Cowboy Dave

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Carel Lyn Miske, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

COWBOY DAVE

OR

THE ROUND-UP AT ROLLING RIVER

BY FRANK V. WEBSTER

AUTHOR OF "ONLY A FARM BOY," "BOB THE CASTAWAY," "COMRADES OF THE SADDLE,"
"AIRSHIP ANDY," "TOM TAYLOR AT WEST POINT," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

BOOKS FOR BOYS
By FRANK V. WEBSTER

ONLY A FARM BOY
TOM, THE TELEPHONE BOY
THE BOY FROM THE RANCH
THE YOUNG TREASURER HUNTER
BOB, THE CASTAWAY
THE YOUNG FIREMEN OF LAKEVILLE
THE NEWSBOY PARTNERS
THE BOY PILOT OF THE LAKES
THE TWO BOY GOLD MINERS
JACK, THE RUNAWAY
COMRADES OF THE SADDLE
THE BOYS OF BELLWOOD SCHOOL
THE HIGH SCHOOL RIVALS
BOB CHESTER'S GRIT
AIRSHIP ANDY
DARRY, THE LIFE SAVER
DICK, THE BANK BOY
BEN HARDY'S FLYING MACHINE
THE BOYS OF THE WIRELESS
HARRY WATSON'S HIGH SCHOOL DAYS
THE BOY SCOUTS OF LENOX
TOM TAYLOR AT WEST POINT
COWBOY DAVE
THE BOYS OF THE BATTLESHIP
JACK OF THE PONY EXPRESS

COWBOY DAVE

CONTENTS

I. AFTER STRAY CATTLE
II. THE TAUNT
III. A CONFESSION
IV. A SMALL STAMPEDE
V. TREACHERY
VI. A CRY FOR HELP
VII. THE RESCUE
VIII. MR. BELLMORE
IX. DAVE MEETS LEN
X. DAVE WONDERS
XI. HAZARDOUS WORK
XII. THE FIGHT
XIII. SOME NEWS
XIV. A WARNING
XV. RETALIATION
XVI. UNAVAILING EFFORTS
XVII. THE ROUND-UP
XVIII. A MIDNIGHT BLAZE
XIX. FIGHTING FIRE
XX. THE CHASE
XXI. THE ESCAPE
XXII. TANGLES
XXIII. THE CLUE
XXIV. BROTHERS
XXV. THE NEW RANCH

[Illustration: HE WHEELED AND RODE STRAIGHT AT THE ONCOMING STEERS]

CHAPTER I

AFTER STRAY CATTLE

"Hi! Yi! Yip!"

"Woo-o-o-o! Wah! Zut!"

"Here we come!"

What was coming seemed to be a thunderous cloud of dust, from the midst of
which came strange, shrill sounds, punctuated with sharp cries, that did
not appear to be altogether human.

The dust-cloud grew thicker, the thunder sounded louder, and the yells
were shriller.

From one of a group of dull, red buildings a sun-bronzed man stepped
forth.

He shaded his eyes with a brown, powerful hand, gazed for an instant
toward the approaching cloud of animated and vociferous dust and, turning
to a smiling Chinese who stood near, with a pot in his hand, remarked in a
slow, musical drawl:

"Well Hop Loy, here they are, rip-roarin' an' snortin' from th' round-up!"

"Alle samee hungly, too," observed the Celestial with unctious blandness.

"You can sure make a point of that Hop Loy," went on the other. "Hungry is
their middle name just now, and you'd better begin t' rustle th' grub, or
I wouldn't give an empty forty-five for your pig-tail."

"Oi la!" fairly screamed the Chinese, as, with a quick gesture toward his
long queue, he scuttled toward the cook house, which stood in the midst of
the other low ranch buildings. "Glub leady alle samee light now!" Hop Loy
cried over his shoulder.

