine, of course, Frank; and now, you’ve just got to take your turn.”
“If you say so, all right!” answered the other.
“Something ought to be done, because we’re getting closer to that swale all the time; and I say it’d be a shame if the old wolf got clean away through trickery. Ready, Frank?”
“Let her go!”
Bob took a quick aim at the animal, and fired. Of course he had not the remotest idea of hitting the wolf; but by causing him to dodge it would open the way for his more experienced chum to get in a shot when the beast was off his guard.
The report of Frank’s gun came so close upon that of his own that Bob could hardly believe there had been two shots. Yet he had seen that the wolf kept on after his discharge. It was different when Frank shot his bolt.
“Wow! you got him that time, Frank!” shouted Bob, with great glee. “He’s dropped in his tracks, as sure as anything. Tried that trick just once too often, didn’t he? Look at him kicking his last! He’s paying now for the veal he carried off all these years, the villain!”
Frank laughed, for he felt particularly well pleased because the wolf had been kept from reaching the rocks where he might have eluded them.
They drew rein, and looked down at the now motionless form of the gaunt animal. Even in death the big wolf had a sinister appearance, for the lips were drawn back, exposing his cruel fangs.
“Ugh! I’d hate to meet a critter like that alone, and without more’n a knife to defend myself with, Frank!” Bob exclaimed, as he sat in the saddle, pushing several cartridges into the magazine of his rifle, and looking down at the hated quarry that had rewarded Frank’s last shot.
“Oh! he’s an old one, all right,” remarked Frank. “I can see the scars of many a fight on his hide, and about his muzzle. But wait till I fling him across the horse. Watch Buckskin prance! No horse likes to come in touch with a wild animal like a panther, wolf or bear, dead or alive. The scent of blood makes ’em wild, too. Whoa! Buckskin! don’t be so funny now. You’ve just got to carry this chap back to the ranch, because I want dad to see him.”
“Then we head toward home, now?” remarked Bob.
“Yes, but by way of that timber. I want to take a look at Old Baldy. When the boys hear of his return, there’ll be some tall talking. He used to give heaps of trouble in the past; yet they all liked the old chap. And when he disappeared, in company with a dozen head of stock, there was more range riding to find him than I ever heard of.”
“Old Baldy is waiting for us,” remarked Bob. “Seems like he just knew what we went for, and he wants to see what luck we had.”
“He’s a smart one, all right,” laughed Frank. “And if those rustlers have had him penned up all this while, he’s managed to break out at last, and come home.”
“Say, wouldn’t it be a great stunt now, if some of the boys could follow his trail back to Where he was kept in a corral. That would tell us, Frank, just how Pedro Mendoza manages to disappear, whenever he runs a bunch of cattle off.”
“Well, perhaps it might be done yet, impossible as it seems,” observed Frank.
“What makes you say so?” demanded the other.
“You see, Old Baldy has a marked hoof,” Frank went on.
“Different from those of other steers, you mean?” asked his chum.
“Yes. It’s got a queer twist that makes it look much longer than his other hoofs. The boys all know it, too. Spanish Joe used to say the animal must have got caught in a cleft of the rocks when small, and his hoof grew that way.”
“But, Frank, could any cowboy track Old Baldy all the way across plain and desert to the mountains, if he came from there, perhaps all of forty miles?”
“Under ordinary conditions I’d say no,” Frank answered promptly; “but you remember that we had a rain two days ago, which is quite remarkable for this country. That laid the alkali dust; and eyes trained to that sort of thing might do wonders. But that we’ll have to put up to dad and Bart Heminway, the foreman of Circle Ranch.”
“Here’s Old Baldy, looking to see if you got the wolf,” remarked Bob.
The gaunt-looking old steer did indeed seem to be beset with curiosity. Standing there, with head thrust out, he was sniffing the air, as though possibly the scent of blood came to his nostrils. Frank tossed the body of the wolf down on the ground, and then with his chum rode back a little distance to see what the steer would do.
