CHAPTER VI

THE HUNT

Bad news greeted Raquel when they clumped into the Rancho’s kitchen shortly after midnight. A mountain lion had got Ruth’s calf. Georgie was disconsolate.

The thermometer dropped that night to well below freezing, and two weeks of extremely cold weather followed the mountain roundup. Frost lay white each morning, silvering the sage and cactus and sparkling under a brilliant sun that gave no heat.

A week after the disappearance of Ruth’s calf, Jami came across the mutilated remains of a white-faced steer up in an arroyo back of the big house. It was the work of a lion by the signs--the hide ripped to ribbons by cat claws.

Then two sheep that the Esquibals had been caring for at their place disappeared. Every one wanted to go hunting.

“Well, I guess we might as well go after those fellows now while it’s so cold,” Raquel reluctantly agreed. She sent Jami into Los Pasos to bring back the two hounds that her father had loaned in the fall to a friend.

That afternoon Raquel and Georgie rode north to a branding cabin that was not used save during the season. A spring in the mountains behind La Boka had been piped down to a circular reservoir, now covered with a thin coating of ice except where the cattle had broken it around the edges.

Not far from here they found a fallen heifer, another victim of the wild creatures which disputed their ownership of land and cattle. The torn throat told its own tale.

Georgie’s freckled face paled. He rose from where he had knelt at the heifer’s side. “The Lobo of the Magdalena did that. It’s a killer.... But say, Rake”--the boy’s eyes were fairly popping--“that’s not the Lazy L’s cow.” He touched the branded flank of the heifer with the toe of his boot.

A large and cruel leaning H marked the animal. Raquel nodded. She stooped and gazed intently at the scar, her hand fondling a velvety ear.

“That brand’s about six months old, Tooth. A brand that deep takes just about that long to look like this. Yes, it belongs to us, all right. See that little notch hidden at the bottom of its ear. That was the calf I brought home and raised on the bottle when it got lost from its mother. Remember? And I wanted to mark it, it was so fat and cute.

“I thought I knew that heifer some way the minute I saw her. A slick job, whoever covered the Lazy L. They didn’t get away with it, though! But how many _have_ they got away with, I wonder. And who would do a thing like that?”

“_Quien sabe!_ I don’t know who’d dare. Gee, if Dad had known this!”

“Well, it’s a bad piece of business for somebody.”

Raquel was so upset by this evidence of cattle rustling that she forgot for the time being the more successful rustler who _had_ got away with his theft. Such killings meant thousands of dollars loss to the ranchman every year.

“Well, looks like we’ll have to go huntin’ for two kinds of varmints, old Tooth,” said Raquel, as they turned their horses’ heads back towards the ranch house, “four-footed _and_ two-footed.”

“Dad said all the _hoss_ thieves was cleared out,” grunted Georgie, “but I guess they left a few cattle thieves for us to clean out.”

“We’ll start in the morning after the cats, unless it comes on to snow. It’s too cold to do anything else just now and it’ll give me a good chance to see something more of the range back of the ranch house.”

Back at the house they found Jami with the dogs, fat, and crazy to run after their well-fed stay in town. They were barking and milling around in the kennel house.

Guns were got out, cleaned and oiled. Raquel would carry her little twenty-two. Russell and Jami were going, Angel and Georgie. Mrs. Daniels made sandwiches almost as big as plates, filled with salt pork and ham of her own curing. They were all in bed and asleep by eight o’clock for Mom was to get them up at four in the morning.

In the cold dark dawn Raquel slipped quietly down towards the corrals. Overhead a million stars were sparkling with a brilliance such as Eastern skies never know. Russ was roping himself a horse. The winter string were running round and round in the dark, away from the sound of his whirring rope.

As Raquel came up Russ drew into the light a little foolish-faced pony. “Aw, shucks, I don’t want _you_ at all,” and it had to be done all over again. Raquel picked for herself one of Custer’s string, a swift, sturdy cow pony that would bite if it was crowded.

