He laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and crowded his big black sombrero down over his eyes until it gave him a comical air of despair.
“Luck’s gone,” he remarked, reaching parenthetically for a cigarette paper. “See you later.” And, with a last roguish twinkle at Miss Lucy, he slouched off toward the fire.
His luck indeed had gone, but somewhere in that giant carcass which harbored the vindictive hate of an Apache, and the restless energy of a Texano, there still lingered the exuberant joyousness of a boy, the indomitable spirit of the pioneer, resigned to any fate so long as there is a laugh in it. As he drifted into the crowd Lucy’s heart went out to him; he was so big and strong and manly in this, the final eclipse of his waning fortunes.
“Mr. Creede is a noble kind of a man, isn’t he?” she said, turning to where Hardy was still standing. “Won’t you sit down, Rufus, and let’s talk this over for a minute. But before you decide anything, I want you to get a good night’s sleep. You are a free man now, you know, and if there’s any worrying to be done it’s my funeral–isn’t it?”
If he heard her at all Hardy made no response to the jest. He stood before her, swaying dizzily as he groped about for his hat, which had fallen from his hand. Then at last a faint smile broke through the drawn lines in his face.
“That’s right,” he said, sinking down at her side, and as he settled back against the tree his eyes closed instantly, like a child whose bedtime has come. “I’m–I’m so dead tired I can’t talk straight, Lucy–to say nothing of think. But–I’ll take care of you. We aren’t sheeped out yet. Only–only I can’t–I forget what I’m going to say.” His head fell forward as he spoke, his hands hung heavy, and he slipped slowly to the ground, fast asleep.
After two days and nights of turmoil and passion his troubles were ended, suddenly; and as she raised him up Lucy Ware bent down quickly under cover of the dusk and kissed his rumpled hair.
CHAPTER XVI
THE DEPARTURE
The gentle hand of sleep, which held Hardy in a grip that was akin to death, blotting out the past and dispelling all remembrance of his sorrows, failed utterly to abate the fighting spirit of Jefferson Creede or sap the Spartan grimness of his purpose. Worn by the destroying anger of the previous day, thwarted and apparently defeated, he rose up at the first glow of dawn and set about his preparations with an unemotional directness which augured ill for Jasper Swope. Before the sun was an hour high he had the town herd on the trail for Bender, entrusted to the care of Bill Lightfoot and several others of whom he wanted to be rid. The camp was dismantled, the packs were loaded upon the spare horses, and the outfit was ready to start for Carrizo Creek before breakfast was more than finished in the ranch house. After a final survey to make sure that nothing had been overlooked in the scuffle, the rodéo boss waved his hand to the leaders; then, as the train strung out up the cañon, he rode over to the house to say good-bye. The last farewell is a formality often dispensed with in the Far West; but in this case the boss had business to attend to, and–well, he had something to say to Kitty Bonnair, too.
Very quietly, in order not to awaken his partner–whom he had picked up like a tired baby and stored away in the darkened bunk-room the evening before–Creede opened the door of the living-room, greeted his lady-love with a cheerful grin, and beckoned Miss Lucy outside by a backward jerk of the head.
“Sorry to disturb you, Miss Ware,” he said, “but we’re movin’ camp this mornin’ and before I go I want to tell you about them cattle I’m just sendin’ to town. If I didn’t have other business on hand I’d go down with you gladly and sell ’em for you, but when you git to Bender you go to Chris Johansen, the cattle buyer, and give him this list. You won’t savvy what it is but Chris will, and you tell him that if he don’t give you the best market price for them cows he’ll have to–lick–me! This is a dry year and feeders ain’t much nohow, but I don’t want to see no friend of mine robbed. Well, so-long, Miss Ware. Hope you have a good trip.”
He gripped her hand awkwardly, picked up his bridle lash, and thrust one boot thoughtfully into the stirrup. Then, as if suddenly cognizant of a neglected duty, he snapped his foot out and threw the lash back on the ground.
