Gunsight Pass | Page 4

presently out of the darkness a
pony trotted. The pinto was a sleek and glossy little fellow, beautiful in
action and gentle as a kitten.
The young fellow took the well-shaped head in his arms, fondled the
soft, dainty nose that nuzzled in his pocket for sugar, fed Chiquito a
half-handful of the delicacy in his open palm, and put the pony through
the repertoire of tricks he had taught his pet.
"You wanta shake a leg to-day, old fellow, and throw dust in that
tinhorn's face," he murmured to his four-footed friend, gentling it with
little pats of love and admiration. "Adios, Chiquito. I know you won't

throw off on yore old pal. So long, old pie-eater."
Across the mesa Dave galloped back, swung from the saddle, and made
a bee-line for breakfast. The other men were already busy at this
important business. From the tail of the chuck wagon he took a tin cup
and a tin plate. He helped himself to coffee, soda biscuits, and a strip of
steak just forked from a large kettle of boiling lard. Presently more
coffee, more biscuits, and more steak went the way of the first helping.
The hard-riding life of the desert stimulates a healthy appetite.
The punchers of the D Bar Lazy R were moving a large herd to a new
range. It was made up of several lots bought from smaller outfits that
had gone out of business under the pressure of falling prices, short
grass, and the activity of rustlers. The cattle had been loose-bedded in a
gulch close at hand, the upper end of which was sealed by an
impassable cliff. Many such cañons in the wilder part of the mountains,
fenced across the face to serve as a corral, had been used by rustlers as
caches into which to drift their stolen stock. This one had no doubt
more than once played such a part in days past.
Expertly the riders threw the cattle back to the mesa and moved them
forward. Among the bunch one could find the T Anchor brand, the
Circle Cross, the Diamond Tail, and the X-Z, scattered among the cows
burned with the D Bar Lazy R, which was the original brand of the
owner, Emerson Crawford.
The sun rose and filled the sky. In a heavy cloud of dust the cattle
trailed steadily toward the distant hills.
Near noon Buck, passing Dave where he rode as drag driver in the
wake of the herd, shouted a greeting at the young man. "Tur'ble hot. I'm
spittin' cotton."
Dave nodded. His eyes were red and sore from the alkali dust, his
throat dry as a lime kiln. "You done, said it, Buck. Hotter 'n hell or
Yuma."
"Dug says for us to throw off at Seven-Mile Hole."

"I won't make no holler at that."
The herd leaders, reading the signs of a spring close at hand, quickened
the pace. With necks outstretched, bawling loudly, they hurried forward.
Forty-eight hours ago they had last satisfied their thirst. Usually Doble
watered each noon, but the desert yesterday had been dry as Sahara.
Only such moisture was available as could be found in black grama and
needle grass.
The point of the herd swung in toward the cottonwoods that straggled
down from the draw. For hours the riders were kept busy moving
forward the cattle that had been watered and holding back the pressure
of thirsty animals.
Again the outfit took the desert trail. Heat waves played on the sand.
Vegetation grew scant except for patches of cholla and mesquite, a
sand-cherry bush here and there, occasionally a clump of shining
poison ivy.
Sunset brought them to the Salt Flats. The foreman gave orders to
throw off and make camp.
A course was chosen for the race. From a selected point the horses
were to run to a clump of mesquite, round it, and return to the
starting-place. Dug Doble was chosen both starter and judge.
Dave watched Whiskey Bill with the trained eyes of a horseman. The
animal was an ugly brute as to the head. Its eyes were set too close, and
the shape of the nose was deformed from the effects of the rattlesnake's
sting. But in legs and body it had the fine lines of a racer. The horse
was built for speed. The cowpuncher's heart sank. His bronco was fast,
willing, and very intelligent, but the little range pony had not been
designed to show its heels to a near-thoroughbred.
"Are you ready?" Doble asked of the two men in the saddles.
His brother said, "Let 'er go!" Sanders nodded. The revolver barked.

Chiquito was off like a flash of light, found its stride instantly. The
training of a cowpony makes for alertness, for immediate response.
Before it had covered seventy-five yards