“Oh, sheriff an’ ranger both wished me luck,
Yu’ bet! when I jumped th’ Line last Fall—
Yep!... Kind that a hog gets when he’s stuck,
For I’d cert’nly made them cattle-men bawl.
Them fellers has cause to love me as much
As they do a wolf, or a sneakin’ Piute;
But wouldn’t this jar yu’—’gettin’ in Dutch’
With th’ Mounted Police, thru’ a mangy coyote?”
—The Rustler’s Lament
After giving the buckskin a light feed of grain and attending to Johnny’s hoof carefully, Ellis despatched an early lunch, saddled up Shakem, and struck out for Tucker’s ranch, which was about eight miles distant. It was a glorious day and, feeling fully recovered from the effects of his morning’s shake-up, he rode slowly on through the golden haze with that ease and contentment that comes to a man who feels that he has earned it, and has sound health and a good horse under him.
Three miles or so beyond Gallagher’s the trail veered slightly west, then south, skirting the dense brush and timbered slopes of the foot-hills. Emerging from a patch of poplar that fringed the base of a small butte around which his trail led, a moving object suddenly appeared above him, sharply defined against the sky-line. Glancing up quickly he instantly recognized the tawny-gray, dog-like form of a coyote. Benton, in common with most range men, loathed the slinking, carrion-fed brutes and always shot them down remorselessly whenever opportunity offered. Averting his gaze and still keeping steadily on his way to deceive the wary animal, he cautiously lifted the flap of his holster with the intention of making a quick whirl and snap-shot. With shortened lines, he was just about to execute this maneuver when something strange and unfamiliar in the actions of his intended victim suddenly caused him to halt, paralyzed with open-mouthed curiosity and astonishment.
Apparently, for the moment, completely heedless of the close proximity of its mortal enemy, Man, it was pawing violently at its snout, and to the Sergeant’s ears came the unmistakable sounds of choking and vomiting. Gripping the Colt’s .45, Ellis’s hand flashed up, but the shell was never discharged. For just then came the sharp crack of a rifle shot from somewhere on the other side of the butte, and the coyote, with a bullet through its head, tumbled and slid, jerking in its death-struggle almost to the horse’s feet.
With a startled exclamation at the unexpected occurrence and, wrenching his steed around as it shyed instinctively away, Benton swung out of the saddle and turned wonderingly to examine that still twitching body. A peculiar something—evidently the cause of its previous choking motions—was protruding from its mouth and, prying open the clenched, blood-dripping paws, Ellis tugged it out from away back in the throat, down which it had apparently resisted being swallowed. Wiping the slimy object on the grass, he spread it open. His eyes dilated strangely with instant recognition, and a savage oath burst from him. It was the brand cut out of the hide of a freshly killed steer.
With lightning-like intuition and a quick, apprehensive, upward glance, the Sergeant crumpled up the clammy, half-chewed flap of skin, jammed it up under his stable-jacket and, jumping for the buckskin, wheeled and dashed into the shelter of the bush. Breathing rapidly with excitement, he dismounted and, lying on his stomach, dragged himself cautiously forward until he could discern the dead coyote.
His rapid movements had been only just in time. For, as he peered from his hiding place, another object silhouetted itself against the sky-line. A man, this time, wearing white-goatskin chaps, and in the short, powerful body, red hair, and prognathous jaw, the policeman discerned the all-familiar figure and lineaments of one—William Butlin—generally known in the district by the soubriquet of “Short and Dirty,” or “Shorty.”
He was coatless, and his bare, brawny arms were blood-stained up to the elbows as, clutching a rifle in one hand and a knife in the other, he slowly descended the incline and inspected the result of his marksmanship. Being summer, it was a poor skin and mangy so, with a muttered oath and a contemptuous kick, he turned and retraced his steps up the butte, with bent head scrutinizing the ground carefully around for something as he did so.
With a grim chuckle, the Sergeant watched him disappear from view and, after waiting a moment or two, quietly raised himself and slid out of his place of concealment. Climbing noiselessly until he reached the brow of the incline, he dropped prone and, removing his hat, looked warily down. He found himself looking down a narrow draw, dotted here and there with patches of alder, willow-scrub, and cottonwood clumps—a huge specimen of the latter rising from amongst its fellows at the lower end of the draw. There, at the bottom, not fifty yards distant, Benton beheld Mr. Short and Dirty busily engaged in stripping the hide from the bloody carcass of a newly butchered steer.
He had chosen an ideal spot for his nefarious work, the slopes on either side of the draw rendering him completely immune from ordinary observation, and the hot rays of the overhead sun beat down on the sprawled, glistening, pink and yellow monstrosity that his knife was rapidly laying bare. His rifle lay on the ground, well out of his reach, near his horse, a chunky, well-put-up white animal and, with back turned to the fierce scrutiny of the representative of the Law that followed his every movement, he bent over his work with nervous haste, skinning with long sweeps of his knife and glancing furtively around him from time to time.