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

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СКАЧАТЬ you’re right, though, Rufe –– we can run this bunch out without firin’ a shot.”

      That evening after the day’s riding Creede sat down on his heels by the fire and heated the end of an iron rod. In his other hand he held a horn, knocked from the bleaching skeleton of a steer that had died by the water, and to its end where the tip had been sawed off he applied the red-hot iron, burning a hole through to the hollow centre.

      “Jim,” he said, turning to one of the Clark boys, “do you want a little excitement to-morrow? Well then, you take this old horn and go play hide ’n’ seek with Jasp. Keep him chasin’, and while the rest of the boys are gatherin’ cattle Rufe and me will move a few sheep.”

      “Well, say,” broke in Ben Reavis impatiently, “where do us fellers come in on this play? I thought there was goin’ to be a few shap lessons and a little night work.”

      “Well,” responded the rodéo boss philosophically, “any time you fellers want to go up against them thirty-thirties you can do so. It’s your own funeral, and I’ll promise to do the honors right. But I’m a law-abidin’ cuss myself. I’m all the law now, ever since I talked with Jim Swope –– it’s the greatest graft they is.”

      He paused, busily scraping his horn with a piece of glass.

      “They’s no doubt about it, fellers,” he said at last, “we’ve been slow in the head. It’s a wonder we ain’t all of us makin’ hat bands in Yuma, by this time. I used to think that if you didn’t like a sheepman’s looks the way to do was to wade in and work him over a little; but that’s a misdemeanor, and it don’t go now. It took as good a man as Rufe, here, to put me wise; but I leave my gun in camp after this. I’ve got them Greasers buffaloed, anyhow, and Jasp knows if he plugs me when I’m unarmed it’ll be a sure shot for the pen. The time may come when guns is necessary, but I move that every man leave his six-shooter in his bed and we’ll go after ’em with our bare hands. What d’ ye say, Ben?”

      Ben Reavis rose up on one elbow, rolled his eyes warily, and passed a jet of tobacco juice into the hissing fire.

      “Not f’r me,” he said, with profane emphasis.

      “No, ner f’r me, either,” chimed in Charley Clark. “A man stays dead a long time in this dry climate.”

      “Well, you fellers see how many of my steers you can ketch, then,” said Creede, “and I’ll move them sheep myself –– leastways, me and Rufe.”

      “All right,” assented Reavis resignedly, “but you want to hurry up. I saw a cloud o’ dust halfway to Hidden Water this afternoon.”

      The next morning as the rodéo outfit hustled out to pick up what cattle they could before they were scattered by the sheep, Jim Clark, tall, solemn-faced, and angular, rode by devious ways toward the eastern shoulder of the Four Peaks, where a distant clamor told of the great herds which mowed the mountain slopes like a thousand sickles. Having seen him well on his way Creede and Hardy galloped down the cañon, switched off along the hillside and, leaving their horses among the rocks, climbed up on a rocky butte to spy out the land below. High ridges and deep cañons, running down from the flanks of the Four Peaks, lay to the east and north and west; and to the south they merged into the broad expanse of Bronco Mesa.

      There it lay, a wilderness of little hills and valleys, flat-topped benches and sandy gulches threaded minutely with winding trails and cow paths, green with the illusion of drought-proof giant cactus and vivid desert bushes, one vast preserve of browse and grass from the Peaks to the gorge of the Salagua. Here was the last battle-ground, the last stand of the cowmen against the sheep, and then unless that formless myth, “The Government,” which no man had ever seen or known, stepped in, there would be no more of the struggle; the green mesa would be stripped of its evanescent glory and the sheep would wander at will. But as long as there was still a chance and the cows had young calves that would die, there was nothing for it but to fight on, warily and desperately, to the end.

      As Jefferson Creede looked out across that noble landscape which he had struggled so resolutely to save and saw the dust clouds of the sheep drifting across it, the tears came to his eyes and blinded his keen vision. Here at last was the end of all his struggles and all his dreams; another year, or two years, and the mesa would be devastated utterly; his cows would be hollow-flanked and gaunted; his calves would totter and die, their tender lips pierced with the spiny cactus upon which their hard-mouthed mothers starved; and all that fair land which he knew and loved so well would be lost to him forever. He raised his hand to his eyes as if shading them from the sun, and brushed the tears away.

      “Well, look at those sons o’ guns hike,” he said, baring his teeth venomously, “and every band headed for Hidden Water! Go it, you tarriers –– and if you can’t stop to eat the grass, tromple on it! But wait, and if I don’t push in some Greaser’s face to-day it’ll be because every one of them bands is headin’ for the western pass.”

      He clambered slowly down from his perch and swung up into the saddle.

      “Talkin’ never did do much good with a sheep-herder,” he observed wisely. “As the old judge used to say, ‘you’ve got to appeal to his better nature’ –– with a club.”

      The most southerly of the seven bands was strung out in marching order, the goats in front, the hungriest sheep in the lead; and on both flanks and far behind, the groups and clusters of feeders, pushing out into the grassy flats and rearing up against the trees and bushes. Without a word to the herders Creede and Hardy took down their ropes and, swinging the hondas upon the goats, turned the advance guard northwest. The main herd and the drag followed, and then the herders, all in a bunch for courage.

      “This is the last time I talk to you,” said Creede, his voice stifled with anger. “Turn to the north, now, and keep a-goin’.”

      He put spurs to his horse and rode west to the second herd, and by noon they had turned all seven toward the western pass. Every herder had his cow’s horn and some of them were blowing continually, but no one answered, and a messenger was sent east for aid. They camped for the heat of the day, making smoke upon the ridges, but no help came. As the sun sank low and the curly-necked Merinos rose up from their huddle and began to drift the Mexicans turned them perforce to the north, looking back sulkily toward the mouth of Hell’s Hip Pocket where other smokes rose against the sky. Until the sun set they travelled, making their three miles and more, and not until they had corralled their flocks for the night did Chico and Grande, the little and big terrors of the sheep, give way from their strenuous labors.

      It was two hours after dark when they rode wearily into the camp at Carrizo Creek. The fire was dying down to embers and the rodéo outfit, worn out, had turned in, some in the tin house, others outside, under the brush ramada to escape the dew. No one moved as they approached but Creede did not scruple to wake up Jim Clark in order to learn the news.

      “How’d the old horn work?” he inquired cheerily.

      “No good,” grunted Clark, rolling over.

      “Aw, go on, wouldn’t they chase ye?”

      “Nope. Nothin’ doin’. Say, lemme sleep, will ye?”

      “Sure,” said Creede, “when I git through with you. Which way was them sheep travellin’?”

      “Well, some was goin’ straight up over the Four Peaks and the rest was p’intin’ west. You and your old horn –– I nigh blowed my fool head off and never got a rise! They was all blowin’ СКАЧАТЬ