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

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СКАЧАТЬ before them the great vision which always hangs at the end of the rainbow in Arizona –– a pot of gold, if the sheep went around. And what would make the sheep go around? Nothing but a thirty-thirty.

      The price of mutton had gone up too, adding a third to the fortune of every sheepman; the ewes were lambing on the desert, bringing forth a hundred per cent or better, with twins –– and every lamb must eat! To the hundred thousand sheep that had invaded Bronco Mesa there was added fifty thousand more, and they must all eat. It was this that the sheepmen had foreseen when they sent Juan Alvarez around to raid the upper range –– not that they needed the feed then, but they would need it in the Spring, and need it bad. So they had tried to break the way and, failing, had sworn to come in arms. It was a fight for the grass, nothing less, and there was no law to stop it.

      As the news of the trouble filtered out and crept into obscure corners of the daily press, Hardy received a long hortatory letter from Judge Ware; and, before he could answer it, another. To these he answered briefly that the situation could only be relieved by some form of Federal control; that, personally, his sympathies were with the cattlemen, but, in case the judge was dissatisfied with his services –– But Judge Ware had learned wisdom from a past experience and at this point he turned the correspondence over to Lucy. Then in a sudden fit of exasperation he packed his grip and hastened across the continent to Washington, to ascertain for himself why the Salagua Forest Reserve was not proclaimed. As for Lucy, her letters were as carefully considered as ever –– she wrote of everything except the sheep and Kitty Bonnair. Not since she went away had she mentioned Kitty, nor had Hardy ever inquired about her. In idle moments he sometimes wondered what had been in that unread letter which he had burned with Creede’s, but he never wrote in answer, and his heart seemed still and dead. For years the thought of Kitty Bonnair had haunted him, rising up in the long silence of the desert; in the rush and hurry of the round-up the vision of her supple form, the laughter of her eyes, the succession of her moods, had danced before his eyes in changing pictures, summoned up from the cherished past; but now his mind was filled with other things. Somewhere in the struggle against sheep and the drought he had lost her, as a man loses a keep-sake which he has carried so long against his heart that its absence is as unnoticed as its presence, and he never knows himself the poorer. After the drought had come the sheep, the stampede, fierce quarrels with the Swopes, threats and counter-threats –– and then the preparations for war. The memory of the past faded away and another thought now haunted his mind, though he never spoke it –– when the time came, would he fight, or would he stay with Lucy and let Jeff go out alone? It was a question never answered, but every day he rode out without his gun, and Creede took that for a sign.

      As the Rio Salagua, swollen with winter rains, rose up like a writhing yellow serpent and cast itself athwart the land, it drew a line from east to west which neither sheep nor cattle could cross, and the cowmen who had lingered about Hidden Water rode gayly back to their distant ranches, leaving the peaceful Dos S where Sallie Winship had hung her cherished lace curtains and Kitty Bonnair and Lucy Ware had made a home, almost a total wreck. Sheep, drought, and flood had passed over it in six months’ time; the pasture fence was down, the corrals were half dismantled, and the bunk-room looked like a deserted grading camp. For a week Creede and Hardy cleaned up and rebuilt, but every day, in spite of his partner’s efforts to divert his mind, Jeff grew more restless and uneasy. Then one lonely evening he went over to the corner where his money was buried and began to dig.

      “What –– the –– hell –– is the matter with this place?” he exclaimed, looking up from his work as if he expected the roof to drop. “Ever since Tommy died it gits on my nerves, bad.” He rooted out his tomato can and stuffed a roll of bills carelessly into his overalls pocket. “Got any mail to go out?” he inquired, coming back to the fire, and Hardy understood without more words that Jeff was going on another drunk.

      “Why, yes,” he said, “I might write a letter to the boss. But how’re you going to get across the river –– she’s running high now.”

      “Oh, I’ll git across the river, all right,” grumbled Creede. “Born to be hung and ye can’t git drowned, as they say. Well, give the boss my best.” He paused, frowning gloomily into the fire. “Say,” he said, his voice breaking a little, “d’ye ever hear anything from Miss Bonnair?”

      For a moment Hardy was silent. Then, reading what was in his partner’s heart, he answered gently:

      “Not a word, Jeff.”

      The big cowboy sighed and grinned cynically.

      “That was a mighty bad case I had,” he observed philosophically. “But d’ye know what was the matter with me? Well, I never tumbled to it till afterward, but it was jest because she was like Sallie –– talked like her and rode like her, straddle, that way. But I wanter tell you, boy,” he added mournfully, “Sal had a heart.”

      He sank once more into sombre contemplation, grumbling as he nursed his wounds, and at last Hardy asked him a leading question about Sallie Winship.

      “Did I ever hear from ’er?” repeated Creede, rousing up from his reverie. “No, and it ain’t no use to try. I wrote to her three times, but I never got no answer –– I reckon the old lady held ’em out on her. She wouldn’t stand for no bow-legged cowpuncher –– and ye can’t blame her none, the way old man Winship used to make her cook for them rodéo hands –– but Sallie would’ve answered them letters if she’d got ’em.”

      “But where were they living in St. Louis?” persisted Hardy. “Maybe you got the wrong address.”

      “Nope, I got it straight –– Saint Louie, Mo., jest the way you see it in these money-order catalogues.”

      “But didn’t you give any street and number?” cried Hardy, aghast. “Why, for Heaven’s sake, Jeff, there are half a million people in St. Louis –– she’d never get it in the world.”

      “No?” inquired Creede apathetically. “Well, it don’t make no difference, then. I don’t amount to a dam’, anyhow –– and this is no place for a woman –– but, by God, Rufe, I do git awful lonely when I see you writin’ them letters to the boss. If I only had somebody that cared for me I’d prize up hell to make good. I’d do anything in God’s world –– turn back them sheep or give up my six-shooter, jest as she said; but, nope, they’s no such luck for Jeff Creede –– he couldn’t make a-winnin’ with a squaw.”

      “Jeff,” said Hardy quietly, “how much would you give to get a letter from Sallie?”

      “What d’ye mean?” demanded Creede, looking up quickly. Then, seeing the twinkle in his partner’s eye, he made a grab for his money. “My whole wad,” he cried, throwing down the roll. “What’s the deal?”

      “All right,” answered Hardy, deliberately counting out the bills, “there’s the ante –– a hundred dollars. The rest I hold back for that trip to St. Louis. This hundred goes to the Rinkerton Detective Agency, St. Louis, Missouri, along with a real nice letter that I’ll help you write; and the minute they deliver that letter into the hands of Miss Sallie Winship, formerly of Hidden Water, Arizona, and return an answer, there’s another hundred coming to ’em. Is it a go?”

      “Pardner,” said Creede, rising up solemnly from his place, “I want to shake with you on that.”

      The next morning, with a package of letters in the crown of his black hat, Jefferson Creede swam Bat Wings across the swift current of the Salagua, hanging onto his tail from behind, and without even stopping to pour the water out of his boots struck into the long trail for Bender.

      One week passed, and then another, СКАЧАТЬ