On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane

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СКАЧАТЬ by moving a few sheep. And of course we want to gather every beef critter we can now, while they’re fat. The sheep seem to be hugging the mountain pretty close. What’s the matter with working the Pocket Butte to-morrow and while the boys are riding we’ll warn all the stragglers down there to keep up against the hills; then as soon as we get ’em located we’ll jump in some day and move ’em!”

      “Huh?” inquired Creede, shoving back his hat and staring. “Did I hear you say ‘move ’em’? Well –– er –– I thought you left your gun at home,” he suggested guardedly.

      “That’s right,” admitted Hardy, “but don’t you let that worry you any. I told you I’d help move those sheep, and I’ll do it! We don’t need guns, anyhow. Why, I’d just as soon tackle a rattlesnake bare-handed as go after Jasp Swope with my six-shooter. That’s just what he’s looking for, boy, with all those thirty-thirties behind him, and he’ll have plenty of witnesses there to swear us into Yuma, too. I tell you, Jeff, I’ve been thinking this over, and I believe my boss is right.”

      “Sure,” said Creede, showing his teeth in the twilight.

      “Say, let up on that, will you?” exclaimed Hardy irritably. “I’m talking business. Now you let me tell you something.” He paused, and fixed his eye on the dust cloud, intently. “I’ve moved that many sheep twice,” he said, throwing out his hand, “and I left my gun at home.”

      “That’s right,” conceded Creede.

      “Well now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” continued Hardy. “If you’ll leave your gun at home too and stay with me on this I’ll undertake to shoot the last sheep out through West Pass inside of a week. And the only chance we take is of getting shot at or arrested for assault and battery. The Territorial Prison end of this gun business never did appeal me, anyway.”

      “No –– nor me either! But what’s the scheme?”

      The big cowboy leaned forward eagerly, his eyes flashing as he half guessed the plan.

      “We ride out together,” said Hardy, his voice far away, as if he saw it in his mind’s eye, “unarmed –– and we notify every sheep-herder we see to move. If Jasp Swope or any of his men kill us while we’re unarmed it’ll be cold-blooded murder, and there’ll be witnesses to prove it. And if the sheep don’t move, we’ll move ’em! What kind of a crime is that, anyway –– to drive sheep off the public range? There isn’t an officer of the law within sixty miles, anyhow; and if anybody pulls a gun on us we can slug him in self-defence.”

      “Sure,” agreed Creede, “but suppose one of them big-headed Chihuahua Mexicans should happen to shoot you?”

      “Well then, I’d be dead,” said Hardy soberly. “But wouldn’t you rather be dead than shut up in that hell-hole down at Yuma?”

      “Yes!” cried Creede, holding out his hands as if taking an oath. “I would, by God!”

      “Well, come on then!” said Hardy, and they shook hands on it like brothers.

      When the rodéo outfit was gathered together in the morning Jefferson Creede deliberately unstrapped his cartridge belt and threw his pistol back onto his bed. Then he winked at his partner as if, rightly understood, the action was in the nature of a joke, and led the way to Pocket Butte.

      “You fellows rake the ridges to Bullpit Valley,” he said, briefly assigning every man to his post. “Rufe ’n me’ll hold ’em up for you about four o’clock, but don’t rush the funeral –– we’re goin’ to move a few sheep first.”

      He smiled mysteriously as he spoke, staving off their pointed queries with equivocal answers.

      “See you later,” he observed, turning his horse into a sheep trail, and with that the outfit was forced to be content.

      The offending sheep were found feeding along the eastern slope of a long ridge that led down from the upper ground, and the herders were camped on the summit. There were four men gathered about the fire and as the cowboys approached three of them picked up their carbines and sat off to one side, fingering the locks nervously. The appearance of Jeff Creede spelled trouble to all sheepmen and there were few camps on Bronco Mesa which did not contain a herder who had been unceremoniously moved by him. But this time the fire-eating cowman rode grandly into camp without any awe-inspiring demonstrations whatever.

      “Are those your sheep?” he inquired, pointing to the grazing herd.

      “Sí señor,” responded the boss herder humbly.

      “Very well,” said Creede, “move ’em, and move ’em quick. I give you three days to get through that pass.” He stretched a heavily muscled arm very straight toward the notch in the western hills and turned abruptly away. Hardy swung soberly in behind him and the frightened Chihuahuanos were beginning to breathe again after their excitement when suddenly Jeff stopped his horse.

      “Say,” he said, turning to the boss, “what you carryin’ that cow’s horn for?”

      At this pointed inquiry the boss herder flinched and looked downcast, toying uneasily with the primitive instrument at his side.

      “To blow,” he answered evasively.

      “Well, go ahead and blow it, then,” suggested Creede amiably. “No –– go on! I don’t care what happens. Aw here, let me have it a minute!”

      He grabbed the horn away impatiently, wiped the mouthpiece with his sleeve, drew a long breath, and blew. A deep bass roar answered to his effort, a bellow such as the skin-clad hunters of antiquity sent forth when they wound the horn for their hounds, and the hills and valleys of Carrizo and the upper mesa echoed to the blast.

      “Say, that’s great!” exclaimed the big cowboy, good-naturedly resisting the appeals of the herder. “I used to have one like that when I was a boy. Oh, I’m a blower, all right –– listen to this, now!” He puffed out his chest, screwed his lips into the horn, and blew again, loud and long.

      “How’s that for high?” he inquired, glancing roguishly at his partner. “And I could keep it up all day,” he added, handing the horn back, “only I’ve got business elsewhere.”

      “Oyez, amigo,” he said, bending his brow suddenly upon the Mexican herder, “remember, now –– in three days!” He continued the sentence by a comprehensive sweep of the hand from that spot out through the western pass, favored each of the three Chihuahuanos with an abhorrent scowl, and rode slowly away down the hogback.

      “Notice anything funny over on that ridge?” he asked, jerking his head casually toward the east. “That’s Swope and Co. –– the Sheepmen’s Protective Association –– coming over to rescue companero.” A line of rapidly moving specks proved the truth of his observation, and Creede’s shoulders shook with laughter as he noted their killing pace.

      “I tumbled to the idee the minute I set eyes on that cow’s horn,” he said. “It’s like this. Every boss herder has a horn; if he gits into trouble he blows it and all hands come a-runnin’ to shoot holes in Mr. Cowman –– think I’ll make one myself.”

      He halted behind a rock and scrutinized the approaching horsemen over the top.

      “That’s Jasp, in front,” he observed impersonally. “I СКАЧАТЬ