“Watch!”
“He’s going up to smell of the wolf, Frank!” exclaimed the Kentucky boy.
“That’s what he is!” echoed Frank, as he watched the big beast approach, and finally bend his horned head to sniff at the gray-coated robber who had, in times past, stolen many a calf, and partly grown heifer, from the herd, as the animals grazed in some dangerous spot.
“How about the brand; has it been changed?” asked Bob, seeing the flank of the returned steer turned toward them.
“It’s been burned out entirely; but no new one made yet,” Frank replied.
“How was that, do you suppose, Frank?”
“Perhaps Old Baldy was too much for the Mexican ropers,” the other answered; “and they just had to give up the idea of putting another brand on him. Then again, if Spanish Joe or his nephew Abajo happened to be in the bunch of rustlers, they would recognize Old Baldy, and warn the others that it would be dangerous to try and slip him through. No matter, here he is, right side up with care, and as ready as ever to do battle.”
“Look at him going to horn the dead wolf,” said Bob. “He’ll spoil the skin for you, Frank, if you don’t watch out.”
“Oh! I don’t care much about that,” Frank remarked; “because it’s an old and sunburned pelt at best; but I’d like dad to see the thief intact. So let’s ride forward, and induce Old Baldy to stop his sport.”
The steer retreated at their advance, still shaking his head threateningly, as though not quite convinced that he had better keep the peace. Possibly he recognized Frank as an old acquaintance, and was so rejoiced to be back again amid the associations of his earlier years that he decided not to attack them. Had he tried anything of the sort he would have rued the day, because Frank could throw the rope as well as any cowboy, and he would speedily have rolled Old Baldy over on his back.
Once again the dead wolf was tossed across the back of the plunging buckskin pony. No matter how well trained a horse may be, he will never become accustomed to the presence of a beast of prey. Even circus horses show their nervousness, after drawing a cage containing a tiger or a lion for weeks and months at a time.
Old Baldy trotted along after them as they rode off.
“That proves he was on his way home when he scented that lame wolf; and perhaps chased him into that bunch of timber,” remarked Frank, as he turned in the saddle and saw the following steer.
They soon sighted the white-washed buildings of Circle Ranch. Trees gave a grateful shade in places; but from far off on the plain a traveler could catch glimpses of the home of the Haywoods, and the headquarters of the largest stock-growers in all Arizona.
When the two boys drew up in front of the ranch house they found Frank’s father sitting in a chair on the piazza. He had not as yet fully recovered from his broken leg.
“Hello! Frank, back again so soon?” he called out, as the boys drew rein and jumped to the ground. “What brought you back in such a hurry? And it seemed to me I heard some sort of firing away out to windward. Was that you?”
“Just what it was, dad,” replied Frank. “We were chasing a wolf, and trying to beat him at dodging. He was an old chap; but after a few trials we knocked him over; and he’ll never pull down another calf for us.”
“I wish we could get rid of all our troubles as easily as that, Frank,” remarked Colonel Haywood, as he glanced at the dead animal which his boy dragged up near the steps of the piazza.
“We never would have seen him, I reckon, sir,” Bob spoke, “only for a steer that had him cornered in a little bunch of timber and brush, and was daring him to come out. Frank guessed the wolf might be a little lame, which was why he didn’t appear. That proved to be so when we scared him into running. But Frank nailed him, all right, you may be sure—caught him just back of the foreleg, when he turned aside at my shot. It’s a trick I hope to learn some day.”
“So a steer held him up, eh?” went on the stockman. “It isn’t often any of them will do that, Frank.”
“Well, you can expect anything of Old Baldy!” remarked Frank, quietly.
The stockman started, and showed great interest.
“What’s that, Frank?” he exclaimed. “Old Baldy come back again, after we believed the rustlers got him? That’s some interesting news, now. The boys will be tickled to know that. And perhaps Old Baldy may help us locate Mendoza the Rustler’s secret corral!”