“I’ll say good-bye to the judge,” he drawled, “so’s to show they ain’t no hard feelin’. Your old man don’t exactly fit in these parts,” he observed apologetically, “but he means well, I reckon. You can tell ’im some time that I was kind of excited when I quit.”
His farewell was a sober and dignified affair, after the courtly school of the South–no allusions to the past, no references to the future, merely a gentlemanly expression of regret that his guest’s visit should have been so suddenly terminated. But when he turned to Miss Kitty his masterful eyes began to glow and waver and he shifted his feet uneasily.
“Kin I speak with you a minute outside?” he said at last; and Kitty, still eager to read the heart of Man, the Unfinished, followed after him, laughing as he stooped to pass his high hat through the door.
“Come on out by the corral,” he urged, confidently leading the way. When they were concealed by the corner of the fence he stopped and dropped his bridle rein.
“Well, we’ve had a pretty good time together down here, hain’t we?” he observed, twisting the fringe of his shaps and smiling at her from beneath his forelock. “I ain’t got but a minute–and there’s some rough work ahead, I reckon–but I jest wanted to–well, I wanted to give you this.” He dove down into his overalls’ pocket and brought up a nugget, worn smooth by long milling around between his spare change and his jackknife.
“That’s a chunk of gold I found over by Red Butte one time,” he said, handing it over. “Thought you might want to keep it for me, you know. But say–” He crowded his hands into his pockets and canted his head to one side, ogling her roguishly.
Kitty had never observed just such conduct before, and she was curious.
“Why–what?” she inquired, tossing back her hair tantalizingly.
“Don’t I git nothin’ to remember you by, little girl?” he demanded, his voice vibrant with passion. “We’ve been pretty good friends, you know. In fact–well, say, don’t I git jest one kiss?”
He drew her gently into his arms as he spoke, waited a fraction of a second for her to resist, and then kissed her, suddenly and with masterful violence.
“One more,” he pleaded insistently. “No? All right then,” he said, swinging gracefully up on his horse as she pushed him away. “I’ll always remember that one, anyhow!”
He leaned forward and Bat Wings shot away up the cañon like a charger that sniffs the combat, thundering out across the parada grounds, swinging beneath the giant mesquite, and plunging down the bank that led to the creek. And all the time his rider sat with one hand on the cantle, his white teeth flashing back a wistful smile.
Taken by surprise Kitty Bonnair stood staring blankly after him, rubbing her cheek which burned hot where he had kissed her. She would always remember that kiss too, and all too late she remembered to become indignant. But, no one being about, she laughed low to herself and hurried back to the house, her eyes downcast and pensive. She had known many men and lovers in her time, but never a one like Jeff Creede.
There was a sound of hasty packing in the Dos S ranch house that morning, and the wagon drove noisily up to the door. Rafael carried out the steamer trunks and luggage, the snake-skins, the smoky opals, the Indian baskets, the braided quirts, and all the scattered plunder that the cowboys had given Kitty and that she could not bear to leave behind. He saddled up their horses, clattering recklessly into the bunk-house where Hardy was sleeping in order to get his blankets, and still, unmindful of noise or preparation, or the friends who must say good-bye, he lay sprawled on the rough blankets, dead with sleep.
Rafael kicked off the brake and started on his weary journey around Red Butte to Moreno’s, which would take him the rest of the day; Judge Ware, possessed to get out of the country before he became particeps criminis to some lawless outrage, paced restlessly up and down the ramada, waiting for the girls to get ready; and Kitty and Lucy, glancing guiltily at each other, fidgeted around in their rooms waiting for Rufus to wake up.
“I’m ready,” said Lucy at last, putting the final touches to the room which he had given up to her. “Are you, Kitty?”
Their eyes met in an uneasy stare, each wishing the other would speak.
“Yes,” said Kitty, “but–shall we go without saying good-bye?”
