speaks my piece. I saw them signs, like I said. Th' cuss that made 'em
sneaked right up to my back door, went around th' side of my house,
stopped just in time for his health, backed off, saw his friend's body,
an' my pants, an' backed off some more. Then he climbed up on two good
feet an' made toe prints plumb deep. He didn't run; no, ma'am; he just
telegraphed hisself; never stopped for nothin'. He sped, he shot, he
_moved_!"

"An' us two ijuts layin' out here in th' sun till we was cussed near
jerked meat!" growled Johnny. "I call that blamed unpolite."

"Didn't I tell you we was two ijuts? When an older man speaks you want
to keep yore mouth shut an' yore ear tabs open. Th' young bucks go out
an' steal th' horses an' lift th' scalps; but th' old fellers make good
talk around th' council fires. Stick _that_ in yore peace pipe an'
smoke it. Might be good for your health sometime."

"Yo're a purty spry scalper yoreself," admitted Johnny. "Regular old
he-whizzer; but you got no morals, an' a very bad, disgustin' habit.
I'm surprised you didn't take scalps, too!"

"You let the Colonel alone," warned Luke. "Now, that rustler is some
he-whizzer hisself, an' he won't need nobody to tell him what he saw.
He's done told his tribe about that; an' bein' a stranger here I'm
only guessin'. Say what's on yore mind."

"Th' young buck will now talk at th' council fire," grinned Johnny.
"Yo're right, for once. It wasn't th' cook. I never saw a cook yet that
could move around so nobody could hear him. It wasn't Gates, because
he's wounded several; an' I don't think it was that other feller,
because somehow I ain't feverishly admirin' his brains. That leaves
Quigley; an' he ain't no fool _all_ th' time. I can see him beatin'
hell an' high-water to his three stone shacks, where his friends are,
an' where his guns, grub, clothes, an' other things are. I can see four
men lookin' out of four loopholes. They are if they ain't jumped th'
country; an' if they has, we'll let 'em go.

"Takin' a new, fresh holt, I'd say that they don't know that we'd let
'em go; an' they don't know how many we are, or where all of us are
located. They don't aim to lead us a chase; that is, mebby they don't.
Them shacks are shore strong; an' they don't know how far they might
get if they run for it. 'Tain't like open country--they got just four
places to ride out of that sink an' they all can be easy guarded."

"They won't come out th' way they went in," said Luke. "That would be
risky an' foolish; so they's only three places left."

"A wise man never does what he ought to do," said Johnny. "Now, I'll
bet they are either in them stone houses, or some place else," he
grinned. "Th' only way, after all, to see a good man's hand, is to call
it. Me an' you, bein' amazin' curious, will do just that. If they're
in them houses they'll be expectin' us; they'll turn th' 'Welcome'
sign to th' wall an' smoke up them loopholes. Don't interrupt me yet!
I'm long-winded an' hard to stop. Th' question is: Are you primed to
wrastle this thing out, just me an' you, or shall I watch 'em while you
go back to th' CL for help? That--"

"I _will_ interrupt!" snorted Luke heatedly. "If it wasn't that yo're
only a fool infant, d----d if I wouldn't fan yore saddle end! I ain't
never yelled for help when it wasn't needed; an' lots of times when
it was needed I forgot to yell. Too busy, mebby. You've been running
things with a high hand out here, an' yore head reminds me of th' head
of a cow bit by a snake. It's swelled scandalous. I'm goin' to show you
how to get four men out of them loopholes. Bein' young an' green, you'd
likely want to crawl in an' pull 'em out. But me, bein' wise, will use
brains, an' more brains. I can make a cat skin itself."

"You want to be plumb shore that it ain't one of them striped
kitties--they look a lot alike in a poor light; an' that entrance
canyon is shore poor light. I reckon we won't eat, yet. We better
rustle for their ranch."

"But Logan wants to know them facts that he sent us after," growled
Luke regretfully.

