Slim Evans and his Horse Lightning

The rugged peaks of the Cajons cast deepening shadows down their eastern slopes as the July sun, a ball of fire in a cloudless sky, swung toward the horizon.

Threading his way carefully through one of the passes of the Cajons was a cowboy on a sorrel horse. Dust lay thick on both horse and rider, for they had been long on the trail that day and there had been no rain in the Cajon country for weeks.

Breasting the last steep grade leading to the summit of the pass, a new country was unfolded. The sorrell paused as its rider dismounted more than a little stiff from the hours in the saddle and the intense heat of the day.

The cowboy patted the sorrel affectionately.

“It’s been a long grind, Lightning, old girl. We’ll rest here a few minutes and then see if we can find a good place to camp tonight.”

The narrow trail had broadened at the summit and there was a swale with a little grass that had escaped the burning rays of the midsummer heat.

The sorrel began to graze while the cowboy sat down in the shadows of a boulder.

All day long horse and rider had been toiling up the slope from the east, following the little-used trail. Shading his eyes, the cowboy tried to follow the trail. It turned west and north, into a country that was well timbered and appeared to be rich in grazing land--a country new to both horse and rider.

For the twentieth time in the last three days the cowboy slipped his hand into an inner pocket and drew forth an envelope. He unfolded the letter it contained and scanned it with puzzled eyes. It was addressed to Slim Evans, Flying Arrow Ranch, Sunfield, Wyo.

“Dear Slim,” the letter began, “I am in need of your help. Things are going badly in the Creeping Shadows country over beyond the Cajons and I am counting on you to straighten out the trouble. The greatest secrecy is necessary so let no one except your father know of this message. Meet me on the 22nd at the foot of the Sky High trail on the other side of the Cajons. Will explain everything then.”

The message was signed by Bill Needham, secretary of the Mountain States Cattlemen’s Association.

Slim Evans folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, which was now badly creased.

It had been a summons he could not disregard and the mysterious tone of the letter had aroused his curiosity. Once or twice in the last two years he had been able to help Bill Needham and the Mountain States Association in running down rustlers. Bill was an old friend of the Evans family and Slim had hastened to roll his duffel and start for the Sky High trail over the Cajons.

It was the best part of another day’s ride to the foot of the trail, but he could slacken the fast pace he and Lightning had maintained for he was well within the time limit.

Fine lines puckered Slim’s brow as he stared down from the summit of the trail toward the Creeping Shadows country. Although less than a hundred and fifty miles from the Flying Arrow, where he had been reared, it was new country to him, right against the southern boundary of Montana with the Bad Lands touching it on the east.

Slim wondered if Needham was calling him in on a case of cattle rustling. But that seemed hardly possible, for the association had a small staff of men who devoted all of their time and energy to running down cattle thieves. Slim’s only work along that line had been several small investigations near the home ranch where he had been able to save the association the expense of sending out one of its staff detectives.

Bill Needham was the only man with the answer and Slim reluctantly left the cool shadow of the rock. Lightning responded to his whistle and the cowboy swung into the saddle.

“Half an hour more, Lightning, and we’ll look for a camp,” said Slim, running his fingers through the mane of his mount.

Lightning, a beautiful horse, was tall, well built, with legs strong enough to stand a terrific speed even in the roughness of the cow country.

A white star stood out on her forehead and each foot had a collar of white just above the fetlock. It was evident that horse and rider understood each other for, from time to time, Slim spoke to Lightning and the mare seemed to nod in reply.

The Sky High trail had been in little use for half a dozen years, the new trail through the Cajons went nine miles south along an easier pass. Years before the Sky High trail had been one of the main routes through the mountains, cowboys and herds from the Creeping Shadows country thundering along it. Now the old road was covered with weeds and only a semblance of a trail remained.

For half an hour Slim and Lightning swung down from the summit at a steady pace.