“What in the world are you girls waiting for?” demanded the judge, thrusting his head impatiently in at the door. “I declare, I begin to think there is something in these jokes about Adam waiting for Eve to get her hat on straight. Now please come at once or we won’t get to Moreno’s in time for supper.”
“But, father,” protested Lucy, “Kitty and I do not wish to leave without saying good-bye to Rufus. Would you mind–”
“No, no!” exclaimed Judge Ware irritably, “if he chooses to sleep all day–”
“But, father!” burst out Lucy, almost tearfully, “he was so tired–he fell asleep as soon as he sat down, and I never did get him to consent to be my superintendent! Don’t you see–”
“Well, write him a note then,” directed the judge brusquely, “and leave it on his desk. Now, Lucy dear, really I’m getting so nervous I’m hardly accountable. Please hurry. And, Kitty, please hurry, too!”
Like two souls haled from the world without a word of explanation or confession, Kitty and Lucy both sat down under duress to pen a last appeal to the little man who, despite his stern disregard, somehow held a place in their hearts. Kitty could have wept with vexation at the thought of not seeing him again–and after she had brought her mind to forgive him, too! She wrote blindly, she knew not what, whether it was accusation or entreaty, and sealed the envelope with a bang of her tiny fist–and even then he did not awaken. Lucy wrote carefully, wrestling to turn the implacable one from his purpose and yet feeling that he would have his will. She sealed her note and put it upon his desk hesitatingly; then, as Kitty turned away, she dropped her handkerchief beside it. It was a time-worn strategy, such as only the innocent and guileless think of in their hour of adversity. When she ran back to recover it Lucy drew a dainty book from her bosom–Mrs. Browning’s “Sonnets from the Portuguese”–and placed it across her note as if to save it from the wind, and between two leaves she slipped the forget-me-nots which he had given her at Hidden Water.
As the thud of horses’ hoofs died away silence settled down upon the Dos S ranch house, the sombre silence of the desert, unbroken by the murmur of women’s voices or the echo of merry laughter, and the sleeping man stirred uneasily on his bed. An hour passed, and then from the ramada there came a sound of wailing. Hardy rose up on his bed suddenly, startled. The memory of the past came to him vaguely, like fragments of an eerie dream; then the world came right and he found himself in the bunk-house, alone–and Tommy outside, crying as if for the dead. Leaping up from his blankets Hardy opened the door and called him in–hoarse, black, distorted, yet overflowing with love and affection. Poor little Tommy! He took him in his arms to comfort him, and bedded him down on the pillow. But when he stepped outside he found that his world too was vacant–the house deserted, the corrals empty, the rodéo camp a smouldering fireplace, surrounded by a wilderness of tin cans.
As the slow grief of the forsaken came upon him he turned and went to his room, where the atmosphere of womankind still lingered to suggest the dear hands that were gone, and suddenly his eyes leaped to the letters left upon the table. It was Kitty’s which he opened first, perhaps because it was nearest; but the torrent of inconsequential words confused him by their unreason and he turned to Lucy’s, reading it over thoughtfully.
“Dear Rufus:
“We have waited a long time for you to wake up, and now father says we must go. You were so tired last night that I doubt if you heard a word I said, although I thought I was making a great impression in my new role as a business woman. I asked father to give me the ranch, not because I wanted to own it but to save you from your madness. The cattle are all mine now and I leave them in your care. Whatever you do I will consent to, if you will leave your guns at home. Is that too much for a friend to ask? I know that Mr. Creede is your friend too, and I admire your devotion to his cause, but I think you can do just as much for him and more by not risking your life in a battle against the sheep. They are so many, Rufus, and they have their rights, too. Father is confident that the Forest Reserve will be declared next Winter and then the sheep will be debarred forever. Can’t you give over the fight for my sake? And I will pay you any price–I will do anything you ask; but if you should be killed or kill some other man, I could never be happy again, though I gained the whole world. Dear Rufus, please–but I leave it for you to decide–”
The note ended abruptly, it was not even signed, and Hardy could imagine the agitation in which it was written. Dear little Lucy, always thinking of others, always considerate, always honest and reasonable. If only Kitty–But no–in her own right as Queen of Love and of his heart, she was above all criticism and blame. It was a madness, deeper than his anger against the sheep, mightier than his fiercest resentment–he could not help it; he loved her. Changeable, capricious, untamed, she held him by her faults where virtues would hardly have sufficed in another. He had tried, and failed; so long as she was in the world he must love her. But what a life! He cast the letter from him and his heart turned to Jeff and the big fight, the battle that they had planned to wage together. In the rush and struggle of that combat he could forget the pangs which tortured him; he could have his revenge on life, which had treated him so shabbily! And yet–and yet–could he desert a friend like Lucy–Lucy who would give her life to make him happier, who had always by every act tried to make him forget his sorrows?
