Oh, You Tex! | Page 3

was to find out what brand was on the cow and
what one was being run on the flank of the calf. He rode forward at a
slow canter.
The man beside the fire straightened. He took off his hat and swept it in
front of him in a semicircle from left to right. The line-rider understood
the sign language of the plains. He was being "waved around." The
man was serving notice upon him to pass in a wide circle. It meant that
the dismounted man did not intend to let himself be recognized. The
easy deduction was that he was a rustler.
The cowboy rode steadily forward. The man beside the fire picked up a
rifle lying at his feet and dropped a bullet a few yards in front of the
advancing man.
Roberts drew to a halt. He was armed with a six-shooter, but a revolver
was of no use at this distance. For a moment he hesitated. Another
bullet lifted a spurt of dust almost at his horse's feet.
The line-rider waited for no more definite warning. He waved a hand
toward the rustler and shouted down the wind: "Some other day."
Quickly he swung his horse to the left and vanished into an arroyo.
Then, without an instant's loss of time, he put his pony swiftly up the
draw toward a "rim-rock" edging a mesa. Over to the right was Box
Cañon, which led to the rough lands of a terrain unknown to Roberts. It
was a three-to-one chance that the rustler would disappear into the
cañon.
The young man rode fast, putting his bronco at the hills with a rush. He
was in a treeless country, covered with polecat brush. Through this he
plunged recklessly, taking breaks in the ground without slackening

speed in the least.
Near the summit of the rise Roberts swung from the saddle and ran
forward through the brush, crouching as he moved. With a minimum of
noise and a maximum of speed he negotiated the thick shrubbery and
reached the gorge.
He crept forward cautiously and looked down. Through the shin-oak
which grew thick on the edge of the bluff he made out a man on
horseback driving a calf. The mount was a sorrel with white stockings
and a splash of white on the nose. The distance was too great for
Roberts to make out the features of the rider clearly, though he could
see the fellow was dark and slender.
The line-rider watched him out of sight, then slithered down the face of
the bluff to the sandy wash. He knelt down and studied intently the
hoofprints written in the soil. They told him that the left hind hoof of
the animal was broken in an odd way.
Jack Roberts clambered up the steep edge of the gulch and returned to
the cow-pony waiting for him with drooping hip and sleepy eyes.
"Oh, you Two Bits, we'll amble along and see where our friend is
headin' for."
He picked a way down into the cañon and followed the rustler. At the
head of the gulch the man on the sorrel had turned to the left. The
cowboy turned also in that direction. A sign by the side of the trail
confronted him.
THIS IS PETE DINSMORE'S ROAD-- TAKE ANOTHER
"The plot sure thickens," grinned Jack. "Reckon I won't take Pete's
advice to-day. It don't listen good."
He spoke aloud, to himself or to his horse or to the empty world at
large, as lonely riders often do on the plains or in the hills, but from the
heavens above an answer dropped down to him in a heavy, masterful

voice:
"Git back along that trail pronto!"
Roberts looked up. A flat rock topped the bluff above. From the edge
of it the barrel of a rifle projected. Behind it was a face masked by a
bandana handkerchief. The combination was a sinister one.
If the line-rider was dismayed or even surprised, he gave no evidence
of it.
"Just as you say, stranger. I reckon you're callin' this dance," he
admitted.
"You'll be lucky if you don't die of lead-poisonin' inside o' five minutes.
No funny business! Git!"
The cowboy got. He whirled his pony in its tracks and sent it jogging
down the back trail. A tenderfoot would have taken the gulch at
breakneck speed. Most old-timers would have found a canter none too
fast. But Jack Roberts held to a steady road gait. Not once did he look
back--but every foot of the way till he had turned a bend in the cañon
there was an ache in the small of his back. It was a purely sympathetic
sensation, for at any moment a bullet might come crashing between the
shoulders.
Once safely out of range the rider