Rockabye County 9 Read online

  Thrusting itself onward with a speed that a greyhound might have envied, especially if it had just run more than six miles over difficult terrain and in the heat of the afternoon, the strike-dog caught up with the jaguar. Coming in from the side, the hound chopped savagely and clamped its teeth on el tigre’s rump. Screeching in startled pain and fury, the jaguar skidded to a halt and tried to turn on its attacker. Such was the force of the halt and attempt that it flung the strike-dog bodily through the air. Landing on its side, the hound, tried to regain its feet. Before the cattle-killer could rush in and finish off the strike-dog, the remainder of the pack dashed to the rescue.

  Canine jaws snapped, but their teeth could make little impression upon the rosette-speckled hide; which was fortunate for the hounds concerned. If any member of the pack had taken a firm hold, its end would have been swift and painful. Roaring, spitting and snarling, el tigre twisted and contorted its body as only a member of the feline race can. At the same time it lashed wickedly with its unsheathed claws at its assailants. Every hound carried scars gained in earlier conflicts and from them had learned the only way to fight with a jaguar.

  Waiting until el tigre’s attention swung in some other direction, each hound would leap in, snap at it and bound clear before the extended claws could flash around and sink home. If one of their number should find itself in trouble, as in the strike-dog’s case, the rest pitched in from all sides to give it an opportunity to escape.

  The noise of the desperate battle rose to an almost deafening crescendo. Mingling with el tigre’s awesome, guttural roars of growing fury, the hounds snarled, bawled and let ring out their deep ‘chop’ baying. Adding to the hideous cacophony, echoes flung back and forwards from the walls of the blind canyon. The wild, primeval sounds rolled out across the rugged range country until reaching the ears of Machados and the deputies half a mile or more away.

  Knowing that help would be coming fast, the hounds gallantly, but never recklessly, battled to hold the jaguar at bay. Every time it turned and tried to make for the safety of the bushes, they increased their efforts. Only hounds in the peak of physical fitness could have continued the fight. They were tiring, for all of that. So was the jaguar, but it continued to hold them off with teeth and claws. It was still a formidable foe and would be certain death to any hound which chanced to mis-time an attack.

  Despite all the pack’s efforts, the jaguar drew slowly nearer to the thorny thicket. Everything depended on how soon the men and girl came on to the scene. If they did not arrive quickly sheer exhaustion might cause the hounds to fall back. Then the jaguar would be able to slip through the bushes, climb the rear wall of the canyon and escape to continue its depredations.

  Chapter Two

  ‘I hope we get that murderous son-of-sin,’ Don Eugenio Machados announced, as his party stood allowing their horses to rest and blow on top of a ridge. ‘A young Indian boy came on him soon after he’d made his kill. Saw the turkey vultures circling and rode over to find out what was dead. He learned all right. El tigre charged him as he came up and really meant it.’

  ‘If you’d ever seen the Daktari television show,’ Alice remarked, mopping her face with a bandana. ‘You’d know that no predatory animal charges and means it. It’s only making a demonstration.’

  ‘Why I bet that if the Indian boy had stood his ground, that old cat would have cut him off a couple of steaks and fetched him home riding piggy back,’ Brad went on. ‘It happens all the time on the Daktari show.’

  ‘I’ve seen the show, although I doubt if the boy has,’ Machados replied. ‘What he has seen is a jaguar charge him and he’s satisfied that el tigre meant it. Once a cattle-killer gets that bold, it needs to be killed off pronto, if only to stop it making a liar out of Daktari’s producer.’

  ‘Trouble is we’ll have to catch him before we can kill him,’ Brad pointed out. ‘That old cat’s get-up-and-go’s not got-up-and-went yet. He’s still running. There’s no sign of him “treeing”, or stopping for another fight with the hounds.’

  ‘It’s only a matter of time,’ answered Machados. ‘As long as he doesn’t go somewhere that they can’t follow, which would have to be straight up or down, he’ll never throw my hounds off his trail.’

