A Recruit Joins The Rangers
: The Fighting EdgeHarshaw did not, during the first forty-eight hours after leaving Bear
Cat, make contact with either the Indians or the militia. He moved
warily, throwing out scouts as his party advanced. At night he posted
sentries carefully to guard against a surprise attack. It was not the
habit of the tribes to assault in the darkness, but he was taking no
chances. It would be easy to fall into an ambush, but he had no intention
o
At the mouth of Wolf Creek a recruit joined the company. He rode up after
camp had been made for the night.
"Jake Houck," Bob whispered to Dud.
"Who's boss of this outfit?" the big man demanded of Blister after he had
swung from the saddle.
"Harshaw. You'll find him over there with the cavvy."
Houck straddled across to the remuda.
"Lookin' for men to fight the Utes?" he asked brusquely of the owner of
the Slash Lazy D brand.
"Yes, sir."
"If you mean business an' ain't bully-pussin' I'll take a hand," the
Brown's Park man said, and both voice and manner were offensive.
The captain of the rangers met him eye to eye. He did not like this
fellow. His reputation was bad. In the old days he had been a rustler,
rumor said. Since the affair of the Tolliver girl he had been very sulky
and morose. This had culminated in the killing of the Ute. What the facts
were about this Harshaw did not know. The man might be enlisting to
satisfy a grudge or to make himself safe against counter-attack by
helping to drive the Indians back to the reservation. The point that
stood out was that Houck was a first-class fighting man. That was
enough.
"We mean business, Houck. Glad to have you join us. But get this
straight. I'll not have you startin' trouble in camp. If you've got a
private quarrel against any of the boys it will have to wait."
"I ain't aimin' to start anything," growled Houck. "Not till this job's
finished."
"Good enough. Hear or see anything of the Utes as you came?"
"No."
"Which way you come?"
Houck told him. Presently the two men walked back toward the
chuck-wagon.
"Meet Mr. Houck, boys, any of you that ain't already met him," said
Harshaw by way of introduction. "He's going to trail along with us for a
while."
The situation was awkward. Several of those present had met Houck only as
the victim of their rude justice the night that June Tolliver had swum
the river to escape him. Fortunately the cook at that moment bawled out
that supper was ready.
Afterward Blister had a word with Bob and Dud while he was arranging
sentry duty with them.
"Wish that b-bird hadn't come. He's here because he wants to drive the
Utes outa the country before they get him. The way I heard it he had no
business to kill that b-buck. Throwed down on him an' killed him
onexpected. I didn't c-come to pull Jake Houck's chestnuts outa the fire
for him. Not none. He ain't lookin' for to round up the Injuns and herd
'em back to the reservation. He's allowin' to kill as many as he can."
"Did anybody see him shoot the Ute?" asked Bob.
"Seems not. They was back of a stable. When folks got there the Ute was
down, but still alive. He claimed he never made a move to draw. Houck's
story was that he shot in self-defense. Looked fishy. The Injun's gun
wasn't in s-sight anywheres."
"Houck's a bad actor," Dud said.
"Yes." Blister came back to the order of the day. "All right, boys.
Shifts of three hours each, then. T-turn an' turn about. You two take
this knoll here. If you see anything movin' that looks suspicious, blaze
away. We'll c-come a-runnin'."
Bob had drunk at supper two cups of strong coffee instead of his usual
one. His thought had been that the stimulant would tend to keep him awake
on duty. The effect the coffee had on him was to make his nerves jumpy.
He lay on the knoll, rifle clutched fast in his hands, acutely sensitive
to every sound, to every hazy shadow of the night. The very silence was
sinister. His imagination peopled the sage with Utes, creeping toward him
with a horrible and deadly patience. Chills tattooed up and down his
spine.
He pulled out the old silver watch he carried and looked at the time. It
lacked five minutes of ten o'clock. The watch must have stopped. He held
it to his ear and was surprised at the ticking. Was it possible that he
had been on sentry duty only twelve minutes? To his highly strung nerves
it had seemed like hours.
A twig snapped. His muscles jumped. He waited, gun ready for action, eyes
straining into the gloom. Something rustled and sped away swiftly. It
must have been a rabbit or perhaps a skunk. But for a moment his heart
had been in his throat.