Raquel’s rope stopped him easily as he passed, and with a swift turn around the snubbing post she had him. “You’re not a-going to bite at me, old boy.” Her caressing voice arrested the wicked little laying back of the ears, yet as her hand crept up his nose the lips curled back with a look of singular meanness.

“Look out, there, Rakie, ain’t you got any sense? He’s fixin’ to bite. Drive him in the saddlin’ pen.”

“You’re loco, Russ; he’s smilin’ at me, that’s all. Glad to see an old friend, aren’t you, little feller?” And indeed the pony seemed merely to be exhibiting his pleasure as Raquel quickly smoothed her saddle blanket and dropped the saddle over his back.

She liked to see to saddling her own horse, the single cinch tight but an inch farther back than was customary, the blankets well forward. Then as the saddle worked looser in going down hill there would be no chafing when it was impossible to get off and readjust a blanket.

The dogs were already tumbling about in their kennels, sensing a hunt. As Raquel and the boys went back towards the house the smell of hot coffee came deliciously down the wind. Fortified by incredible breakfasts of hominy, pork chops, corn cakes and molasses syrup, the hunters hurried down again to the corral.

Just as the east grew crimson, Russ took the two lead hounds out on leash. The four others that made the pack strung eagerly along, following down to Pancho’s house, from which the start was to be made. Esquibal was waiting for them and at once informed Raquel that he could not go on the hunt because he had had word from Elena’s uncle to go to La Bolsa today, but he would certainly return tonight and would go around by Los Pasos and call for that bunch of oil cakes for calf feeding.

Raquel was annoyed, but as it did not seem to make any real difference, except that they would be a man short, she nodded, for the dogs were straining at the leash.

Whining and trembling with excitement, the powerful leader of the pack ran round and round, nose to the ground, trying to pick up a scent already three days stale. Baffled, he threw up his head to sniff the air time and again, leaping towards the old oxcart that lay in the yard.

“Never seen him act that way,” said Russ, worried, and unsnapped the leash.

With a deep-throated yelp, the hound shot off towards the foothills and was out of sight in a minute, the rest of the pack after him. Raquel was a close second and her pony needed no quirting.

As the first ray of the sun flashed over the mesas below them, the hounds gave tongue from a canyon ahead, the deep music of their baying echoing roundly.

The hunt pressed forward, the horses racing on the morning wind, Raquel, as usual, in the lead. With the wind in her face and the blood singing through her veins, with delight in the chase and the springing earth beneath her horse’s feet, her light body and lighter hand guided the cow pony unerringly.

Now, a good cow pony usually does not rely on other than its own quick eye and quicker feet, but in such a chase as this it trusts the rider somewhat to help it avoid gopher holes and rough rocky going. And where Jami put his horse at fence or bush, Raquel rode to save her pony.

“Hey, cowboy, spare that hoss,” she cried as she passed Jami. “That’s not a crow you’re ridin’. Go round a few mountains.”

Far away to the left, and now to the right, the belling of the leader of the pack could be heard.

“_Gato grande_,” called Angel; “he always sings so when he smells the big cat.”

The horses slowed up at the mouth of a deep canyon, and the hunters stopped to breathe them. There was no more baying for a space, so after five minutes they pressed forward again, Raquel bearing off to the right with Russ and Georgie, while Jami, Panchito and Angel took to the left. They would follow two ridges until they should meet all together again near the summit.

Climbing quietly and carefully for the better part of an hour, occasionally they heard the bell-like notes of the leader of the hounds and the sharper, lighter baying of the pack.

“You’d think the ole feller would shut his trap and not make such a noise,” fretted Georgie, riding beside Raquel. “How in time can he expect to steal up on a lion thataway!”

“Let him do his own huntin’, Tooth,” growled Russ. “You ain’t no hound, so you shut up. I notice we get to draw a bead on a critter more often follerin’ a hound’ dawg and his racket than we do makin’ Injun tracks through the woods by ourselves.”

“Will you-all hush up!” breathed Raquel. “Look what a place for turkey.”

The horses were walking now, up over a pine-crowned summit, carpeted thick with russet needles.