  With that the conversation lapsed to let Machados listen uninterrupted to the sounds of the chase. An expert hound-dog man, he could read the vocal messages sent back by the pack with the same facility he showed at understanding verbal instructions received over a car’s radio. So he did not need to be able to see the hounds to know roughly what was happening. Going by the changing timbre of their baying, he could form a fairly accurate picture of how the pursuit was progressing.

  In spite of the request having come from his patron, Don Eugenio Machados, the Indian boy had stoutly rejected the proposal that he should guide the party to the jaguar’s latest kill. Having less faith than the producer of the Daktari show in the innocent intentions of predatory animals—or a greater practical experience of them in the wild—the boy had been disinclined to renew his acquaintance with el tigre. He had claimed that the jaguar was a bad medicine animal for his tribe and believed that a second, deliberate meeting must bring evil and misfortune to him. Knowing Indians, Machados had not attempted to force the boy to return.

  Obtaining directions to the location of the jaguar’s kill, Machados had set out to find it, accompanied by Brad and Alice. They had seen turkey vultures gliding down to land by the carcass, which meant that the jaguar was not in the immediate vicinity. So Machados had set his hounds to casting around the dead steer. Soon a medium-pitched bugle-bawl from the strike-dog had indicated that he had located el tigre’s scent-picture. Gathering around their leader, the rest of the pack had added their voices to his and set off along the cattle-killer’s trail. Their bugle-bawling had changed to a louder, more excited, turkey-mouth bellowing which had told the listening trio that the jaguar had been found and started running.

  Although excellently-mounted, Machados and the deputies had soon been left behind. The horse had never been sired which could keep pace with a pack of hard-driving big-game hounds across such rugged terrain. So the trio had been compelled to make the best speed they could, trying to keep within hearing distance of the pack. Twice there had been a switch from the turkey-mouth to a steady, coarse chop baying, intermingled with sounds of fighting, indicating that the jaguar had ‘treed’—the hound dog men’s expression for brought to bay even when the prey remained on the ground— and the hounds tried to hold it until help arrived. On each occasion el tigre had broken clear and run before the hunters could catch up to do their part in the affair.

  At last Alice and the men had brought their mounts to a halt. While talking and listening to the hounds, they had scanned the range ahead. Although the rolling land hid the pack from their view, they realized that they were close behind. Suddenly the trio became aware that the fighting had been resumed, but with an increased ferocity.

  ‘They’ve stopped him again,’ Brad commented, stroking the neck of the big bayo-lobo stallion with which Machados had equipped him for the hunt. ‘Or he’s stopped to wait for them.’

  ‘Si, amigo,’ the Mexican confirmed. ‘Now we’d best try to get to them pronto. Unless I’m mistaken, they’re stopping him reaching somewhere that would be dangerous or impossible for them to follow. We’d better join them quickly, before he kills some of them.’

  ‘Let’s go then!’ Brad drawled, catching hold of the horn and swinging astride the big stallion.

  ‘Blasted idiots!’ Alice snorted, watching her partner set the horse into motion almost as soon as his Levi’s seat touched the saddle.

  ‘You mean us?’ Machados smiled, refraining from mounting and restraining the eagerness to be moving displayed by his bayo-cebrunos.

  ‘You for sure,’ the red-head agreed, and made no attempt to get aboard the fiddle-footing tobiano. ‘But me even more than you. I came to Mexico for a restful vacation, not to wear my butt-end raw chasing through the desert on a half-trained horse, following after a pack of idiot hounds that have likely been driven loco by the heat.’

  ‘But think of the excitement,’ Machados suggested, recalling without mentioning the fact that Alice had been ready, willing and eager to come along on the hunt. ‘Think of the thrill of the chase, and all the invigorating fresh air which you city people miss.’

  ‘If I wasn’t a lady, I’d tell you what to do with them,’ Alice sniffed. ‘And you’re starting to sound like Buck Shields.’

  Having made the acquaintance of First Deputy Buck Shields, the hard-bitten old peace officer who ran the Rockabye County Sheriff’s Sub-Office at the town of Euclid, Machados chuckled. Buck invariably affected a disdain for city-dwellers and constantly extolled the blessings of living in the country.