"We ain't got 'em; an' we can't get 'em. Them fellers won't do no
rustlin' now, so how can we trail 'em? They're too cussed busy lookin'
out for their skins about now. An' only two of 'em ain't wounded; Purdy
an' th' cook."

"How many cows they got?"

"Near two hundred."

"Holy Jumpin' Jerusalem!" snorted Luke. "We're lucky that we still got
th' ranch-house an' th' river!"

"We're wastin' time," growled Johnny, impatiently. "There's no telling
what they're doin'. Come on. Bein' desperate, mebby they're roundin' up
to make a drive. Come on!"

It was past mid-afternoon when the two punchers looked down into the QE
valley and found relief at the sight of the cows lazily feeding. They
were scattered all over the range and both men knew that no attempt had
been made to round them up.

Going down the blind-canyon trail, they crossed the range, climbed the
opposite cliff and finally stopped in front of the stone houses. A gun
barrel projected from a loophole in the south wall of the house nearest
the canyon, and four saddled horses were in the smaller corral.

"There they are," said Johnny. A bullet stirred his hair and he drew
back from the rim. "We got to get 'em. Start skinnin' that cat, Old
Timer."

"It'll shore take a lot of skinnin'," growled Luke.

"Not if we uses 'brains an' more brains,'" jeered Johnny. "Th' young
buck will now be heard shootin' off his mouth at th' council fire; an'
you listen close, One Ijut!"

"Have yore say," said Luke, covering a loophole which showed signs of
activity.

"We've got to move fast, before they learn that there's only two of
us," said Johnny. "When them houses was built they was laid out with
th' idea of men bein' in _all_ of 'em; an' they'd be cussed hard to
lick, then. But I reckon they're all in that one house. There ain't men
enough to hold 'em all; an' so they favored th' one near th' canyon.
We got to keep that door shut so they can't get out an' away. I'll do
that after dark; an' I'll stampede them cayuses. That leaves 'em no
chance to make a dash an' ride for it. Now you see that little trickle
of water flowin' under th' houses? That's their water supply; I know
something about that crick; but that's another job for th' dark. Take
a look over there, where it turns. See that dirt bank, on th' bend?
That's where they turned it out of its course an' sent it flowin' in
th' ditch leadin' to th' houses. Do you reckon you could cut that bank
with Colonel Bowie an' throw a little dam across th' ditch? 'Tain't
wide; only a couple of feet. I--"

Luke fired, and grunted regretfully. "Missed him, d--n it!" he swore,
reloading. "Gettin' so you can find work for my knife, huh?" he
chuckled. "Not bein' blind, I see th' bank an' th' bend. An' if I can't
turn that water back th' way it used to go, I'll fold up an' die. This
is like old times. You must 'a' had a real elegant, bang-up time out
here, crawlin' around an' raisin' h--l with 'em. What a grand place
for th' Colonel! I shore missed a lot; but I'm here now, an' with both
feet! Sing yore song; I'm listenin'."

"It's sung," grinned Johnny; "an' now we got to dance."

"I ain't as spry as I used to be," grunted Luke; "so I'll have to make
them fellers do th' dancin'."

CHAPTER XXIII

"ALL BUT TH' COWS"

Gates, the wounded, tossed restlessly in his bunk, and finally rolled
over and faced the dark room. "Never was so wide awake in my life," he
grumbled. "Been settin' around too much lately. If I wanted to stay
awake I'd be as sleepy as th' devil."

"Better try it again," counseled Quigley, shifting from his loophole.
"You don't want to be sleepy tomorrow when yo're on guard."

"Tom," said Gates, ignoring the advice. "I've been doin' some thinkin'.
A feller does a lot of thinkin' when he can't sleep. We made a couple
of mistakes, holin' up like this. In th' first place, if we had to hole
up, we should 'a' occupied _both_ end houses, 'stead of only one. This
way, they can walk right up to within twenty feet of us, use th' cook
shack, th' grub in th' store-house, an' them store-house loopholes,
which is worse. If we had both end houses, two men in each, they
couldn't get anywhere close to us except along th' crick an' up on th'
cliff."