"It better be!" ominously observed Pocus Pete, foreman of the Bar U ranch,
one of the best-outfitted in the Rolling River section. "It better be!
Those boys mean business, or I miss my guess," the foreman went on. "Hard
work a-plenty, I reckon. Wonder how they made out?" he went on musingly as
he started back toward the bunk house, whence he had come with a saddle
strap to which he was attaching a new buckle. "If things don't take a turn
for th' better soon, there won't any of us make out," and, with a gloomy
shake of his head, Pocus Pete, to give him the name he commonly went by,
tossed the strap inside the bunk house, and went on toward the main
building, where, by virtue of his position as head of the cowboys, he had
his own cot.

Meanwhile the crowd of yelling, hard-riding sand dust-stirring punchers,
came on faster than ever.

"Hi! Yi! Yip!"

"Here we come!"

"Keep th' pot a-bilin'! We've got our appetites With us!"

"That's what!"

Some one fired his big revolver in the air, and in another moment there
was an echo of many shots, the sharp crack of the forty-fives mingling
with the thunder of hoofs, the yells, and the clatter of stirrup leathers.

"The boys coming back, Pete?" asked an elderly man, who came to the door
of the main living room of the principal ranch house.

"Yes, Mr. Carson, they're comin' back, an' it don't need a movin' picture
operator an' telegraphic despatch t' tell it, either."

"No, Pete. They seem to be in good spirits, too."

"Yes, they generally are when they get back from round-up. I want to hear
how they made out, though, an' what th' prospects are."

"So do I, Pete," and there was an anxious note in the voice of Mr.
Randolph Carson, owner of the Bar U ranch. Matters had not been going well
with him, of late.

With final yells, and an increase in the quantity of dust tossed up as the
cowboys pulled their horses back on their haunches, the range-riding
outfit of the ranch came to rest, not far away from the stable. The
horses, with heaving sides and distended nostrils that showed a deep red,
hung their heads from weariness. They had been ridden hard, but not
unmercifully, and they would soon recover. The cowboys themselves tipped
back their big hats from their foreheads, which showed curiously white in
contrast to their bronzed faces, and beat the dust from their trousers. A
few of them wore sheepskin chaps.

One after another the punchers slung their legs across the saddle horns,
tossed the reins over the heads of their steeds, as an intimation that the
horses were not to stray, and then slid to the ground, walking with that
peculiarly awkward gait that always marks one who has spent much of his
life in the saddle.

"Grub ready, Hop Loy?" demanded one lanky specimen, as he used his blue
neck kerchief to remove some of the dust and sweat from his brown face.

"It better be!" added another, significantly; while still another said,
quietly:

"My gal has been askin' me for a long, long time to get her a Chinaman's
pig-tail, an' I'm shore goin' t'get one now if I don't have my grub right
plenty, an' soon!"

"Now you're talkin'!" cried a fourth, with emphasis.

There was no need of saying anything further. The Celestial had stuck his
head out of the cook house to hear these ominous words of warning, and
now, with a howl of anguish, he drew it inside again, wrapping his queue
around his neck. Then followed a frantic rattling of pots and pans.

"You shore did get him goin', Tubby!" exclaimed a tall, lanky cowboy, to a
short and squatty member of the tribe.

"Well, I aimed to Skinny," was the calm reply. "I am some hungry."

The last of the cowboys to alight was a manly youth, who might have been
in the neighborhood of eighteen or nineteen years of age. He was tall and
slight, with a frank and pleasing countenance, and his blue eyes looked at
you fearlessly from under dark brows, setting off in contrast his
sunburned face. Had any one observed him as he rode up with the other
cowboys, it would have been noticed that, though he was the youngest, he
was one of the best riders.

He advanced from among the others, pausing to pet his horse which stuck
out a wet muzzle for what was evidently an expected caress. Then the young
man walked forward, with more of an air of grace than characterized his
companions. Evidently, though used to a horse, he was not so saddle-bound
as were his mates.

As he walked up to the ranch house he was met by Mr. Carson and Pocus
Pete, both of whom looked at him rather eagerly and anxiously.

"Well, son," began the ranch owner, "how did you make out?"

