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

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      "Ho—ho—ho—ho—ho!" shouted the sheriff, riding in to turn them upstream, and behind him a chorus of cowboy yells urged the last bewildered stragglers into the current. They crossed, cows and calves alike, and while the jubilant posse came splashing after them or rode howling up to the ford Boone Morgan poured the water out of his boots and smiled pleasantly.

      "Jest hold 'em in the willows a while, boys," he said, "until they git quieted down and drink, and then we'll hit the trail. There's over a hundred head of cattle there, but I'm going to sell every dam' one of 'em—sheriff's sale. Then when that crazy Texican gets back on the reservation I'll give him back his money—what's left—along with some good advice."

      He motioned to the boys to string the cattle out and soon in a long line the much-stolen Monkey-wrench cows were shambling over the rough trail, lowing and bellowing for the peaceful valley that lay empty of its herd. From the high cliffs above Lost Dog Cañon, Bill Todhunter saw the slow procession wending its way toward town and he made haste to follow its example. The old silence settled down upon the valley of Perro Perdito, a silence unbroken even by the lowing of cattle, and as Pecos lay by his fire that night he felt the subtle change. His mind, so long set against his enemies, opened up, and he began to wonder. Boone Morgan had certainly said he would collect those taxes within a week, and the week was up. Moreover, hiding in a wind-hole from daylight till dark was getting decidedly monotonous. From the beginning Pecos had realized that he was one man against many but he had hoped, by remaining hid, to catch them at a disadvantage. If they sneaked up and looked over into the lonely cañon they might easily think he had fled and come in boldly—but somehow nothing came out as he had expected. He slept on the matter, and woke again to that peculiar hushed silence. What was it that he missed? His horses were safe in their pole corral; Old Funny-face and her speckled calf were still hanging around the camp; the cattle were along the creek as usual—ah, yes! It was the lowing of cows against the drift-fence bars! With a vigorous kick he hurled his blanket aside, stamped on his boots and ran, only stopping to buckle on his six-shooter. At the bars he paused long enough to see that there were no fresh tracks and then dashed down the pent-in gorge that led to the pasture rim. The shadow of the high cliffs lay across the sunken valley like a pall, but there were no humped-up cattle sleeping beneath the trees. It was time for them to be out and feeding in the sun, but the meadows and hillsides were bare. He was astounded and could not believe his eyes—the pasture was empty as the desert. Cursing and panting Pecos plunged madly down the steep trail until he came to the first water, and there he threw down his gun and swore. Fresh and clean on the margin of the water-hole was the track of a shod horse, pointing toward the river! It was enough—Pecos knew that he was cleaned! Indians and mountain renegades do not ride shod horses, and if Boone Morgan had his cows across the river already he could never get them back. Another thought came to Pecos, and he scrambled wildly up the trail to defend his remaining herd, but there was no one there to fight him—his upper cattle were safe. Yet how long would it take to get them, in order to finish him up? All Boone Morgan and Upton had to do was to wait until he went down to the store for provisions and then they could rake his upper range the same way. And would they do it? Well, say! Pecos pondered on the matter for a day or two, keeping mostly behind the shelter of some rock, and the sinister import of Morgan's remarks on what a government can do for a certain class of people bore in upon him heavily. Undoubtedly he was included in that class of undesirables and if he was any reader of character Boone Morgan was just the kind of a man to make him a lot of trouble. Upton was against him because he had stolen his U cows, and Crit was against him worse because he had given him the cross—every cowman on the range would be against him because he was a rustler. Pecos watched the rim-rock vindictively after that, hoping to get a chance to pot some meddlesome cowman, but no inquisitive head was poked over. At last he stole up the ravine one morning and took to the high ground at dawn. There, sure enough, were the boot-marks among the rocks and he noticed with a vague uneasiness that some one had been watching him for days—watching his wind-hole, too,—probably could have shot him a hundred times, but now the tracks were old. A hot and unreasonable resentment rose up in Pecos at the implication. Nobody cared for him now, even to the extent of watching him! He could crawl into his hole and die now, and everybody would just laugh. Well, he would show Mr. Everybody what kind of a sport he was. After which circumlocuted reasoning Pecos Dalhart, the bad man from Perro Perdito Cañon, being really lonely as a dog, threw the saddle on his horse and hit the trail for the Verde.