As she spoke there sounded faintly over the ridge the silly peedle-eedle-eedle of the wild turkey. Instantly the hunters stopped in their tracks, and in a few moments there trailed over the crest a flock of half a dozen handsome birds.

At this minute Old Whitey felt that he must switch his tail, and at the swishing slap the turkeys gave a startled obble-obble, and scurried with amazing speed into the forest.

But not before a pinging whine from Raquel’s rifle, adding to their terror and their speed, took one from their number. On the russet floor of the forest lay a beautiful young turkey, “fat as butter, purty as a peacock, a crop full of piñons,” exulted Russ, bursting with pride at Raquel’s bringing down such a difficult bird.

As if the shot had been a signal, a terrific hub-bub arose from the canyon below. Hastily gathering up the turkey they slipped and slid down the steep sides of the canyon. They could see nothing through the pines, but they heard the full tongue of the pack in chase give way to the sharp yapping of combat.

Raquel, cheeks like dark holly berries, was fairly lifting the dancing cowpony down the slippery grade. Behind came Russ, and away back Georgie. Old Whitey reluctantly picked his way like a fat old woman, his hips wobbling from side to side, until under the frantic urging of Georgie’s heels he sat down and slid.

“They’ve treed a cat,” shouted Raquel over her shoulder; “a lion. He’s fixin’ to spring.... Russ, quick!”

Glowing tawnily through the branches below, crouched a menacing form, tail lashing cat-fashion, as the lion waited to spring upon the ancient enemy of his kind, to rend and tear his way to freedom and safety again.

Russ fired, but his shot only stung the tail of the big cat, infuriating it. The horses were trembling, for they hate and fear the mountain lion or the big bear.

The three hunters crept down, nearer and nearer. The great hound, El Capitan, was leaping up at the quarry above his head, fearlessly courting a cat and dog encounter.

With back to the cliff which no leap, however desperate, could scale, the cat looked warily about. Had the hunters not come upon the scene, the hunted thing would have waited, treed for hours or days, until either the dogs or itself gave out. But the smell of man and the sting of the shot made it desperate, and with a terrible, settling crouch, suddenly it sprang with an astounding leap, out over the jumping dogs and down upon Sis, gallant but light-weight member of the pack.

Two of the dogs fell upon the lion’s flank while El Capitan sank his fangs in the tawny throat. The cat fought cruelly and well. Raquel, her heart pounding against her ribs, seized Russ’s Winchester and took one careful aim after another--without firing. If she shot she would be sure to get Cap, or Belt, or Sir Galahad (named and loved by Jimmy).

And then from the far side of the canyon came the crack of a gun, the zoom of a bullet; the cat relaxed slowly, then fell limply beneath its pursuers, torn and bloody.

Jami and Angel scrambled triumphantly down the opposite slope. Rushing over to the excited dogs, they pushed them aside and examined the trophy.

Raquel’s voice and hands at last succeeded in quieting the hounds. She slipped the leash on El Capitan, for the blood lust had been aroused, and, in spite of his wounds, he was ready to hunt for days without returning to Los Ranchos.

As they were examining the lion, a Mexican on a lean, scraggy horse swung down the narrow canyon, and drew up at the group around the cat. It was Manuel, the half-wit cousin of Elena Esquibal.

He grinned amiably, and dismounted to look at the kill, for his horse could not be urged near. As he turned about and the animal leaped up the mountain side to join the other horses, Raquel saw on its flank a large leaning brand, an H.

The shock of it left her speechless for the moment, and before she could collect herself, a tragedy almost took place. The big hound on her leash sprang at the vaguely smiling Mexican youth, tearing the strap away from Raquel’s hand, and burning the wrist round which it had been wrapped.

He leaped upon the boy, sinking his fangs through the sleeve before the others rushed upon him, and tore him off. But Cap seemed enraged, straining and sniffing, even after the terrified Manuel had dashed to his horse and was making off up the mountain. Apparently he had not been injured, but he was scared out of what wits he had.

“Never did see Cap attack a human before this,” muttered Russ. “There is something mighty queer there.”