For a long time he sat with his head bowed, thinking. Then he rose up and took down his long-barrelled Colt’s, fingered it lovingly, and thrust it, scabbard and all, into the depths of his war bag.
As he rode down the hill into the camp that afternoon Creede came out to meet him, and when his eyes fell upon the empty belt, he smiled knowingly.
“Well, you woke up, did you?” he inquired, laying one hand carelessly on the bulge in Hardy’s right shap, where modest cowboys sometimes secrete their guns. “Um-huh!” he grunted, slapping the left shap to make sure. “I suspected as much. Well, I congratulate you, supe–if my girl had asked me I reckon I’d’ve give up my gun too. But she gimme a kiss, anyway,” he added, tossing his head triumphantly.
“Who did?” demanded Hardy, coming suddenly out of his dream.
“Why, Kitty, sure,” returned Creede artlessly; and then, noting the look of incredulity on his partner’s face, he slapped him on the leg and laughed consumedly.
“Oh, you’re not the only pebble on the beach,” he cried. “Ump-um–there are others! Say, it’s hell to be in love, ain’t it?”
He looked up at Hardy, the laughter still in his cheeks, but for once there was no answering smile. The large gray eyes were far away and distant, fixed vacantly upon the dust cloud where the sheep gathered in the east. Then, as if dismissing some haunting vision from his mind, the little man shook himself and drew away.
“That’s right,” he said solemnly, “it is.”
CHAPTER XVII
CHICO AND GRANDE
Between the mouth of Hell’s Hip Pocket and the cow camp at Carrizo Creek there lie three high ridges and three broad valleys, all running north and south from the Peaks to Bronco Mesa–the heart of the upper range; and there in compact bands the invaders held their sheep. From the lower levels they strayed out gradually over the rocky mesa; above they clambered up toward the wooded peaks; but at night the sheepmen worked back to the three ridges and camped close together for defence. After many years of struggle they had at last obtained their legal rights–their sheep were up to the ears in grama, eating out the heart of the cow country–but Jeff Creede was just over the hill, and the Mexicans were afraid. For years now the huge form of “Grande” had loomed before them whenever they entered that forbidden range, and they had always given way before him. And now he had the little man Chico with him, the son of a soldier, so it was said, and a gentleman of categoría; he always carried a pistol and his eyes were stern and hard. What would not Chico and Grande do to them, now that they were like bees robbed of their long-hoarded honey, who have nothing left but their stings?
So the word passed around amongst the herders and camp rustlers, and Jim and Jasp rode from one camp to the other, cursing and exhorting and holding them to their work. The hour of victory had come, but their triumph was poisoned by a haunting fear for their sheep. One hundred thousand sheep–five hundred thousand dollars’ worth–the accumulation of a lifetime–and all in the hands of these cowardly Mexicans, not half of whom would fight! For the day or two that they held together they were safe, but when they spread out–and spread they must, to reach the western pass–then the cowmen could rush them at night like lions that raid a corral, scattering one band after the other, and the coyotes would do the rest! That was the joint in the armor of the sheepmen, and it robbed them of their sleep.