  Suddenly a suspicion began to creep through the Mexican’s thoughts about the old First Deputy. While Alice had kept Machados talking, Brad was building up a fair lead on the fast-moving bayo-lobo stallion.

  ‘Hey!’ the Mexican peace officer yelped. ‘I’m starting to smell a rat I’

  ‘How’s that?’ Alice wanted to know, oozing innocence.

  ‘You’re keeping me talking so that Brad can be first to reach the pack!’

  ‘Why, as if lil ole me’d do a right mean thing like that. It’s just a coincidence that I want a jaguar’s hide for a scatter-rug in my apartment. Of course, I know you-all need it for that fancy film star down in Mexico City—’

  Alice addressed the last words to Machados’ back as he turned and mounted his bayo-cebrunos. A delighted grin played on her lips as she measured with her eyes the amount of distance her partner had covered while she held their host occupied in conversation. Given that much of a head-start, Brad ought to be able to arrive b
efore Machados at the scene of the fight between the hounds and the jaguar. In which case, the big blond could claim the hide.

  One of Alice’s reasons for coming on vacation had been to obtain a jaguar-skin rug. Recently Sergeant Grace Emmet of the G.C.P.D.’s Airport Detail had returned from a visit to Tampico, bringing an ocelot skin which she claimed to have collected on a hunting trip near the town. Alice and Grace had been friends—and rivals—since their school days, so the red-head wanted to get the better of the sergeant by bringing in a superior trophy. Alice knew that jaguar hides could be purchased in Mexico—and suspected that Grace had obtained the ocelot by similar means—so planned to buy one. The meeting with Machados had presented Alice with the means to completely top Grace’s acquisition.

  One difficulty had arisen in Alice’s plans. While willing to take the deputies on the hunt, Machados had warned that he wanted the hide as a present for a glamorous film actress he had met while visiting Mexico City. However, Machados had sportingly agreed that whoever killed the jaguar would have its hide. With that in mind, and determined to top Grace Emmet’s trophy, Alice had decided she would ensure that her partner was the one to do so.

  Catching hold of her saddlehorn, Alice started to swing herself on to the tobiano’s black-and-white back. She had hardly commenced when her mount lunged into motion. Having been used for hunting on other occasions, the gelding knew what was expected of it. Already champing on the bit over what it regarded as an unwarrantable delay, it changed from being restlessly stationary to a swift run in what seemed to be a single movement. Swept up and into the saddle, Alice found that the tobiano had reached a gallop almost before she slipped her right foot into the stirrup iron.

  Alice had always loved horse-riding. Even though she worked out of the Sheriff’s Office in Gusher City, she still found time to keep up her equestrian skill. So she managed to remain on the tobiano’s saddle through a change of motion which might have unseated a less-capable rider. Urging the gelding on, she ranged alongside Machados. Turning his head, the Mexican flashed a grin at the girl.

  ‘If you’d said, you could have had the hide,’ Machados remarked.

  ‘This way’s more fun and I’ll get it anyway,’ Alice replied. ‘She’s not your type, Gene.’

  ‘With that face and figure, she’d do until my type came along,’ the Mexican answered, then shrugged. ‘Oh well, maybe she’ll settle for something else. Some little trinket like a diamond bracelet.’

  ‘More likely she’ll have got married again before you get to see her,’ Alice warned, for the actress in question changed husbands with considerable regularity.

  ‘One can always hope,’ Machados admitted, and the girl knew that he had not been too set on collecting the trophy for the actress. ‘Let’s see how close we can come to Brad before he reaches the hounds.’

  For all his two-hundred-and-eighteen pounds weight, the big blond deputy was a light rider. He sat the bayo-lobo stallion with a careful attention to his balance that threw a lesser strain upon it than a less-skilled horseman could have achieved. Built on lines calculated to carry weight at high speed, possessing the much sought-after quality known as brio escondido,7 the stallion galloped willingly over the rough ground. Nor did Brad attempt to slow it down. He had already become aware of his mount’s excellent character. So he felt sure that it was sure-footed and capable of selecting the safest route across the broken, dangerous surface. Satisfied on that, he encouraged it to stride out in the direction of the fight.