"Yes; I reckon so," said Quigley. "'Tain't too late yet, mebby. I
didn't like th' idea of splittin' up our forces. As far as grub is
concerned, we're near as well off that way as we are in our water
supply. We got grub in here for two months, an' plenty of cartridges if
we don't get reckless with 'em. Of course, I wish that other case was
in here, too; it'd give us another thousand rounds for th' rifles; but
I ain't worryin' none about that. An' I'm purty near shore, now, that
there's only two of 'em fightin' us: Nelson an' that Tedrue, judgin'
from th' knife-work."

"That's th' way I figger it," agreed Gates. "An' that's why we
shouldn't 'a' holed up like this. Me ah' th' cook could 'a' held this
house, while you an' Purdy was on th' outside stalkin' 'em. Any man
that can stalk like you can is plumb wastin' his time cooped up in
here; an' you could 'a' made things sizzlin' hot for them two fellers,
good as they are. This way, they've got us located, an' they only have
to look for trouble in front of 'em. They know where to expect it all
th' time. It was a big mistake."

"Mebby," grunted Quigley. "We'll try it in here tonight an' tomorrow,
an' then if we don't have no luck, I'll fade away tomorrow night an'
give 'em a taste of Injun fightin'. There ain't no moon this week, so
we can pick our time to suit ourselves."

Purdy leaned his rifle against the wall and groped for the water
bucket. "I'll make a try for that extra case of cartridges right now,
if you say th' word," he offered. "Huh! We shore drink a lot of water,"
he grunted. "I filled this pail before sundown, an' it's near empty
now. Too much bacon, I reckon."

Quigley laughed softly. "Water is one thing we don't have to worry
about at all. That ditch was a great idea."

Could he have followed the ditch in the dark he would have been
surprised to have seen the dam across it, and the cut through the
artificial bank, where Luke Tedrue and a commandeered shovel had
released the little stream and let it flow to Rustler Creek along its
old, original bed down a shallow gully. That was Johnny's idea; but
after the old scout had carried it out, he had an idea of his own which
pleased him greatly, and he acted upon it without loss of time.

The cook stirred and sat up, feeling for his pipe, which was always
his first act upon awakening. He grunted sleepily and sat on the edge
of his bunk. "This is a whole lot like bein' in jail," he yawned. "An'
what do you think? I dreamed that somebody had just tapped a keg of
beer, an' when I sidled over to see that none of it was wasted, why I
woke up! That's allus my luck. How soon'll it be daylight? That dream
made me thirsty. Where's that cussed water bucket?"

"Right where it was th' last time you found it," grinned Purdy. "It
ain't moved none at all."

"Yo're right, it ain't," grumbled the cook, scraping a tin cup across
the bottom of the pail. "It never does unless _I_ do it. I'll bet four
bits that I've filled it every time it got empty; an' I'll bet four
bits more that I ain't goin' to fill it _this_ time," he chuckled.
"There's just enough here for me. Th' next gent that wants a drink
will be observed bendin' over th' trapdoor an' fillin' it for hisself.
Here's how! An' d--n th' beer what only comes in dreams."

Gates crawled out of his bunk and limped to the bucket. "Get out of my
way," he growled. "Speakin' of beer started my throat to raspin'. No
you don't; not a-tall," he grumbled, pushing the cook aside. "I'll wait
on myself, slugs or _no_ slugs. I ain't no teethin' infant, even if I
_am_ full of holes." He crossed to the trapdoor and fumbled around in
the dark. "Huh! I knowed it couldn't get far away. I've been kneelin'
on it all th' time!"

"Better lemme do that," offered the cook, advancing.