Again he consulted the watch. Five minutes past ten! Impossible, yet
true. In that eternity of time only a few minutes had slipped away.
He resolved not to look at his watch again till after eleven. Meanwhile
he invented games to divert his mind from the numbing fear that filled
him. He counted the definite objects that stood out of the darkness--the
clumps of sage, the greasewood bushes, the cottonwood trees by the river.
It was his duty to patrol the distance between the knoll and those trees
at intervals. Each time he crept to the river with a thumping heart.
Those bushes--were they really willows or Indians waiting to slay him
when he got closer?
Fear is paralyzing. It pushes into the background all the moral
obligations. Half a dozen times the young ranger was on the point of
waking Dud to tell him that he could not stand it alone. He recalled
Blister's injunctions. But what was the use of throwing back his head and
telling himself he was made in the image of God when his fluttering
pulses screamed denial, when his heart pumped water instead of blood?
He stuck it out. How he never knew. But somehow he clamped his teeth and
went through. As he grew used to it, his imagination became less active
and tricky. There were moments, toward the end of his vigil, when he
could smile grimly at the terror that had obsessed him. He was a born
coward, but he did not need to let anybody know it. It would always be
within his power to act game whether he was or not.
At one o'clock he woke Dud. That young man rolled out of his blanket
grumbling amiably. "Fine business! Why don't a fellow ever know when he's
well off? Me, I might be hittin' the hay at Bear Cat or Meeker instead of
rollin' out to watch for Utes that ain't within thirty or forty miles of
here likely. Fellow, next war I stay at home."
Bob slipped into his friend's warm blanket. He had no expectation of
sleeping, but inside of five minutes his eyes had closed and he was off.
The sound of voices wakened him. Dud was talking to the jingler who had
just come off duty. The sunlight was pouring upon him. He jumped up in
consternation.
"I musta overslept," Bob said.
Dud grinned. "Some. Fact is, I hadn't the heart to waken you when you was
poundin' yore ear so peaceful an' tuneful."
"You stood my turn, too."
"Oh, well. It was only three hours. That's no way to divide the night
anyhow."
They were eating breakfast when a messenger rode into camp. He was from
Major Sheahan of the militia. That officer sent word that the Indians
were in Box Canyon. He had closed one end and suggested that the rangers
move into the other and bottle the Utes.
Harshaw broke camp at once and started for the canyon. A storm blew up, a
fierce and pelting hail. The company took refuge in a cottonwood grove.
The stones were as large as good-sized plums, and in three minutes the
ground was covered. Under the stinging ice bullets the horses grew very
restless. More than one went plunging out into the open and had to be
forced back to shelter by the rider. Fortunately the storm passed as
quickly as it had come up. The sun broke through the clouds and shone
warmly upon rivulets of melted ice pouring down to the Blanco.
Scouts were thrown forward once more and the rangers swung into the hills
toward Box Canyon.
"How far?" Bob asked Tom Reeves.
"'Bout half an hour now, I reckon. Hope we get there before the Injuns
have lit out."
Privately Bob hoped they would not. He had never been under fire and his
throat dried at the anticipation.
"Sure," he answered. "We're humpin' along right lively. Be there in time,
I expect. Too bad if we have to chase 'em again all over the map."
Box Canyon is a sword slash cut through the hills. From wall to wall it is
scarcely forty feet across. One looks up to a slit of blue sky above.
Harshaw halted close to the entrance. "Let's make sure where Mr. Ute is
before we ride in, boys. He might be up on the bluffs layin' for us. Dud,
you an' Tom an' Big Bill go take a look-see an' make sure. We'll come
a-runnin' if we hear yore guns pop."
Two men in uniform rode out of the gulch. At the sight of the rangers
they cantered forward. One was a sergeant.
"Too late," said he. "They done slipped away from us. We took shelter
from the hail under a cutbank where the canyon widens. They musta slipped
by us then. We found their tracks in the wet ground. They're headin' west
again, looks like."
"We've got a warm trail," Harshaw said to Blister Haines. "We better go
right after 'em."
"Hot foot," agreed Blister.
"Major Sheahan's followin' them now. He said for you to come right
along."
The cavalcade moved at once.
More
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