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Hurrying to the parapet for a stolen look down the draw, he worked until six such figures were made. Then, using thorns and some old porcupine quills he found near a rock, he thrust one or more through each of the mud figures.
They stood in a neat row facing the parapet. Quickly, he hurried for one last look into the draw. An Indian had emerged. He stood there in plain sight, staring toward the place!
They would be cautious, Billy knew, and he chuckled to himself as he thought of what was to follow. Gathering up his rifle, the ammunition, a canteen and a little food, he hurried to the wolf den and crawled back inside.
On his first trip he had ascertained that there were no cubs. At the end of the den there was room to sit up, topped by the stone of the shelving rock itself. To his right, a lighted match told him there was a smaller hole of some sort.
Cautiously, Billy crawled back to the entrance, and careful to avoid the wolf tracks in the dust outside, he brushed out his own tracks, then retreated into the depths of the cave. From where he lay he could see the parapet.
Almost a half hour passed before the first head lifted above the poorly made wall. Black straight hair, a red headband, and the sharp, hard features of their leader.
Then other heads lifted beside him, and one by one the six Apaches stepped over the wall and into the pocket. They did not rush, but looked cautiously about, and their eyes were large, frightened. They looked all around, then at the clothing, then at the images. One of the Indians grunted and pointed.
They drew closer, then stopped in an awed line, staring at the mud figures. They knew too well what that meant. Those figures meant a witch doctor had put a death spell on each one of them.
One of the Indians drew back and looked at the clothing. Suddenly he gave a startled cry and pointed—at the wolf hair!
They gathered around, talking excitedly, then glancing over their shoulders fearsomely.
They had trapped what they believed to be a white man, and knowing Apaches, Old Billy would have guessed they knew his height, weight, and approximate age. Those things they could tell from the length of his stride, the way he worked, the pressure of a footprint in softer ground.
They had trapped a white man, and a wolf had escaped! Now they find his clothing lying here, and on the clothing, the hair of a wolf!
All Indians knew of wolf-men, those weird creatures who changed at will from wolf to man and back again, creatures that could tear the throat from a man while he slept, and could mark his children with the wolf blood.
The day had waned, and as he lay there, Old Billy Dunbar could see that while he worked the sun had neared the horizon. The Indians looked around uneasily. This was the den of a wolf-man, a powerful spirit who had put the death spell on each of them, who came as a man and went as a wolf.
Suddenly, out on the desert, a wolf howled!
The Apaches started as if struck, and then as one man they began to draw back. By the time they reached the parapet they were hurrying.
Old Billy stayed the night in the wolf hole, lying at its mouth, waiting for dawn. He saw the wolf come back, stare about uneasily, then go away. When light came he crawled from the hole.
The burros were cropping grass and they looked at him. He started to pick up a pack saddle, then dropped it. “I’ll be durned if I will!” he said.
Taking the old Sharps and the extra pan, he walked down to the wash and went to work. He kept a careful eye out, but saw no Apaches. The gold was pa
Two Indians stood in plain sight, facing. The nearest one walked forward and placed something on a rock, then drew away. Crouched, waiting, Old Billy watched them go. Then he went to the rock. Wrapped in a piece of ta
He chuckled suddenly. He was big medicine now. He was a wolf-man. The venison was a peace offering, and he would take it. He knew now he could come and pan as much gold as he liked in Apache country.
A few days later he killed a wolf, ski
A month later, walking into Fremont behind the switching tails of Je
“Hi,” Sid said, gri
Old Billy chuckled. “I am!” he said. “Yuh’re durned right, I am! Ask them Apaches!”
MAN RIDING WEST
CHAPTER ONE: The Man from Points Yonder
Three men were hunkered down by the fire when Jim Gary walked his buckskin up to their camp in the lee of the cliff. The big man across the fire had a shotgun lying beside him. It was the shotgun that made Gary uneasy, for cowhands do not carry shotguns, especially when on a trail drive as these men obviously were.
Early as it was, the cattle were already bedded down for the night in the meadow alongside the stream, and from their looks they had come far and fast. It was still light, but the clouds were low and swollen with rain.
“How’s for some coffee?” Jim asked as he drew up. “I’m ridin’ through, an’ I’m sure hungry an’ tuckered.”
Somewhere off in the mountains, thunder rolled and grumbled. The fire crackled, and the leaves on the willows hung still in the lifeless air. There were three saddled horses nearby, and among the gear was an old Mother Hubbard style saddle with a wide skirt.
“Light an’ set up,” the man who spoke was lean jawed and sandy haired. “Never liked to ride on an empty stomach m’self.”
More than ever, Gary felt uneasy. Neither of the others spoke. All were tough-looking men, unshaven and dirty, but it was their hard-eyed suspicion that made Jim wonder. However, he swung down and loosened his saddle girth, then slipped the saddle off and laid it well back under the overhang of the cliff. As he did so he glanced again at the old saddle that lay there.
The overhang of the cliff was deep where the fire was built for shelter from the impending rain. Jim dropped to an ancient log, gray and stripped of bark, and handed his tin plate over to the man who reached for it. The cook slapped two thick slabs of beef on the plate and some frying pan bread liberally touched with the beef fryings. Gary was hungry and he dove in without comment, and the small man filled his cup.
“Headed west?” The sandy-haired man asked, after a few minutes.
“Yeah, headed down below the Rim. Pleasant Valley way.” The men all turned their heads toward him but none spoke. Jim could feel their eyes on his tied down guns. There was a sheep and cattle war in the Valley.
“They call me Red Slagle. These hombres are Tobe Langer and Jeeter Dirksen. We’re drivin’ to Salt Creek.”
Langer would be the big one. “My name’s Gary,” Jim replied, “Jim Gary. I’m from points yonder. Mostly Dodge an’ Santa Fe.” “Hear they are hirin’ warriors in Pleasant Valley.”
“Reckon.” Jim refused to be drawn, although he had the feeling they had warmed to him since he mentioned heading for the Valley.
“Ridin’ thataway ourselves,” Red suggested. “Wan to make a few dollars drivin’ cattle? We’re short handed.”
“Might,” Gary admitted, “the grub’s good.”
“Give you forty to drive to Salt Creek. We’ll need he’p. From hereabouts the country is plumb rough an’ she’s fixin’ to storm.”
“You’ve hired a hand. When do I start?”
“Catch a couple of hours sleep. Tobe has the first ride. Then you take over. If you need he’p, just you call out.”
Gary shook out his blankets and crawled into them. In the moment before his eyes closed he remembered the cattle had all worn a Double A brand, and the brands were fresh. That could easily be with a trail herd. But the Double A had been the spread that Mart Ray had mentioned.