Bert Wilson in the Rockies

by J. W. Duffield

As to the charge of cattle rustling, he had absolutely no proof to go upon. He had the moral conviction that the man was mixed up in the affair, but not a scintilla of evidence that would stand for a moment in a court of law. It would be high-handed and indefensible to make this man a prisoner, and take him on to the ranch for questioning by Melton. He would simply stand on his rights and defy them to prove anything against him. They would be forced to let him go, and, being henceforth on his guard, it would be doubly difficult to trap him and his gang.

No, the waiting game was the only one to play under the circumstances, and Bert replaced the revolver that he had half drawn from his belt. But he had no intention of resuming his journey to the ranch. Fate had brought him in contact with this man, when he had given up all expectation of finding him, and he was too good a sportsman to overlook any point in the game. He would keep him in sight, hang on his flank, follow his trail wherever it led, in the hope of finding the rendezvous of the gang. Then he would ride with whip and spur to the ranch, Melton would gather his men together, and they would swoop down on the outlaws' camp and catch them red-handed with their booty.

While he was settling on this course of action as promising the best results, the man had completed the task of bandaging. Bert looked for him to unhobble his horse and resume his journey. But, to his surprise, the fellow stretched himself out on the grass as though in no particular hurry. Yet there was an air of expectancy about him, and it flashed across Bert that he was waiting for some one. And this impression was heightened by the glances he cast toward the upper end of the gully, and the way he lifted his head from time to time as though listening for a signal.

It came at last, a whistle three times repeated. Instantly he sent back an answering call, and a moment later two men emerged from the farther end of the ravine and rode their horses slowly toward their waiting companion.

They were dressed in ordinary cowboy fashion and rode as though they had been born to the saddle. In addition to the revolvers in their holsters, each carried a rifle slung in the hollow of the arm. One was of enormous bulk and a shock of flaming red hair showed beneath his sombrero. The other was of medium build, but wiry and quick as a cat in his movements. Both were of the same evil stamp as the first, although they lacked the look of authority that marked him as a natural leader.

They gave an exclamation of surprise as they saw the bandaged arm, and were off their horses in an instant.

"What's the matter, cap?" inquired the smaller man. "Did they get you bad?"

"Bad enough," snarled the other with a string of blasphemies. "I guess they've broken a bone in my wrist. But the feller that did it will never do no more shooting." And in fervid words, interrupted by curses as his sore arm gave a worse twinge than usual, he related the events leading up to the affray.

The others listened with perfunctory grunts of sympathy, although they seemed less concerned about him personally than over the changes the wounding might make in their plans.

"It's lucky it's the right arm, anyway," consoled one of them. "Yer'll still be able to shoot as well as ever until yer get all right again."