The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

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      THE ROARING COPPERHEAD

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      Prairie Street emerged from Sundown and became the Ysabel Junction stage road winding south to the steel ribbon that made a dividing line between the rolling contours of Yellow Hill County and the open immensity of the lower prairies. Also in that direction, leagues ahead, was the state capital; Sundowners occasionally visited the capital and came back with the feeling they had been on a long journey, such being the isolation of the land. The stage road, already turning to powdered dust from the early spring sunshine, had not been fashioned by men who cared much for easy grades; it went straightaway up the slopes and coasted directly down into the numerous little valleys. Where so bold an attack was impossible, it zigzagged weirdly along cliff faces or shot around high rock points. But always it took the short way in preference to the easy one, a matter-of-fact reminder that here horses were cheaper than time.

      Dr. Williamson knew his country very well after thirty years of practice in it. Sitting taciturnly in the buggy seat, coat tails flapping, he put the team to a stiff trot and covered the distance. About five miles from town he abandoned the stage road for a stock trail that wavered up along the backbone of a pine- studded ridge; this threatened to peter out presently, but the good doctor only took another morsel of tobacco and drove ahead. A windfall lay across the way; he looked sharply to either side for an alternative trail and, failing to find it, whipped the horses over the obstruction, buggy springing violently. Ahead was a steep climb. Without comment Denver spurred beside the rig, shook his loop over an angle iron on the dashboard, and towed the vehicle to the crest. From this eminence many small valleys and holes were to be seen puckered between the rising ridges. Cattle grazed along the lush areas, a line cabin stood here and there, and far below a patch of river surface flashed in the afternoon sun. There was no distinct trail downward, but the trees were thin and the ground open. Denver dropped back, rope still holding the buggy, to act as a drag, and the doctor drove down with a sort of reckless wisdom, choosing his openings on the run, vehicle teetering and hubs scraping against tree trunks. Presently a road shot around the hill, and the doctor took it. Denver cast off; the party set ahead on the run. Copperhead River and Copperhead Valley lay below, and in five more minutes of headlong driving Dr. Williamson drew up to the very margin of the water and stepped stiffly down. Across the river was a cabin, and out on the bank a man moved back and forth, wringing his hands. "It's Miz Jesson, all right," grunted the doctor. "I told her a month ago she ought to move into Sundown for this event."

      "River's a little wild," said Denver dubiously.

      "So the Fee man told me," observed Williamson. "But the detour's too long. I'd be too late. There's a baby bein' born yonder, and we got to cross."

      "That's different," was Denver's laconic reply. He ran his eyes along the turbulent stream. Normally this particular spot was a safe and shallow ford with sloping sandy sides. Today the Copperhead, swollen by rain and melting snow, came charging out of its upper gorges and threw itself turbulently across what once had been a slack area. Even as they watched, the teeth of the current bit out vast chunks of the bank and swept them down. Jesson was apparently shouting at the top of his voice and making no impression against the sheering, crackling sound of the current.

      "Damned if I see how it's any different," was Steve Steers's gloomy thought. "It ain't fordable."

      Denver's attention stopped at a cottonwood beside him. "If we could tie a rope to one of the upper branches of that tree—and get the rope yonder—you might be able to slide to Jesson monkey fashion, Doc."

      "Try it," said Williamson. "I carry fifty foot of rope in the buggy."

      Steve Steers got that piece and joined it to his own rope. Denver made another tie with his. "That's about a hundred and fifty feet to operate on."

      "Why anchor this end clear up the tree?" questioned Steve. "More solid down at the base."