  After covering almost half a mile, Brad could tell that he drew near to the source of the commotion. Glancing back, he saw that he was a good two hundred yards ahead of his companions. Remembering Alice’s comments about obtaining a jaguar skin, Brad wondered how she had managed to delay Machados and give him the opportunity to be first on the scene.

  Then Brad gave his full attention to the front. Going by what he could hear, he figured that his help was badly needed. Already there was an exhausted, nearly hysterical note to the hounds’ baying which warned that they were approaching the limits of their endurance. Once they grew tired, their reflexes would slow down and responses flag to an extent where they might fall victim to the jaguar.

  On reaching the edge of the steep slope, Brad saw the sheer wall beyond the level ground. He knew that the fight was taking place inside the canyon, the mouth of which he could see in the cliff. At that moment the bayo-lobo went over the edge. Instinctively Brad clamped a tighter hold with his knees and set about adjusting his balance. Under the stallion’s hooves, the side of the slope seemed to be on the move. Brad realized that the surface had a coating of loose shale. Instead of trying to run over the ambulatory shale, the country-bred horse rode down with it. So the bayo-lobo remained on its feet and reached the bottom safely.

  Responsive as ever to the guidance of the reins, the stallion headed towards the mouth of the canyon. It displayed some slight nervousness as the noise of the fight grew in volume, but kept moving. Due to the effect of the echoes, Brad could not estimate how much farther he might have to ride. Turning through the entrance, he found out quickly enough. Not seventy yards away, the fight raged in all its fury. Brad reined the bayo-lobo to a halt, meaning to dismount, draw the Winchester from its boot and advance the remaining distance on foot.

  No sooner did the jaguar see the mounted figure enter the blind canyon than it ignored the presence of the hounds. Experience in the past had taught it that the arrival of a human being produced a danger which far exceeded the menace of the dogs. Cutting loose with an even more blood-curdling roar, el tigre launched itself towards the entrance. Immediately the pack scattered, throwing themselves aside and permitting the cattle-killer an unopposed passage through their ranks. Raking its left fore-paw’s claws in passing along the ribs of a bitch which moved a shade too slowly, the jaguar rushed on in the direction from which it had originally come.

  Strong and powerful the big stallion between Brad’s legs might be, but it had never been used for hunting. When it saw the raging jaguar burst through the hounds and streak towards it, the bayo-lobo decided that it wanted no part of such a creature. Up to that moment, the stallion had been an intelligent, agile mount, answering willingly to the signals Brad had given with the reins or his heels. Seeing el tigre come roaring out of that maelstrom of screaming dogs, the sounds rendered louder and more fearful by the acoustics of the confined space, it forgot all of its training. From all appearances, it might have been one of the horses kept for ‘bucking bronco’ contests at rodeos.

  Before becoming a deputy sheriff, Brad had ridden a fair number of such bucking horses. Having mounted for the purpose of matching his skill against that of the ‘bronco’, he had enjoyed the sensation. There was a vast difference in sitting a pitching, fighting horse in the confines of a corral and being afork one while facing a charging jaguar. Brad knew that long before he could bring the bayo-lobo back under some semblance of control, the jaguar would be upon him.

  First rearing on its hind legs and flailing the air with agitated fore hooves, the stallion returned to all fours. Then it took off and swapped ends in mid-air. Landing with its rump towards the jaguar, it let Brad know its further intentions in no uncertain manner. By that time, however, the deputy knew what he must do if he wanted to stay healthy.

  Freeing his feet from the stirrup irons, Brad swung his right leg forward and over the stallion’s arched neck. With a shove, he cut loose from the saddle and sprang clear. While his prompt reaction had removed him from one potential source of danger, another arose out of his doing so. Leaving the saddle in such an abrupt manner had allowed him no opportunity to remove the Winchester carbine from its boot. He doubted if the horse would stand still long enough for him to correct the omission.