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

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СКАЧАТЬ as he cursed the first dirty brown wave spewed in over the ridge and swept down upon their valley. Then in a moment his madness overcame him and, raising his heavy pistol, he emptied it against them defiantly, while the resounding cliffs took up his wrath and hurled it back. A herder with his rifle leapt up on a distant rock and looked toward their camp, and at the sight the black anger of Jeff’s father came upon him, filling him with the lust to kill.

      He rushed into the house and came out with a high-power rifle. “You will stand up there and laugh at me, will you?” he said, deliberately raising the sights. “You –– ”

      He rested the rifle against one of the ramada posts, and caught his breath to aim, while the cowmen regarded him cynically, yet with a cold speculation in their eyes. Hardy alone sprang forward to spoil his aim, and for a minute they bandied words like pistol shots as they struggled for the gun. Then with a last wailing curse, the big cowboy snapped the cartridge out of his rifle and handed it over to his partner.

      “You’re right,” he said, “let the dastard live. But if I ever git another chanst at Jasp Swope I’ll kill him, if I swing for it! He’s the boy I’m lookin’ for, but you see how he dodges me? I’ve been movin’ his sheep for two days! He’s afraid of me –– he’s afraid to come out and fight me like a man! But I’ll git ’im –– I’ll git ’im yet!”

      “All right,” said Hardy soothingly, “you can do it, for all of me. But don’t go to shooting Mexicans off of rocks as if they were turkey buzzards –– that’s what gets people into the pen. Now, you just take my advice for once and wash some of that dirt off your face. You’re locoed, man –– you’re not a human being –– and you won’t be until you wash up and get your belly full.”

      Half an hour later they sat down to breakfast, the burly fighting animal and the man who had taught him reason; and as they ate the fierce anger of the cowboy passed away like mists before the morning sun. He heaped his plate up high and emptied it again, drinking coffee from his big cup, and as if ashamed of his brutishness he began forthwith to lay out a campaign of peace. With sheep scurrying in every direction across the range in the great drive that was now on it was no use to try to gather cows. What they had they could day-herd and the rest would have to wait. The thing to do now was to protect the feed around the water, so that the cattle would not have to travel so far in the heat of summer. No objection being offered he gave each man a watercourse to patrol, sending one over into the Pocket to see what had happened to Bill Johnson; and then, with his gun packed in his bed, he started back with Hardy to watch over Hidden Water.

      The sun was well up as they topped the high ridge; and the mesa, though ploughed through and through by the trails of the hurrying sheep, still shimmered in its deceptive green. Not for a month had there been a cloud in the sky and the grass on the barren places was already withering in the heat, yet in the distance the greasewood and the palo verdes and giant cactus blended into one mighty sheet of verdure. Only on the ground where the feed should be were there signs of the imminent drought; and where the sheep had crossed the ground lay hard and baked or scuffled into dust. In the presence of those swift destroyers the dreaded año seco had crept in upon them unnoticed, but soon it would scourge the land with heat and dust and failing waters, and cattle lowing to be fed. And there before their eyes, clipping down the precious grass, tearing up the tender plants, shearing away the browse, moved the sheep; army after army, phalanx and cohort, drifting forward irresistibly, each in its cloud of dust. For a minute the two men sat gazing hopelessly; then Creede leaned forward in his saddle and sighed.

      “Well,” he observed philosophically, “they’re movin’, anyhow.”

      They rode down the long slope and, mounting a low roll, paused again apathetically to watch a band of sheep below.

      “Say,” exclaimed Creede, his eyes beginning to burn, “d’ye notice how them sheep are travellin’? And look at them other bands back yonder! By Joe!” he cried, rising in his stirrups, “we’ve got ’em goin’! Look at the dust out through the pass, and clean to Hell’s Hip Pocket. They’re hikin’, boy, they’re hittin’ it up for The Rolls! But what in the world has struck ’em?”

      He stood up straight in his saddle, swinging his head from east to west, but no band of horsemen met his eye. He looked again at the flock below him –– the goats, forever in the lead, heading straight for the western pass; the herders swinging their carbines upon the drag –– and seemed to study upon the miracle.

      “Have you got any money to spare, Rufe?” he inquired quietly.

      “Sure,” responded Hardy.

      “Well, then,” said Creede deliberately, “I’d like to make you a sporting proposition. I’ll bet you forty dollars to the price of a drink that old Bill Johnson has been shootin’ up their camps. Will you go me? All right, and I’ll make you a little side bet: I’ll bet you any money that Jim Swope has lost some sheep!”

      He spurred his horse recklessly down the hill, grinning, and at the clatter of rocks the fearful herders jumped forward and raised a great clamor behind their sheep, whistling and clubbing their guns, but the heart of the monster Grande was no longer turned to wrath. He laughed and called out to them, leaping his horse playfully over washouts and waving his black hat.

      “Cuidado, hombres,” he shouted, “be careful –– do not hurry –– look at the nice grass!” But despite this friendly admonition the herders still yelled and whistled at their sheep, jabbing them spitefully with the sharp muzzles of their rifles until at last, all riot and confusion, they fled away bleating into the west.

      CHAPTER XVIII

       BAD BLOOD

       Table of Contents

      The sheep were on the run, drifting across Bronco Mesa as if the devil was after them, and Creede could hardly stay on his horse from laughing –– but when he drew near to Hidden Water his face changed. There was a fresh sheep trail in the cañon and it led away from the ranch. He spurred forward like the wind, his eyes upon the tracks, and when he came in sight of the house he threw down his hat and swore. Of all the God-forsaken places in Arizona, the Dos S Ranch was the worst. The earth lay bare and desolate before it; the woodpile had disappeared; the bucket was thrown down the well. Never had the flat, mud buildings seemed so deserted or Tommy so tragic in his welcome. The pasture gate was down and even that holy of holies, the branding corral, stunk of sheep. Only the padlocked house had been respected, and that perforce, since nothing short of a sledgehammer could break its welded chain.

      Unfastening the battered door they entered the living-room which once had been all light and laughter. There lay the dishes all clean and orderly on the table, the floors swept, the beds made, some withered flowers on Hardy’s desk.

      “Huh,” grunted Creede, looking it over coldly, “we’re on the bum, all right, all right, now. How long since they went away?”

      “’Bout a year,” replied Hardy, and his partner did not contradict him.

      They cooked a hasty meal and ate it, putting the scraps in the frying-pan for Tommy.

      “Go to it, Tom,” said Creede, smiling wistfully as the cat lapped away at the grease. “He never could git used to them skirts rustlin’ round here, could he?” And then there was a long silence.

      Tommy sat up and washed his face contentedly, peering about with intent yellow eyes and sniffing at the countless odors with which his СКАЧАТЬ