"Pretty fair, Dad," was the answer. "There were more cattle than you led
us to expect, and there were more strays than we calculated on. In fact we
didn't get near all of them."

"Is that so, Dave?" asked Pocus Pete, quickly. "Whereabouts do you reckon
them strays is hidin'?"

"The indications are they're up Forked Branch way. That's where we got
some, and we saw more away up the valley, but we didn't have time to go
for them, as we had a little trouble; and Tubby and the others thought
we'd better come on, and go back for the strays to-morrow."

"Trouble, Dave?" asked Mr. Carson, looking up suddenly.

"Well, not much, though it might have been. We saw some men we took to be
rustlers heading for our bunch of cattle, but they rode off when we
started for them. Some of the boys wanted to follow but it looked as
though it might storm, and Tubby said we'd better move the bunch while we
could, and look after the rustlers and strays later."

"Yes, I guess that was best," the ranch owner agreed. "But where were
these rustlers from, Dave?"

"Hard to say, Dad. Looked to be Mexicans."

"I reckon that'd be about right," came from Pocus Pete. "We'll have to be
on th' watch, Mr. Carson."

"I expect so, Pete. Things aren't going so well that I can afford to lose
any cattle. But about these strays, Dave. Do you think we'd better get
right after them?"

"I should say so, Dad."

"Think there are many of them?"

"Not more than two of us could drive in. I'll go to-morrow with one of the
men. I know just about where to look for them."

"All right, Dave. If you're not too much done out I'd like to have you
take a hand."

"Done out, Dad! Don't you think I'm making a pretty good cowpuncher?"

"That's what he is, Mr. Carson, for a fact!" broke in Pete, with
admiration. "I'd stake Cowboy Dave ag'in' any man you've got ridin' range
to-day. That's what I would!"

"Thanks, Pete," said the youth, with a warm smile.

"Well, that's the truth, Dave. You took to this business like a duck takes
to water, though the land knows there ain't any too much water in these
parts for ducks."

"Yes, we could use more, especially at this season," Mr. Carson admitted.
"Rolling River must be getting pretty dry; isn't it, Dave?"

"I've seen it wetter, Dad. And there's hardly any water in Forked Branch.
I don't see how the stray cattle get enough to drink."

"It is queer they'd be off up that way," observed Pete. "But that might
account for it," he went on, as though communing with himself.

"Account for what?" asked Dave, as he sat down in a chair on the porch.

"Th' rustlers. If they were up Forked Branch way they'd stand between th'
strays and th' cattle comin' down where they could get plenty of water in
Rolling River. That's worth lookin' into. I'll ride up that way with you
to-morrow, Dave, an' help drive in them cattle."

"Will you, Pete? That will be fine!" the young cowboy exclaimed. Evidently
there was a strong feeling of affection between the two. Dave looked to
Mr. Carson for confirmation.

"Very well," the ranch owner said, "you and Pete may go, Dave. But don't
take any chances with the rustlers if you encounter them."

"We're not likely to," said Pocus Pete, significantly.

From the distant cook house came the appetizing odor of food and Dave
sniffed the air eagerly.

"Hungry?" asked Mr. Carson.

"That's what I am, Dad!"

"Well, eat heartily, get a good rest, and tomorrow you can try your hand
at driving strays."

Evening settled down over the Bar U ranch; a calm, quiet evening, in spite
of the earlier signs of a storm. In the far west a faint intermittent
light showed where the elements were raging, but it was so far off that
not even the faintest rumble of thunder came over Rolling River, a stream
about a mile distant, on the banks of which were now quartered the cattle
which the cowboys had recently rounded up for shipment.

The only sounds that came with distinctness were the occasional barking
and baying of a dog, as he saw the rising moon, and the dull shuffle of
the shifting cattle, which were being guarded by several cowboys who were
night-riding.

Very early the next morning Dave Carson and Pocus Pete, astride their
favorite horses, and carrying with them a substantial lunch, set off after
the strays which had been dimly observed the day before up Forked Branch
way.