Evening came, and the fires of the camp rustlers on the ridges lit up the dust cloud that hung in the east. The hateful bray of the sheep was hushed, at last, and the shrill yell of the coyotes rose from every hilltop, bidding farewell to the sun; for as vultures and unnumbered birds of prey hovered in the wake of barbarian armies, casting their dread shadows upon the living and glutting upon the dead, so the coyotes follow tirelessly after the sheep, gorging upon chance carcasses and pulling down the strays. As the wild, gibbering chorus rose and quavered back from the cliffs the cowmen at Carrizo glanced up from their supper and swore, and in the general preoccupation Hardy put down his plate and slipped away to the corral. He was sitting on the fence listening to the mad yelping of the coyotes and watching the shadows gather among the peaks, when Creede strolled over and joined him. There were times when he could read Hardy like a book, but at others the little man’s thoughts were hidden, and he brooded by himself. On such occasions, after a sufficient interval, Jeff esteemed it his duty to break in upon these unprofitable ruminations and bring him back to the light. So he clambered up on the top log and joined in the contemplation of nature.
“Hear them dam’ coyotes,” he observed sociably. “They’d cry that way if they’d had a chicken dinner, all around. I bet ye every one of ’em has got wool in his teeth, right now. Never you mind, birdie,” he continued, apostrophizing a peculiarly shrill-voiced howler, “I’ll give you a bellyful of mutton pretty soon, if it’s the last act. What you going to do now, Rufe?”
“Well,” answered Hardy, “I think I’ll try and earn my salary by moving a few sheep. And of course we want to gather every beef critter we can now, while they’re fat. The sheep seem to be hugging the mountain pretty close. What’s the matter with working the Pocket Butte to-morrow and while the boys are riding we’ll warn all the stragglers down there to keep up against the hills; then as soon as we get ’em located we’ll jump in some day and move ’em!”
“Huh?” inquired Creede, shoving back his hat and staring. “Did I hear you say ‘move ’em’? Well–er–I thought you left your gun at home,” he suggested guardedly.
“That’s right,” admitted Hardy, “but don’t you let that worry you any. I told you I’d help move those sheep, and I’ll do it! We don’t need guns, anyhow. Why, I’d just as soon tackle a rattlesnake bare-handed as go after Jasp Swope with my six-shooter. That’s just what he’s looking for, boy, with all those thirty-thirties behind him, and he’ll have plenty of witnesses there to swear us into Yuma, too. I tell you, Jeff, I’ve been thinking this over, and I believe my boss is right.”
“Sure,” said Creede, showing his teeth in the twilight.
“Say, let up on that, will you?” exclaimed Hardy irritably. “I’m talking business. Now you let me tell you something.” He paused, and fixed his eye on the dust cloud, intently. “I’ve moved that many sheep twice,” he said, throwing out his hand, “and I left my gun at home.”
“That’s right,” conceded Creede.
“Well now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” continued Hardy. “If you’ll leave your gun at home too and stay with me on this I’ll undertake to shoot the last sheep out through West Pass inside of a week. And the only chance we take is of getting shot at or arrested for assault and battery. The Territorial Prison end of this gun business never did appeal me, anyway.”
“No–nor me either! But what’s the scheme?”
The big cowboy leaned forward eagerly, his eyes flashing as he half guessed the plan.
“We ride out together,” said Hardy, his voice far away, as if he saw it in his mind’s eye, “unarmed–and we notify every sheep-herder we see to move. If Jasp Swope or any of his men kill us while we’re unarmed it’ll be cold-blooded murder, and there’ll be witnesses to prove it. And if the sheep don’t move, we’ll move ’em! What kind of a crime is that, anyway–to drive sheep off the public range? There isn’t an officer of the law within sixty miles, anyhow; and if anybody pulls a gun on us we can slug him in self-defence.”
“Sure,” agreed Creede, “but suppose one of them big-headed Chihuahua Mexicans should happen to shoot you?”
