In late afternoon of the day after the storm, Sheriff Lundsford and his bedraggled, disgruntled posse returned to Hell Hole. They were a wornout crew. Cal was still absent, but they made themselves at home in his cabin; fed themselves and, night coming on, occupied the bunks with which the ranger’s quarters was plentifully equipped. It was Lundsford’s intention to use Hell Hole as a base, and work out of that place until all the surrounding territory had been covered.
“Cal will come moseying in about tomorrow,” he told his men. “And maybe he’ll have some information of value. A good man, Cal — but awfully stuck on himself, just as Wheeler is. Still, he does have good luck getting his man when he starts out for him; no doubt about that. These grandstanders generally do have luck — else they’d soon cease to be in position to grandstand!”
Having thus delivered himself, Lundsford turned in. Shortly after daylight he awoke, stretched himself, wincing at the soreness in his limbs, and looked out the window at the head of the bunk. He sat up suddenly — then, a minute later, though only partly dressed, was streaking it for the landing.
Three craft — two dugouts and a bateau, were there ahead of him. In the bow of the first dugout to land sat a short, redheaded man, his right arm in a sling; manning the stern paddle was a tall, spare man, his head enveloped in a bloody bandage. The second canoe held two men, one of whom had seemingly rammed his head into something solid, for he, too, displayed a blood-stained bandage.
In the bateau, watchful as a hawk, sat Calhoun.
Lundsford’s eyes dropped to the feet of the prisoners, and noted that each man was secured by a pair of handcuffs about his ankles.
“Make yourself useful, Lundsford,” Cal called out, tossing a bunch of keys ashore. “They’ve been on a forced march, and are too tired to run!”
Members of the posse now came upon the scene. Cal made no answer to their inquiries until the last prisoner was ashore and stretching his legs leisurely, then he spoke:
“I ran onto them in a night camp,” he stated, “and brought ’em in. That’s all.”
The crowd fell silent. Then Lundsford spoke:
“I know you done just that, Cal,” he said dazedly, “because they’re here! And now you’ve fetched ’em this far, I’ll just relieve you of them and take ’em along with me.”
Cal eyed the sheriff for a long moment.
“Ever observe the conduct of buzzards, Lundsford?” he asked. “They hang around until some other bird makes a kill, then try to hog it. Some birds, though, won’t stand for it. I’m that kind of bird.”
He turned to his prisoners.
“Get over to my cabin, men,” he ordered.
In silence they obeyed, leaving Lundsford more disgruntled than ever, wondering just what the ranger had meant by his reference to buzzards, and whether or not it called for a reply.
Inside, Cal replaced the handcuffs on the prisoners, then made his report to Wheeler.
“Calhoun sending. Found the train bandits in a night camp on Little Bear, a day’s journey from the Mississippi. Brought them to Hell Hole this morning. Had to bung three of them up, and they should have medical attention soon. The loot is in my possession. Am holding them here, pending your arrival.”
He signed off, then cocked an ear for the chief’s reply. After a moment it came — a laconic:
“O. K.”