"Better yore grandmother," said Gates. "No, ma'am; you put on too many
airs, you do." He raised the door. "You might strain yore delicate
back, Cookie, old boss. An' anyhow, I'm aimin' to spite you for that
unnecessary remark about openin' a keg of beer. This ain't no time to
talk about things like that." He leaned down and swung the bucket, but
there was no splash, only a rattling, tinny thump. "Why," said his
muffled voice, "there ain't no water here! Mebby I missed it. Why, d--n
it, there ain't no water here a-tall! What th'--" His voice ceased
abruptly and a solid, muffled thump came up through the opening.

The cook, leaning forward in the position he had frozen in when he had
grasped the significance of the sound of the striking bucket, moved
toward the trap, feeling before him. He touched the edge of the opening
and swiftly felt around it. Gates was not there.

"D--n it, he's fell in!" he muttered. "It wasn't no job for a wounded
man like him, bendin' over that way. Here, Purdy!" he called "Gimme
a hand with Ben. He plumb keeled over an' fell in." He reached down
impatiently and felt around. "H--l!" he yelled as an up-thrust hand
gripped him, jerked him off his balance and pulled him down through the
opening. "Look out, fellers!" he shouted.

A second thump, softer than the first, ended the cry, and Purdy,
leaping forward, slammed shut the trap and bolted it. "More
knife-work!" he gritted, pale with rage. Arising, he leaped toward the
cabin door, yanked it open and dashed along the house, staggering as a
finger of flame spurted from a loophole in the wall of the store-house,
but recovered his balance and turned the corner. As he did so he
caught sight of a thickening in the darkness, which moved swiftly and
silently along the ditch, and he fired at it. Something whizzed past
his neck and rang out, sharp and clear as a bell, on the end wall of
the house. He answered it with another shot and saw the blot stagger
and fall.

From the ditch came a spurt of fire and Purdy plunged forward, firing
as he fell. Another shot answered him and again he fired, but with a
weak and shaking hand. Then from a loophole behind him Quigley's rifle
poked out and sent shot after shot along the ditch, firing on a gamble.

As the rifle spoke, a shadow flitted past the corner of the
store-house, passed swiftly and silently across the space between
the two houses and plunged through the open door of the rustlers'
stronghold. It tripped over a box and sprawled headlong just as Quigley
wheeled and sent a bullet through the space Johnny had occupied an
instant before.

Leaping to his feet, Johnny hurled himself upon the rustler, wrenched
the rifle loose and gripped the owner's throat. Plunging, heaving,
straining, they thrashed around the room, smashing into bunks, breaking
dishes; hammering, gouging, biting, choking, they bumped into the door,
plunged through the opening and carried the struggle out under the sky.

Quigley, his face purple and his eyes popping out, almost senseless on
his feet, and fighting from instinct, managed to break the grip on his
throat and showered blows on his enemy's face. Sinking his teeth in
Johnny's upper arm, he got both of his hands around Johnny's throat and
closed his grip with all his weakened strength.

Across the yard they reeled, bumped into the corral and along it,
following the slope of the ground without thought. Johnny, suffocating,
thrust the heel of his right hand against his enemy's nose and pushed
upward and back, while his left hand, leaving the gripping fingers
around his throat, smashed heavily into Quigley's stomach. The hands
relaxed, loosened their grip and fell away, and before they could
regain their hold, Johnny's chin settled firmly against his chest and
protected his windpipe. Just in time he caught Quigley's gun hand and
tore the Colt out of it, whereupon Quigley hammered his face with both
hands. Shoving, wrestling, reeling, they came to the edge of the ravine
through which flowed Rustler Creek, and, plunging over the steep bank,
rolled to the bottom and stopped in the mud and water of the creek
itself, where they fought lying down, each trying desperately to remain
on top.

Quigley's hand brushed one of Johnny's guns, gripped it, drew it out
and shoved the muzzle against his enemy's side. As he pulled the
trigger Johnny writhed swiftly and turned the muzzle away. Squirming on
top, he again turned the muzzle away as Quigley fired the second time.
At the roar of the shot the rustler grunted and grew suddenly limp.