“Well then, I’d be dead,” said Hardy soberly. “But wouldn’t you rather be dead than shut up in that hell-hole down at Yuma?”
“Yes!” cried Creede, holding out his hands as if taking an oath. “I would, by God!”
“Well, come on then!” said Hardy, and they shook hands on it like brothers.
When the rodéo outfit was gathered together in the morning Jefferson Creede deliberately unstrapped his cartridge belt and threw his pistol back onto his bed. Then he winked at his partner as if, rightly understood, the action was in the nature of a joke, and led the way to Pocket Butte.
“You fellows rake the ridges to Bullpit Valley,” he said, briefly assigning every man to his post. “Rufe ’n me’ll hold ’em up for you about four o’clock, but don’t rush the funeral–we’re goin’ to move a few sheep first.”
He smiled mysteriously as he spoke, staving off their pointed queries with equivocal answers.
“See you later,” he observed, turning his horse into a sheep trail, and with that the outfit was forced to be content.
The offending sheep were found feeding along the eastern slope of a long ridge that led down from the upper ground, and the herders were camped on the summit. There were four men gathered about the fire and as the cowboys approached three of them picked up their carbines and sat off to one side, fingering the locks nervously. The appearance of Jeff Creede spelled trouble to all sheepmen and there were few camps on Bronco Mesa which did not contain a herder who had been unceremoniously moved by him. But this time the fire-eating cowman rode grandly into camp without any awe-inspiring demonstrations whatever.
“Are those your sheep?” he inquired, pointing to the grazing herd.
“Sí señor,” responded the boss herder humbly.
“Very well,” said Creede, “move ’em, and move ’em quick. I give you three days to get through that pass.” He stretched a heavily muscled arm very straight toward the notch in the western hills and turned abruptly away. Hardy swung soberly in behind him and the frightened Chihuahuanos were beginning to breathe again after their excitement when suddenly Jeff stopped his horse.
“Say,” he said, turning to the boss, “what you carryin’ that cow’s horn for?”
At this pointed inquiry the boss herder flinched and looked downcast, toying uneasily with the primitive instrument at his side.
“To blow,” he answered evasively.
“Well, go ahead and blow it, then,” suggested Creede amiably. “No–go on! I don’t care what happens. Aw here, let me have it a minute!”
He grabbed the horn away impatiently, wiped the mouthpiece with his sleeve, drew a long breath, and blew. A deep bass roar answered to his effort, a bellow such as the skin-clad hunters of antiquity sent forth when they wound the horn for their hounds, and the hills and valleys of Carrizo and the upper mesa echoed to the blast.
“Say, that’s great!” exclaimed the big cowboy, good-naturedly resisting the appeals of the herder. “I used to have one like that when I was a boy. Oh, I’m a blower, all right–listen to this, now!” He puffed out his chest, screwed his lips into the horn, and blew again, loud and long.
“How’s that for high?” he inquired, glancing roguishly at his partner. “And I could keep it up all day,” he added, handing the horn back, “only I’ve got business elsewhere.”
“Oyez, amigo,” he said, bending his brow suddenly upon the Mexican herder, “remember, now–in three days!” He continued the sentence by a comprehensive sweep of the hand from that spot out through the western pass, favored each of the three Chihuahuanos with an abhorrent scowl, and rode slowly away down the hogback.
“Notice anything funny over on that ridge?” he asked, jerking his head casually toward the east. “That’s Swope and Co.–the Sheepmen’s Protective Association–coming over to rescue companero.” A line of rapidly moving specks proved the truth of his observation, and Creede’s shoulders shook with laughter as he noted their killing pace.
“I tumbled to the idee the minute I set eyes on that cow’s horn,” he said. “It’s like this. Every boss herder has a horn; if he gits into trouble he blows it and all hands come a-runnin’ to shoot holes in Mr. Cowman–think I’ll make one myself.”
He halted behind a rock and scrutinized the approaching horsemen over the top.
