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

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СКАЧАТЬ away he could escape the rush of pursuing coyotes, or sally forth with equal ferocity when sheep dogs were about. He peered out of his porthole for a moment, warily, then his stump tail began to twitch, he worked his hind claws into the wood, and leapt. A yelp of terror from the ramada heralded his success and Creede ran like a boy to look.

      “He’s jumped one, by Joe!” he exclaimed. “What did I tell ye –– that cat is a holy terror on dogs!”

      The dog in question –– a slinking, dispirited cur –– wagged its tail apologetically from a distance, shaking its bloody ears, while Tommy swelled and hissed viciously at him from his stronghold. It was a sheep dog, part collie, part shepherd, and the rest plain yellow –– a friendly little dog, too, and hungry. But the heart of Creede, ordinarily so tender, was hardened by his disasters.

      “Git out of here!” he commanded roughly. “Git, you yap, or I’ll burn you up with a bullet!

      “This is what comes of leavin’ your gun off,” he grumbled, as he unbound his bed and grabbed up his pistol. But as he stepped out into the open to shoot, his barbarity was checked by a clatter of hoofs and, looking up, he saw Jasper Swope on his big black mule, ambling truculently in across the open.

      “Hyar!” he shouted, shaking his fist angrily, “don’t you shoot my dog, you –– or I’ll be the death of ye!”

      “Oh, I don’t know,” responded Creede, bristling back at him. “Keep the blame pup away, then –– and keep that other dog away, too, or my cat’ll eat ’im up! Well, I notice you took the occasion to come down and sheep me out,” he observed, as Swope pulled up before the door.

      “I did not,” retorted the sheepman promptly, but grinning nevertheless at the damage, “but I see some other feller has though, and saved me the trouble.” He ran his eye approvingly over the devastated homestead; and then, rising in his stirrups, he plunged suddenly into his set speech.

      “I’ve took a lot off’n you, Jeff Creede,” he shouted, swinging his arms wildly, “but I’ve got a bellyful of this night work! And I come down to tell you that next time you shoot up one of my camps there’ll be trouble!”

      “I never shot up your old camp,” growled Creede, “nor any other camp. I’m dam’ glad to hear that somebody else did though,” he added vindictively, “and I hope to God he fixed you good and proper. Now what can I do for you, Mr. Swope?” he inquired, thrusting out his chin. “I suppose you must be hurryin’ on, of course.”

      “No!” cried Swope, slapping his saddle horn vehemently. “I come down here to git some satisfaction out of you! My sheep has been killed and my men has been intimidated on this here public range, and I want to tell you right now, Mr. Creede, that this funny business has got to stop!”

      “Well, don’t choke!” said the cowman, fingering his gun coldly. “Go ahead and stop it, why don’t you?”

      He paused, a set smile on his lips, and for a moment their eyes met in the baleful glare which rival wolves, the leaders of their packs, confer upon each other. Then Hardy stepped out into the open, holding up his hand for peace.

      “You are mistaken, Mr. Swope,” he said quietly. “Jeff hasn’t shot up any camps –– he hasn’t even packed a gun for the last three days.”

      “Oh, he hain’t, hey?” sneered the sheepman, showing his jagged teeth. “He seems to have one now.”

      “You betcher neck I have,” cried Creede, flaring up at the implication, “and if you’re lookin’ for trouble, Jasp Swope, you can open up any time.”

      “W’y what’s the matter with you?” protested Swope righteously. “You must have somethin’ on your mind, the way you act.”

      Then without waiting for a reply to this innuendo he turned his attention to Hardy.

      “He hain’t shot up any camps,” he repeated, “ner packed a gun for three days, hey? Now here’s where I prove you a liar, Mr. Smarty. I seen him with my own eyes take six shots at one of my herders this very mornin’ –– and you was there!”

      He punctuated his speech by successive downward jabs of his grimy forefinger as if he were stabbing his adversary to the heart, and Hardy turned faint and sick with chagrin. Never had he hated a man as he hated this great, overbearing brute before him –– this man-beast, with his hairy chest and freckled hands that clutched at him like an ape’s. Something hidden, a demon primordial and violent, rose up in him against this crude barbarian with his bristling beard and gloating pig eyes, and he forgot everything but his own rage at being trapped.

      “You lie!” he cried passionately; and then in his anger he added a word which he had never used, a word which goes deep under the skin and makes men fight.

      For a moment the sheepman sat staring, astounded by his vehemence; but before he could move the sudden silence was split by the yelp of a dog –– a wild, gibbering yelp that made them jump and bristle like hounds that are assailed from behind –– and, mingling stridently with it, was the harsh snarl of a cat. There was a swift scramble in the dust by the door, an oath from the sheepman, and the yellow dog dashed away again, with Tommy at his heels.

      Creede was the first man to regain his nerve and, seeing his pet triumphant, he let out a whoop of derisive laughter.

      “Ah-hah-hah!” he hollered, pointing with his pistol hand, “look at that, will ye –– look at ’im –– yee-pah –– go after ’im, Tommy –– we’ll show the –– ”

      The fighting blood of the sheepman sided in as quickly with his dog.

      “I’ll kill that dam’ cat!” he yelled, swinging down from his saddle, “if you don’t let up! Hey, Nip! Sick ’im!” He turned and motioned to his other dog, which had been standing dumbly by, and instantly he joined in the chase. “Sick ’em, boy, sick ’em!” he bellowed, urging him on, and before Creede could get his face straight the long, rangy brindle had dashed up from behind and seized Tommy by the back.

      “Git out o’ that!” thundered the cowman; and then, without waiting on words, he threw his gun down on the dog and fired.

      “Here –– none of that, now!” shouted Swope, whipping out his own pistol, and as he leapt forward he held it out before him like a sabre, pointed straight for the cowman’s ribs. His intentions may have been of the best, but Hardy did not wait to see. The brindle dog let out a surprised yelp and dropped. Before Creede could turn to meet his enemy his partner leapt in between them and with a swift blow from the shoulder, struck the sheepman to the ground.

      It was a fearful blow, such as men deal in anger without measuring their strength or the cost, and it landed on his jaw. Creede had seen men slugged before, in saloon rows and the rough fights that take place around a town, but never had he seen a single blow suffice –– the man’s head go back, his knees weaken, and his whole body collapse as if he had been shot. If he had been felled like a bull in the shambles that goes down in spite of his great strength, Jasper Swope could not have been more completely stunned. He lay sprawling, his legs turned under him, and the hand that grasped the six-shooter relaxed slowly and tumbled it into the dust.

      For a minute the two partners stood staring at each other, the one still planted firmly on his feet like a boxer, the other with his smoking pistol in his hand.

      “By Joe, boy,” said Creede slowly, СКАЧАТЬ