This was one of the tributaries of Rolling River, the valley of which was
at one time one of the most fertile sections of the largest of our Western
cattle states. The tributary divided into two parts, or branches, shortly
above its junction with Rolling River. Hence its name. Forked Branch came
down from amid a series of low foot-hills, forming the northern boundary
of Mr. Randolph Carson's ranch.

"We sure have one fine day for ridin'," observed Pocus Pete, as he urged
his pony up alongside Dave's.

"That's right," agreed the youth.

For several miles they rode on, speaking but seldom, for a cowboy soon
learns the trick of silence--it is so often forced on him.

As they turned aside to take a trail that led to Forked Branch, Dave, who
was riding a little ahead, drew rein. Instinctively Pocus Pete did the
same, and then Dave, pointing to the front, asked:

"Is that a man or a cow?"

CHAPTER II

THE TAUNT

Pocus Pete shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed long and earnestly in
the direction indicated by Dave Carson. The two cow-ponies, evidently glad
of the little rest, nosed about the sun-baked earth for some choice morsel
of grass.

"It might be either--or both," Pete finally said.

"Either or both?" repeated Dave. "How can that be?"

"Don't you see two specks there, Dave? Look ag'in."

Dave looked. His eyes were younger and perhaps, therefore, sharper than
were those of the foreman of Bar U ranch, but Dave lacked the training
that long years on the range had given the other.

"Yes, I do see two," the youth finally said, "But I can't tell which is
which."

"I'm not altogether sure myself," Pete said, quietly and modestly. "We'll
ride a little nearer," he suggested, "an' then we can tell for sure. I
guess we're on th' track of some strays all right."

"Some strays, Pete? You mean our strays; don't you?" questioned Dave.

"Well, some of 'em 'll be, probably," was the quiet answer. "But you've
got t' remember, Dave, that there's a point of land belongin' t' Centre O
ranch that comes up there along the Forked Branch trail. It may be some of
Molick's strays."

"That's so. I didn't think of that, Pete. There's more to this business
than appears at first sight."

"Yes, Dave; but you're comin' on first-rate. I was a leetle opposed to th'
Old Man sendin' you East to study, for fear it would knock out your
natural instincts. But when you picked up that man as soon as you did,"
and he waved his hand toward the distant specks, "when you did that, I
know you've not been spoiled, an' that there's hope for you."

"That's good, Pete!" and Dave laughed.

"Yes, I didn't agree with th' Old Man at first," the foreman went on, "but
I see he didn't make any mistake."

Mr. Carson was the "Old Man" referred to, but it was not at all a term of
disrespect as applied to the ranch owner. It was perfectly natural to Pete
to use that term, and Dave did not resent it.

"Yes, I'm glad dad did send me East," the young man went on, as they
continued on their way up the trail. "I was mighty lonesome at first, and
I felt--well, cramped, Pete. That's the only way to express it."

"I know how you felt, Dave. There wasn't room to breathe in th' city."

"That's the way I felt. Out here it--it's different."

He straightened up in the saddle, and drew in deep breaths of the pure air
of the plains; an air so pure and thin, so free from mists, that the very
distances were deceiving, and one would have been positive that the
distant foot-hills were but half an hour's ride away, whereas the better
part of a day must be spent in reaching them.

"Yes, this is livin'--that's what it is," agreed Pocus Pete." You can make
them out a little better now, Dave," and he nodded his head in the
direction of the two distant specks. They were much larger now.

"It's a chap on a horse, and he's going in the same direction we are,"
Dave said, after a moment's observation.

"That's right. And it ain't every cowpuncher on Bar U who could have told
that."

"I can see two--three--why, there are half a dozen cattle up there Pete."

"Yes, an' probably more. I reckon some of th' Centre O outfit has strayed,
same as ours. That's probably one of Molick's men after his brand," Pete
went on.

The Bar U ranch (so called because the cattle from it were branded with a
large U with a straight mark across the middle) adjoined, on the north,
the ranch of Jason Molick, whose cattle were marked with a large O in the
centre of which was a single dot, and his brand consequently, was known as
Centre O.