“Did you notice that brand on his horse, Russ?” asked Raquel, who had recovered her breath and her speech by now. The boys hadn’t noticed. Something kept Raquel from saying more about it. She looked at the lion.

It was a long, lean creature, seven feet from nose to tail, its fine coat torn, its flanks as lean as though it had not had its pick of cattle through the winter. The gaunt, ugly jaws had been pried apart; the long fangs still dripped.

Raquel shuddered. For the first time in her wild, free life, on range of desert and mountain, it all seemed bitterly cruel to her. She turned away with undisguised dislike; all the elation of the morning and her glorious ride vanished.

“Aw, go on, Rakie. You haf to do it.” Georgie read his sister’s expression. “Think of all the stock that fellow has had off our range. Why, one of these lions will eat thirty cows, sixty sheep and heaven knows how many calves, every season.”

Angel was staying to bring back the pelt, after he had skinned it. It was already growing dark in the canyon. It was after four o’clock, but it seemed as if they had started out only two or three hours ago. All at once every one remembered the sandwiches, for which they had had no thought before.

Those generous slices of bread were immensely heartening, and yet, somehow, as they picked their way down the canyon, Raquel was silent and depressed. Then the faithful and gallant boys, her knights of the roundup, set up a rollicking tune, singing Raquel’s fame to the words of _The Pecos Queen_, caroling right lustily as they rode along:

“Where the Pecos River winds and turns on its journey to the sea, From its white walls of rock and sand striving ever to be free, Near the highest railroad bridge that all these modern times have seen, Dwells fair young Raquel Daniels, the Pecos River Queen.

“She is known to every cowboy on the Pecos River wide, They know full well that she can shoot, that she can rope and ride, She goes to every roundup, every cow work without fail, Looking out for her cattle branded, ‘walking hog on rail.’

“She made her start in cattle, yes, made it with her rope, Can tie down every maverick before it strikes a lope, She can rope and tie and brand it, as quick as any man, She’s voted by all the cowboys, an A-1 top cowhand.”

And so singing the hunters came back to the ranch, the tired horses breaking into a mad gallop as soon as they came in sight of the corral.

The next morning Pancho Esquibal came to Raquel where she was throwing rope down in the feeding corral, limbering up, getting into practice for the spring work.

“May I have the keys to the garage shed, Señorita?” he inquired courteously. “I think it would be safer to hang the skin of the lion in there.... That is the best place,” he added, after a few moments during which Raquel, coiling and hurling her reata, gave no evidence of having heard him at all.

Esquibal waited. There is nothing so disconcerting as to be ignored. Raquel knew this well, partly from instinct and a natural wit in dealing with people, partly from experience.

A curious, furtive look came into Esquibal’s eyes. He looked at the _padroncita_ suspiciously. Raquel had kept the keys to the supply house and to the garage sheds in her own pockets ever since the incident of the oil cans.

Now she turned suddenly while Pancho was still off guard and glanced swiftly at him.

“Why not hang the _cuero_ in the old drying shed, Pancho? Russ has mended up the doors and windows and neither skunks nor dogs can get in there.”

Pancho nodded. As he turned to go Raquel asked carelessly, “By the way, Pancho, Russell tells me that ‘A. B.’ has bought La Bolsa, the _ranchito_ of Elena’s aunt, over by our north reservoir. Is that so?”

“_Si, señorita._ It was a worthless place and it was sold to him.”

Raquel nodded, and went on with her roping, spreading wide loops over Panchito’s burro.

“Why did they not sell to my father last year when he offered to buy?”

Pancho shrugged. As he turned away there was an expression of annoyed speculation on his face. Raquel grinned. She was pleased with herself that she had disconcerted Esquibal, but she knew that some day she would have to have it out with him.

But although it was the conviction of Ranchos justice that if you let a bad hombre have rope enough he would hang himself, Raquel did not want Pancho to steal the rope, nor to achieve that desirable end at her expense if it could be avoided. She could not be sure that he had had anything to do with the rebranded, stolen heifer. Had she known then, or suspected, what was to come to light later on, she would not have waited for events to solve the matter.