Logan pushed back from the dinner table and glanced out of the window.
Shouting an exclamation he leaped for the door, the rest of the outfit
piling pell-mell at his heels.

A black horse, carrying double, stopped near the door and eager hands
caught Luke Tedrue as he fell from Pepper's back. Johnny, covered
with mud, dust, blood, and powder grime, his clothes torn into shreds
and his face a battered mass of red and black and blue flesh, swayed
slightly, grasped the saddle horn with both hands and sat stiffly erect
again.

"Good Lord!" shouted Logan, jumping to him. "What th' h--l's up?"

"Rustlin'," muttered Johnny. "Luke's brains got foundered in th' head
an' he pulled three of 'em out of a hole; but I made Quigley skin th'
cat."

"Are they _all_ gone under?" yelled Logan incredulously.

"All but th' cows," sighed Johnny, and strong arms caught him as he
fell.

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=Lone Wolf, The.= By Louis Joseph Vance.

=Long Roll, The.= By Mary Johnson.

=Lonesome Land.= By B. M. Bower. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

=Lost Ambassador.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

=Lost Prince, The.= By Frances Hodgson Burnett.

=Lost Road, The.= By Richard Harding Davis.

=Love Under Fire.= By Randall Parrish.

=Macaria.= (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.

=Maids of Paradise, The.= By Robert W. Chambers.

=Maid of the Forest, The.= By Randall Parrish.

=Maid of the Whispering Hills, The.= By Vingie E. Roe.

=Making of Bobby Burnit, The.= By Randolph Chester.

=Making Money.= By Owen Johnson.

=Mam' Linda.= By Will N. Harben.

=Man Outside, The.= By Wyndham Martyn.

=Man Trail, The.= By Henry Oyen.

=Marriage.= By H. G. Wells.

=Marriage of Theodora, The.= By Mollie Elliott Seawell.

=Mary Moreland.= By Marie Van Vorst.

=Master Mummer, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

=Max.= By Katherine Cecil Thurston.

=Maxwell Mystery, The.= By Caroline Wells.

=Mediator, The.= By Roy Norton.

=Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.= By A. Conan Doyle.

=Mischief Maker, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

=Miss Gibbie Gault.= By Kate Langley Bosher.

=Miss Philura's Wedding Gown.= By Florence Morse Kingsley.

=Molly McDonald.= By Randall Parrish.

=Money Master, The.= By Gilbert Parker.

=Money Moon. The.= By Jeffery Farnol.

=Motor Maid, The.= By C. N and A. M. Williamson.

=Moth, The.= By William Dana Orcutt.

=Mountain Girl, The.= By Payne Erskine.

=Mr. Bingle.= By George Barr McCutcheon.

=Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

=Mr. Pratt.= By Joseph C. Lincoln.

=Mr. Pratt's Patients.= By Joseph C. Lincoln.

=Mrs. Balfame.= By Gertrude Atherton.

=Mrs. Red Pepper.= By Grace S. Richmond.

=My Demon Motor Boat.= By George Fitch.

=My Friend the Chauffeur.= By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

=My Lady Caprice.= By Jeffery Farnol.

=My Lady of Doubt.= By Randall Parrish.

=My Lady of the North.= By Randall Parrish.

=My Lady of the South.= By Randall Parrish.

=Ne'er-Do-Well, The.= By Rex Beach.

=Net, The.= By Rex Beech.

=New Clarion.= By Will N. Harben.

=Night Riders, The.= By Ridgwell Cullum.

=Night Watches.= By W. W. Jacobs.

=Nobody.= By Louis Joseph Vance.

=Once Upon a Time.= By Richard Harding Davis.

=One Braver Thing.= By Richard Dehan.

=One Way Trail, The.= By Ridgwell Cullum.

=Otherwise Phyllis.= By Meredith Nicholson.