"Maybe that's Len," suggested Dave, naming the son of the adjoining ranch
owner.

"It may be. I'd just as soon it wouldn't be, though. Len doesn't always
know how to keep a civil tongue in his head."

"That's right, Pete. I haven't much use for Len myself."

"You an' he had some little fracas; didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, more than once."

"An' you tanned him good and proper, too; didn't you Dave?" asked the
foreman with a low chuckle.

"Yes, I did." Dave did not seem at all proud of his achievement." But that
was some time ago," he added." I haven't seen Len lately."

"Well, you haven't missed an awful lot," said Pete, dryly.

The two rode on in silence again, gradually coming nearer and nearer to
the specks which had so enlarged themselves, by reason of the closing up
of the intervening distance, until they could be easily distinguished as a
number of cattle and one lone rider. The latter seemed to be making his
way toward the animals.

"Is he driving them ahead of him?" asked Dave, after a long and silent
observation.

"That's the way it looks," said Pocus Pete. "It's Len Molick all right,"
he added, after another shading of his eyes with his hand.

"Are you sure?" Dave asked.

"Positive. No one around here rides a horse in that sloppy way but him."

"Then he must have found some of his father's strays, and is taking them
to the ranch."

"I'm not so sure of that," Pete said.

"Not so sure of what?"

"That the cattle are all his strays. I wouldn't be a bit surprised but
what some of ours had got mixed up with 'em. Things like that have been
known to happen you know."

"Do you' think---" began Dave.

"I'm not goin' to take any chances thinkin'," Pete said significantly.
"I'm going to make sure."

"Look here, Dave," he went on, spurring his pony up alongside of the young
cowboy's. "My horse is good an fresh an' Len's doesn't seem to be in such
good condition. Probably he's been abusin' it as he's done before. Now I
can take this side trail, slip around through the bottom lands, an' get
ahead of him."

"But it's a hard climb up around the mesa, Pete."

"I know it. But I can manage it. Then you come on up behind Len, casual
like. If he has any of our cattle--by mistake," said Pete, significantly,
"we'll be in a position to correct his error. Nothin' like correctin'
errors right off the reel, Dave. Well have him between two fires, so to
speak."

"All right, Pete. I'll ride up behind him, as I'm doing now, and you'll
head him off; is that it?"

"That's it. You guessed it first crack out of th' box. If nothin's wrong,
why we're all right; we're up this way to look after our strays. And if
somethin' is wrong, why we'll be in a position to correct it--that's all."

"I see." There was a smile on Dave's face as his cowboy partner, with a
wave of his hand, turned his horse into a different trail, speeding the
hardy little pony up so as to get ahead of Len Molick.

Dave rode slowly on, busy with many thoughts, some of which had to do with
the youth before him. Len Molick was about Dave's own age, that is
apparently, for, strange as it may seem, Dave was not certain of the exact
number of years that had passed over his head.

It was evident that he was about eighteen or nineteen. He had recently
felt a growing need of a razor, and the hair on his face was becoming
wiry. But once, when he asked Randolph Carson, about a birthday, the ranch
owner had returned an evasive answer.

"I don't know exactly when your birthday does come, Dave," he had said.
"Your mother, before she--before she died, kept track of that. In fact I
somtimes forget when my own is. I think yours is in May or June, but for
the life of me I can't say just which month. It doesn't make a lot of
difference, anyhow."

"No, Dad, not especially. But just how old am I?"

"Well, Dave, there you've got me again. I think it's around eighteen. But
your mother kept track of that, too. I never had the time. Put it down at
eighteen, going on nineteen, and let it go at that. Now say, about that
last bunch of cattle we shipped--"

Thus the ranchman would turn the subject. Not that Dave gave the matter
much thought, only now, somehow or other, the question seemed to recur
with increased force.

"Funny I don't know just when my birthday is," he mused. "But then lots of
the cowboys forget theirs."

The trail was smooth at this point, and Dave soon found himself close to
Len, who was driving ahead of him a number of cattle. With a start of
surprise Dave saw two which bore the Bar U brand.

