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

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СКАЧАТЬ more the sheepman leaped up from his place and scampered down the hill to his herd, rounding up his pack animals as he ran. With mad haste he shooed them into the dark mouth of the cañon, and then hurried in after them like a badger that, hearing the sound of pursuers, backs into some neighboring hole until nothing is visible but teeth and claws. So far the boss herder had reasoned well. His sheep were safe behind him and his back was against a rock; a hundred men could not dislodge him from his position if it ever came to a fight; but he had not reckoned upon the devilish cunning of horse-taming Jeff Creede. Many a time in driving outlaws to the river he had employed that same ruse –– showing himself casually in the distance and working closer as they edged away until he had gained his end.

      The sun was setting when Creede and his cowboys came clattering down the mountain from the east and spurred across the redondo, whooping and yelling as they rounded up their stock. For half an hour they rode and hollered and swore, apparently oblivious of the filigree of sheep tracks with which the ground was stamped; then as the remuda quieted down they circled slowly around their captives, swinging their wide-looped ropes and waiting for the grand stampede.

      The dusk was beginning to gather in the low valley and the weird evensong of the coyotes was at its height when suddenly from the north there came a rumble, as if a storm gathered above the mountain; then with a roar and the thunder of distant hoofs, the crashing of brush and the nearer click of feet against the rocks a torrent of wild horses poured over the summit of the pass and swept down into the upper valley like an avalanche. Instantly Creede and his cowboys scattered, spurring out on either wing to turn them fair for the box cañon, and the tame horses, left suddenly to their own devices, stood huddled together in the middle of the redondo, fascinated by the swift approach of the outlaws. Down the middle of the broad valley they came, flying like the wind before their pursuers; at sight of Creede and his cowboys and the familiar hold-up herd they swerved and slackened their pace; then as the half-circle of yelling cowmen closed in from behind they turned and rushed straight for the box cañon, their flint-like feet striking like whetted knives as they poured into the rocky pass. Catching the contagion of the flight the tame horses joined in of their own accord, and a howl of exultation went up from the Four Peaks cowmen as they rushed in to complete the overthrow. In one mad whirl they mingled –– wild horses and tame, and wilder riders behind; and before that irresistible onslaught Juan Alvarez and his herders could only leap up and cling to the rocky cliffs like bats. And the sheep! A minute after, there were no sheep. Those that were not down were gone –– scattered to the winds, lost, annihilated!

      Seized by the mad contagion, the cowboys themselves joined in the awful rout, spurring through the dark cañon like devils let loose from hell. There was only one who kept his head and waited, and that was Jefferson Creede. Just as the last wild rider flashed around the corner he jumped his horse into the cañon and, looking around, caught sight of Juan Alvarez, half-distraught, crouching like a monkey upon a narrow ledge.

      “Well, what –– the –– hell!” he cried, with well-feigned amazement. “I didn’t know you was here!”

      The sheepman swallowed and blinked his eyes, that stood out big and round like an owl’s.

      “Oh, that’s all right,” he said.

      “But it wouldn’t ’a’ made a dam’ bit of difference if I had!” added Creede, and then, flashing his teeth in a hectoring laugh, he put spurs to his horse and went thundering after his fellows.

      Not till that moment did the evil-eyed Juan Alvarez sense the trick that had been played upon him.

      “Cabrone!” he screamed, and whipping out his pistol he emptied it after Creede, but the bullets spattered harmlessly against the rocks.

      Early the next morning Jefferson Creede rode soberly along the western rim of Bronco Mesa, his huge form silhouetted against the sky, gazing down upon the sheep camps that lay along the Alamo; and the simple-minded Mexicans looked up at him in awe. But when the recreant herders of Juan Alvarez came skulking across the mesa and told the story of the stampede, a sudden panic broke out that spread like wildfire from camp to camp. Orders or no orders, the timid Mexicans threw the sawhorses onto their burros, packed up their blankets and moved, driving their bawling sheep far out over The Rolls, where before the chollas had seemed so bad. It was as if they had passed every day beneath some rock lying above the trail, until, looking up, they saw that it was a lion, crouching to make his spring. For years they had gazed in wonder at the rage and violence of Grande Creede, marvelling that the padron could stand against it; but now suddenly the big man had struck, and bravo Juan Alvarez had lost his sheep. Hunt as long as he would he could not bring in a tenth of them. Ay, que malo! The boss would fire Juan and make him walk to town; but they who by some miracle had escaped, would flee while there was yet time.

      For two days Creede rode along the rim of Bronco Mesa –– that dead line which at last the sheepmen had come to respect, –– and when at last he sighted Jim Swope coming up from Hidden Water with two men who might be officers of the law he laughed and went to meet them. Year in and year out Jim Swope had been talking law –– law; now at last they would see this law, and find out what it could do. One of the men with Swope was a deputy sheriff, Creede could tell that by his star; but the other man might be almost anything –– a little fat man with a pointed beard and congress shoes; a lawyer, perhaps, or maybe some town detective.

      “Is this Mr. Creede?” inquired the deputy, casually flashing his star as they met beside the trail.

      “That’s my name,” replied Creede. “What can I do for you?”

      “Well, Mr. Creede,” responded the officer, eying his man carefully, “I come up here to look into the killing of Juan Alvarez, a Mexican sheep-herder.”

      “The killin’?” echoed Creede, astounded.

      “That’s right,” snapped the deputy sheriff, trying to get the jump on him. “What do you know about it?”

      “Who –– me?” answered the cowman, his eyes growing big and earnest as he grasped the news. “Not a thing. The last time I saw Juan Alvarez he was standin’ on a ledge of rocks way over yonder in the middle fork –– and he certainly was all right then.”

      “Yes? And when was this, Mr. Creede?”

      “Day before yesterday, about sundown.”

      “Day before yesterday, eh? And just what was you doin’ over there at the time?”

      “Well, I’ll tell ye,” began Creede circumstantially. “Me and Ben Reavis and a couple of the boys had gone over toward the Pocket to catch up our horses. They turned back on us and finally we run ’em into that big redondo up in the middle fork. I reckon we was ridin’ back and forth half an hour out there gittin’ ’em stopped, and we never heard a peep out of this Mexican, but jest as we got our remuda quieted down and was edgin’ in to rope out the ones we wanted, here comes a big band of wild horses that the other boys had scared up over behind the Peaks, roaring down the cañon and into us. Of course, there was nothin’ for it then but to git out of the way and let ’em pass, and we did it, dam’ quick. Well, sir, that bunch of wild horses went by us like the mill tails of hell, and of course our remuda stompeded after ’em and the whole outfit went bilin’ through the box cañon, where it turned out Juan Alvarez had been hidin’ his sheep. That’s all I know about it.”

      “Well, did you have any trouble of any kind with this deceased Mexican, Mr. Creede? Of course you don’t need to answer that if it will incriminate you, but I just wanted to know, you understand.”

      “Oh, СКАЧАТЬ