“That’s Jasp, in front,” he observed impersonally. “I wouldn’t mind ownin’ that black mule of his’n, neither. We’ll jest wait until they dip down into the cañon and then double in back of him, and scare up them hombres over at the mouth of Hell’s Hip Pocket. We want to git ’em started out of that. I believe you’re right, though, Rufe–we can run this bunch out without firin’ a shot.”
That evening after the day’s riding Creede sat down on his heels by the fire and heated the end of an iron rod. In his other hand he held a horn, knocked from the bleaching skeleton of a steer that had died by the water, and to its end where the tip had been sawed off he applied the red-hot iron, burning a hole through to the hollow centre.
“Jim,” he said, turning to one of the Clark boys, “do you want a little excitement to-morrow? Well then, you take this old horn and go play hide ’n’ seek with Jasp. Keep him chasin’, and while the rest of the boys are gatherin’ cattle Rufe and me will move a few sheep.”
“Well, say,” broke in Ben Reavis impatiently, “where do us fellers come in on this play? I thought there was goin’ to be a few shap lessons and a little night work.”
“Well,” responded the rodéo boss philosophically, “any time you fellers want to go up against them thirty-thirties you can do so. It’s your own funeral, and I’ll promise to do the honors right. But I’m a law-abidin’ cuss myself. I’m all the law now, ever since I talked with Jim Swope–it’s the greatest graft they is.”
He paused, busily scraping his horn with a piece of glass.
“They’s no doubt about it, fellers,” he said at last, “we’ve been slow in the head. It’s a wonder we ain’t all of us makin’ hat bands in Yuma, by this time. I used to think that if you didn’t like a sheepman’s looks the way to do was to wade in and work him over a little; but that’s a misdemeanor, and it don’t go now. It took as good a man as Rufe, here, to put me wise; but I leave my gun in camp after this. I’ve got them Greasers buffaloed, anyhow, and Jasp knows if he plugs me when I’m unarmed it’ll be a sure shot for the pen. The time may come when guns is necessary, but I move that every man leave his six-shooter in his bed and we’ll go after ’em with our bare hands. What d’ ye say, Ben?”
Ben Reavis rose up on one elbow, rolled his eyes warily, and passed a jet of tobacco juice into the hissing fire.
“Not f’r me,” he said, with profane emphasis.
“No, ner f’r me, either,” chimed in Charley Clark. “A man stays dead a long time in this dry climate.”
“Well, you fellers see how many of my steers you can ketch, then,” said Creede, “and I’ll move them sheep myself–leastways, me and Rufe.”
“All right,” assented Reavis resignedly, “but you want to hurry up. I saw a cloud o’ dust halfway to Hidden Water this afternoon.”
The next morning as the rodéo outfit hustled out to pick up what cattle they could before they were scattered by the sheep, Jim Clark, tall, solemn-faced, and angular, rode by devious ways toward the eastern shoulder of the Four Peaks, where a distant clamor told of the great herds which mowed the mountain slopes like a thousand sickles. Having seen him well on his way Creede and Hardy galloped down the cañon, switched off along the hillside and, leaving their horses among the rocks, climbed up on a rocky butte to spy out the land below. High ridges and deep cañons, running down from the flanks of the Four Peaks, lay to the east and north and west; and to the south they merged into the broad expanse of Bronco Mesa.
There it lay, a wilderness of little hills and valleys, flat-topped benches and sandy gulches threaded minutely with winding trails and cow paths, green with the illusion of drought-proof giant cactus and vivid desert bushes, one vast preserve of browse and grass from the Peaks to the gorge of the Salagua. Here was the last battle-ground, the last stand of the cowmen against the sheep, and then unless that formless myth, “The Government,” which no man had ever seen or known, stepped in, there would be no more of the struggle; the green mesa would be stripped of its evanescent glory and the sheep would wander at will. But as long as there was still a chance and the cows had young calves that would die, there was nothing for it but to fight on, warily and desperately, to the end.