Bert Wilson in the Rockies

by J. W. Duffield

CHAPTER XIII

Trailing the Outlaws

For a few minutes the wildest confusion prevailed in the saloon. The noise of the shooting had emptied the other bar-rooms, as well as the houses of the little settlement, and from all quarters people came flocking to the scene of the tragedy. The dead man was removed to a room in the rear, and the wounds of the others were bound up with rude surgery, pending the arrival of a doctor, for whom one of the cowboys had ridden off post haste.

Bert's quick mind was busy piecing together the events of the past crowded hour. That the stranger was left-handed, although unusual in that region, proved nothing by itself. But the dead steer had borne the mark of a left-handed man—and Pedro was in charge of a part of Melton's stock—and he had sneaked away from his work to talk with this ruffian, apparently by appointment—and the latter had given the half-breed money. Had Bert known the additional fact that Pedro had been riding herd in the section where a large drove had recently disappeared, the conclusion would have been irresistible that he and the stranger had been in league to "rustle" Melton's cattle. But even without this last fact, the evidence was strong enough. All of these happenings, taken together, pointed unerringly toward the identity of one at least of the rustlers and gave the clue to the mystery.

His first impulse was to follow the fleeing murderer and either try to capture him or find out the rendezvous of the gang to which he belonged. But when he ran out to his horse, the fugitive had vanished, and there was nothing in the dusty road that gave any inkling of the direction he had taken.

Pursuit being impossible, there was but one thing left for him to do. He must get back to the ranch at once and reveal all he knew or guessed of the conspiracy. Pedro, at any rate, would be within reach, and a judicious application of the "third degree" could probably wring from him enough to put them on the track of the rustlers and bring the gang to justice. And his blood tingled at the thought of the fight that was probably coming, for the rustlers, brought to bay, would not surrender tamely. It was better to die from a bullet than dangle at the end of a rope, and they would battle with the fierceness of cornered rats.

He untied his horse, sprang into the saddle and set out for the ranch. His horse had had a good rest and was full of running, especially as his face was turned homeward. But, despite his own impatience, Bert subdued his mount to a trot that he could keep up indefinitely, and gave himself up to reviewing the stirring scenes from which he had just emerged.

He was passing through a patch of woodland, from which a deep gully diverged to the right, when he heard the whinny of a horse. Instantly he clapped his hand over the nostrils of his own mount to keep him from answering. Then he slid to the ground, tied a rope around his horse's jaws to keep him quiet and secured him to a tree. On hands and knees he crept forward through the underbrush in the direction of the sound. He reached the bank of the gully and peered over.

A little brook ran over the stones at the bottom of the gulch. Stooping over it was a man with his back toward him. A horse was picketed near by, contentedly munching the grass that grew thick and lush on the border of the stream. The man's right arm was bared to the elbow, and he was dashing water on a wound just above the wrist. Then he tore a strip from his shirt and proceeded to bandage the arm as best he could, accompanying the action with groans and curses that told of the pain he was enduring.

Bert's first thought was to steal down upon the man and at the point of his revolver demand his surrender. He had the drop on him, and, quick as the ruffian had proved himself on the draw, he would be at too great a disadvantage to resist. But, after all, what right had he to arrest the man? As far as the shooting in the saloon was concerned, the dead man had started the fight, and the other had acted in self-defense. The question of cheating was an open one that could probably never be determined. It had not been a murder, but a duel, and the quicker hand and better shot had won. There was no call for Bert to interfere.