"Hello, Len," he called.

Len Molick turned with a start. Either he had not heard Dave approach, or
he had pretended ignorance.

"Well, what do yon want?" demanded the surly bully.

"Oh, out after strays, as you are," said Dave, coolly. "Guess your cattle
and ours have struck up an acquaintance," he added, with assumed
cheerfulness.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they're traveling along together just as if they belonged to the
same outfit."

"Huh! I can't help it, can I, if your cows tag along with our strays?"
demanded Len with a sneer.

"That's what I'm here for--to help prevent it," Dave went on, and his
voice was a trifle sharp. "The Bar U ranch can't afford to lose any strays
these days," he resumed. "The Carson outfit needs all it can get, and, as
representative of the Carson interests I'll just cut out those strays of
ours, Len, and head them the other way."

"Huh! What right have you got to do it?"

"What right? Why my father sent me to gather up our strays. I saw some of
them up here yesterday."

"Your father?" The sneer in Len's voice was unmistakable.

"Yes, of course," said Dave, wondering what was the matter with Len. "My
father, Randolph Carson."

"He isn't your father!" burst out Len in angry tones. "And you aren't his
son! You're a nameless picked-up nobody, that's what you are! A nobody!
You haven't even a name!"

And with this taunt on his lips Len spurred his horse away from Dave's.

CHAPTER III

A CONFESSION

Something seemed to strike Dave Carson a blow in the face. It was as
though he had suddenly plunged into cold water, and, for the moment, he
could not get his breath. The sneering words of Len Molick rang in his
ears:

"You're a nameless, picked-up nobody!"

Having uttered those cruel words, Len was riding on, driving before him
some of his father's stray cattle, as well as some belonging to the Bar U
ranch. The last act angered Dave, and anger, at that moment, was just what
was needed to arouse him from the lethargy in which he found himself. It
also served, in a measure, to clear away some of the unpleasant feeling
caused by the taunt.

"Hold on there a minute, Len Molick!" called Dave, sharply.

Len never turned his head, and gave no sign of hearing.

A dull red spot glowed in each of Dave's tanned cheeks. With a quick
intaking of his breath he lightly touched the spurs to his horse--lightly,
for that was all the intelligent beast needed. Dave passed his taunting
enemy on the rush, and planting himself directly in front of him on the
trail, drew rein so sharply that his steed reared. The cows, scattered by
the sudden rush, ambled awkwardly on a little distance, and then stopped
to graze.

"What do you mean by getting in my way?" growled Len.

"I mean to have you stop and answer a few questions," was the calm retort.

"If it's about these cattle I tell you I'm not trying to drive off any of
yours," said Len, in whining tones. He knew the severe penalty attached to
this in a cow country, and Dave was sufficiently formidable, as he sat
easily on his horse facing the bully, to make Len a little more
respectful.

"I'm not going to ask you about these cattle--at least not right away,"
Dave went on. "This is about another matter. You said something just now
that needs explaining."

"I say a good many things," Len admitted, and again there sounded in his
voice a sneer. "I don't have to explain to you everything I say; do I?"

"You do when it concerns me," and Dave put his horse directly across the
trail, which, at this point narrowed and ran between two low ranges of
hills. "You said something about me just now--you called me a nameless,
picked-up nobody!"

Dave could not help wincing as he repeated the slur.

"Well, what if I did?" demanded the bully.

"I want to know what you mean. You insinuated that Mr. Carson was not my
father."

"He isn't!"

"Why do you say that, and how do you know?" Dave asked. In spite of his
dislike of Len, and the knowledge that the bully was not noted for truth-
telling, Dave could not repress a cold chill of fear that seemed to clutch
his heart.

"I say that because it's so, and how I know it is none of your affair,"
retorted Len.

"Oh yes, it is my affair, too!" Dave exclaimed. He was fast regaining
control of himself. "It is very much my affair. I demand an explanation.
How do you know Mr. Carson isn't my father?"

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