Knights of the Range. Zane Grey

A fine stream of water babbled down out of the pass; the aspens were out in their spring dress of fresh green, every leaf quivering in the still air; white-rumped antelope edged up the slope; wild turkeys were gobbling from a lofty wooded bench. Britt recalled the legend of Paso del Muerte, which concerned the massacre of some Spaniards by Apaches a century and more ago. It might have happened on a beautiful, serene, sunny New Mexico morning such as this. And he had a premonition that those bygone days of the old padres had been tame to those that were still to come.

      Britt heard the bony crack of unshod hoofs on the rocks beyond the grove of aspens. Then gleams of brown and gray and black showed through the leaves. Soon horses appeared slipping leisurely between the slim white tree-trunks. Some splashed into the brook to drink while others trotted out of the grove into the sunlight. The foremost shot up long ears and halted with snorts. Others coming from behind forced them onward. Presently the band, sighting and scenting Britt, sheered to one side, and trooped to the left. Stragglers followed to join the main bunch.

      The foreman climbed up on the high fence and sat on the top pole next to the gate. Shrill whistles from the driven animals would certainly acquaint the raiders that the advance had been halted. Britt counted two score and more of horses that had been selected from the stock by men who knew horses. These were all young, notable for thoroughbred points and the fact that they were unbranded.

      “Cuss the luck!” growled Britt. “Another show-down. Stock we haven’t time to brand is just lost. Thet’s all. If I had twice as many cowboys I couldn’t put an iron on all the colts an’ calves thet belong to us.”

      The horses stopped at the fence, stood head on for a while, and then began to graze toward the slope. Britt saw the riders before they discovered him. There were eight in sight. He rather inclined to the opinion that more were yet to come. Voices came clearly to him.

      “Bill, somethin’ turned the dogies.”

      “Gate closed.”

      “Look thar!”

      “Who’n hell’s thet?”

      After a trenchant pause one of the riders answered: “Thet’s Cap Britt, foreman of the Ripple outfit.”

      Britt recognized that surly voice as belonging to Mugg Dillon, one of his cowboys.

      “Ride ahead—you,” ordered one of the group, sharply. “Take a peek in thet cabin.”

      Dillon rode on out of the aspens and up to the open door of the cabin. Peering in he called gruffly: “Nobody hyar.”

      Then the riders advanced, separating in a manner which told the Texan much; and in this formation they rode to within a hundred paces of the fence. Dillon fell in behind them. Britt’s swift eye took in many significant points. These men were superbly mounted on dark bays and blacks. They were heavily armed. A harder looking gang Britt had not seen on the range. Whatever else they were, they surely were cowmen. Britt needed only a glance to link the lithe, easily poised riders, all evincing the incomparable saddle-seat of cowboys, to the stone-faced, matured type of range-rustler and horse-thief.

      “Hyar, Dillon,” rasped the leader, a swarthy man whose features were vague in the shadow of a wide sombrero. The rider called made haste to get out in front. “Come on an’ introduce me to your boss.”

      “Easy, Bill,” cracked a dry voice from the line. “Thet hombre was a Texas Ranger.”

      Warily the leader urged his horse all of fifty steps toward the fence. Dillon lined up beside him. At this distance Britt gathered from the cowboy’s ashen face that he was in a predicament from which there seemed to be no escape. Britt had never seen this man Bill. He had brawny shoulders and unkempt hair low on his thick neck. The foreman could catch only a gleam of rapacious eyes.

      “Dillon, is this your boss?” he queried, gruffly, without looking at the cowboy.

      “Yes.”

      “Howdy, Britt.”

      “Howdy, yoreself,” rejoined Britt, curtly.

      “Enjoyin’ the scenery roundabout?” went on Bill, sarcastically.

      “Not particular, leastways not in front.”

      “Reckon you shut the gate on us.”

      “Wal, it’s our gate.”

      “You can open it pronto.”

      The foreman vented a short dry laugh, but vouchsafed no other answer.

      “What’s the idee, Britt?” went on the raider.

      “I seen a bunch of our hawses comin’ an’ I didn’t want them to get out.”

      “Your hosses?—How you goin’ to prove thet? They ain’t branded.”

      “Wal, I reckon I cain’t prove it. But my ootfit knows ’em an’ they’ll be comin’ pronto.”

      “Hell you say,” retorted Bill, flashing a plainsman’s gaze across the range. “Only one hossman in sight.”

      “Mugg, where’d you leave Stinger an’ Brazos Keene?” inquired Britt, coldly.

      “Boss, we left Stinger fer dead. An’ the last I seen of Brazos he was ridin’ hell-bent fer leather up the pass,” replied the cowboy, hurriedly.

      Dillon had been the last rider taken on by Britt for the Ripple outfit, and he was an unknown and doubtful quality. Britt knew his status would be defined shortly.

      “Mugg, how come you’re ridin’ with these gents?” drawled the foreman.

      “I—he . . . boss, I jest had—to,” burst out Dillon, disconnectedly. He was not yet old enough at this game to face death coolly from two sides. Britt knew he was guilty.

      “Bah!” ejaculated the raider, scornfully, and with a back sweep of his gloved left hand he struck Dillon from his saddle. The cowboy fell, and bounded up hatless, a cornered wolf. His horse plunged away dragging the bridle. “Britt, save me the trouble of borin’ the yellow pup.”

      “Mugg, I reckon I wouldn’t bore you for double-crossin’ me,” drawled Britt, ponderingly. “But these air Miss Holly’s hawses—an’ some she puts store in. What air Brazos an’ Jim goin’ to do aboot this deal?”

      “Britt,” interposed the raider, “I don’t mind tellin’ you thet Brazos took a flyin’ shot at Dillon an’ creased him, as you can see if you look close.”

      “Cowboy, fork yore hawse an’ ride,” said Britt, contemptuously, after verifying the raider’s statement. Dillon bent over to pick up his sombrero.

      “Suits me,” said Bill, laconically. “But fust open thet gate.”

      Dillon had no choice but to comply and Britt likewise had no choice but to sit on the fence and take this humiliating procedure. He had himself well in hand, though an unwonted heat boiled beneath his skin. Britt knew his job. His life was worth more to Holly Ripple than that of this insolent raider, and all his men. Nevertheless it galled the Texan to withhold his hand.

      “Thet fellar’s comin’ fast,” spoke up the raider, after Dillon had opened the gate.

      Britt did not turn, but he had an uneasy premonition. Certainly no single rider in his outfit would be bearing swiftly down upon that doubtful group.

      At this Britt wheeled so quickly as nearly to lose his seat on the fence. His sudden dread was verified. Scarcely two hundred paces distant came a black clean-limbed racer with Holly Ripple in the saddle. “Good Gawd!” groaned the foreman, in sudden distraction. Then, cupping his hands round his lips he bellowed stentorianly: “Holly, turn back! Hawse-thieves!”

      She did not hear, however, or did not heed, but came up swiftly, a striking figure on the racer.

      “Britt, you ain’t flatterin’, but I’ll pass it over,” remarked Bill, tersely.

      In