=Pardners.= By Rex Beach.

=Parrott & Co.= By Harold MacGrath.

=Partners of the Tide.= By Joseph C. Lincoln.

=Passionate Friends, The.= By H. G. Wells.

=Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail, The.= By Ralph Connor.

=Paul Anthony, Christian.= By Hiram W. Hayes.

=Perch of the Devil.= By Gertrude Atherton.

=Peter Ruff.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

=People's Man, A.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

=Phillip Steele.= By James Oliver Curwood.

=Pidgin Island.= By Harold MacGrath.

=Place of Honeymoon, The.= By Harold MacGrath.

=Plunderer, The.= By Roy Norton.

=Pole Baker.= By Will N. Harben.

=Pool of Flame, The.= By Louis Joseph Vance.

=Port of Adventure, The.= By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

=Postmaster, The.= By Joseph C. Lincoln.

=Power and the Glory, The.= By Grace McGowan Cooke.

=Prairie Wife, The.= By Arthur Stringer.

=Price of Love, The.= By Arnold Bennett.

=Price of the Prairie, The.= By Margaret Hill McCarter.

=Prince of Sinners.= By A. E. Phillips Oppenheim.

=Princes Passes, The.= By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

=Princess Virginia, The.= By C. N. and A. N. Williamson.

=Promise, The.= By J. B. Hendryx.

=Purple Parasol, The.= By Geo. B. McCutcheon.

=Ranch at the Wolverine, The.= By B. M. Bower.

=Ranching for Sylvia.= By Harold Bindloss.

=Real Man, The.= By Francis Lynde.

=Reason Why, The.= By Elinor Glyn.

=Red Cross Girl, The.= By Richard Harding Davis.

=Red Mist, The.= By Randall Parrish.

=Redemption of Kenneth Galt, The.= By Will N. Harben.

=Red Lane, The.= By Holman Day.

=Red Mouse, The.= By Wm. Hamilton Osborne.

=Red Pepper Burns.= By Grace S. Richmond.

=Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The.= By Anne Warner.

=Return of Tarzan, The.= By Edgar Rice Burroughs.

=Riddle of Night, The.= By Thomas W. Hanshew.

=Rim of the Desert, The.= By Ada Woodruff Anderson.

=Rise of Roscoe Paine, The.= By J. C. Lincoln.

=Road to Providence, The.= By Maria Thompson Daviess.

=Robinetta.= By Kate Douglas Wiggin.

=Rocks of Valpré, The.= By Ethel M. Dell.

=Rogue by Compulsion, A.= By Victor Bridges.

=Rose in the Ring, The.= By George Barr McCutcheon.

=Rose of the World.= By Agnes and Egerton Castle.

=Rose of Old Harpeth, The.= By Maria Thompson Daviess.

=Round the Corner in Gay Street.= By Grace S. Richmond.

=Routledge Rides Alone.= By Will L. Comfort.

=St. Elmo.= (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.

=Salamander, The.= By Owen Johnson.

=Scientific Sprague.= By Francis Lynde.

=Second Violin, The.= By Grace S. Richmond.

=Secret of the Reef, The.= By Harold Bindloss.

=Secret History.= By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.

=Self-Raised.= (Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth.

=Septimus.= By William J. Locke.

=Set in Silver.= By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.

=Seven Darlings, The.= By Gouverneur Morris.

=Shea of the Irish Brigade.= By Randall Parrish.

=Shepherd of the Hills, The.= By Harold Bell Wright.

=Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The.= By Ridgwell Cullum.

=Sign at Six, The.= By Stewart Edw. White.

=Silver Horde, The.= By Rex Beach.

=Simon the Jester.= By William J. Locke.

=Siren of the Snows, A.= By Stanley Shaw.

=Sir Richard Calmady.= By Lucas Malet.

=Sixty-First Second, The.= By Owen Johnson.

=Slim Princess, The.= By George Ade.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Man From Bar 20, by Clarence E. Mulford