As Jefferson Creede looked out across that noble landscape which he had struggled so resolutely to save and saw the dust clouds of the sheep drifting across it, the tears came to his eyes and blinded his keen vision. Here at last was the end of all his struggles and all his dreams; another year, or two years, and the mesa would be devastated utterly; his cows would be hollow-flanked and gaunted; his calves would totter and die, their tender lips pierced with the spiny cactus upon which their hard-mouthed mothers starved; and all that fair land which he knew and loved so well would be lost to him forever. He raised his hand to his eyes as if shading them from the sun, and brushed the tears away.
“Well, look at those sons o’ guns hike,” he said, baring his teeth venomously, “and every band headed for Hidden Water! Go it, you tarriers–and if you can’t stop to eat the grass, tromple on it! But wait, and if I don’t push in some Greaser’s face to-day it’ll be because every one of them bands is headin’ for the western pass.”
He clambered slowly down from his perch and swung up into the saddle.
“Talkin’ never did do much good with a sheep-herder,” he observed wisely. “As the old judge used to say, ‘you’ve got to appeal to his better nature’–with a club.”
The most southerly of the seven bands was strung out in marching order, the goats in front, the hungriest sheep in the lead; and on both flanks and far behind, the groups and clusters of feeders, pushing out into the grassy flats and rearing up against the trees and bushes. Without a word to the herders Creede and Hardy took down their ropes and, swinging the hondas upon the goats, turned the advance guard northwest. The main herd and the drag followed, and then the herders, all in a bunch for courage.
“This is the last time I talk to you,” said Creede, his voice stifled with anger. “Turn to the north, now, and keep a-goin’.”
He put spurs to his horse and rode west to the second herd, and by noon they had turned all seven toward the western pass. Every herder had his cow’s horn and some of them were blowing continually, but no one answered, and a messenger was sent east for aid. They camped for the heat of the day, making smoke upon the ridges, but no help came. As the sun sank low and the curly-necked Merinos rose up from their huddle and began to drift the Mexicans turned them perforce to the north, looking back sulkily toward the mouth of Hell’s Hip Pocket where other smokes rose against the sky. Until the sun set they travelled, making their three miles and more, and not until they had corralled their flocks for the night did Chico and Grande, the little and big terrors of the sheep, give way from their strenuous labors.
It was two hours after dark when they rode wearily into the camp at Carrizo Creek. The fire was dying down to embers and the rodéo outfit, worn out, had turned in, some in the tin house, others outside, under the brush ramada to escape the dew. No one moved as they approached but Creede did not scruple to wake up Jim Clark in order to learn the news.
“How’d the old horn work?” he inquired cheerily.
“No good,” grunted Clark, rolling over.
“Aw, go on, wouldn’t they chase ye?”
“Nope. Nothin’ doin’. Say, lemme sleep, will ye?”
“Sure,” said Creede, “when I git through with you. Which way was them sheep travellin’?”
“Well, some was goin’ straight up over the Four Peaks and the rest was p’intin’ west. You and your old horn–I nigh blowed my fool head off and never got a rise! They was all blowin’ them horns over by the Pocket this aft.”
“Um,” said Creede, “they was all blowin’, hey? And what else was they doin’?”
“Shootin’, fer further orders, and driftin’ their sheep. They’s about a hundred thousand, right over the hill.”
“Huh!” grunted Creede, turning to his belated dinner, “what d’ye make of that, Rufe?”
“Nothing,” replied Hardy, “except more work.”
It seemed as if he had hardly fallen asleep when Creede was up again, hurling the wood on the fire.
“Pile out, fellers!” he shouted. “You can sleep all day bimebye. Come on, Rufe–d’ye want to find them sheep in the corral when you go back to Hidden Water?” And so with relentless energy he roused them up, divided out the work, and was off again for Bronco Mesa.
It was early when they arrived at the first deserted sheep camp, but search as they would they could see no signs of the sheep. The puny fire over which the herders had fried their bread and mutton was wind-blown and cold, the burros and camp rustlers were gone, and there was no guiding dust cloud against the sky. From the little butte where Creede and Hardy stood the lower mesa stretched away before them like a rocky, cactus-covered plain, the countless ravines and gulches hidden by the dead level of the benches, and all empty, lifeless, void. They rode for the second camp, farther to the west, and it too was deserted, the sheep tracks cunningly milled in order to hide the trail.
“They’re gittin’ foxy,” commented Creede, circling wide to catch the trend of their departure, “but I bet you money no bunch of Chihuahua Greasers can hide twenty thousand sheep in my back yard and me not know it. And I’ll bet you further that I can find every one of them sheep and have ’em movin’ before twelve o’clock, noon.”
Having crystallized his convictions into this sporting proposition the rodéo boss left the wilderness of tracks and headed due south, riding fast until he was clear of sheep signs.
“Now here’s where I cut all seven trails,” he remarked to his partner. “I happen to know where this sheep outfit is headin’ for.” With which enigmatic remark he jerked a thumb toward Hidden Water and circled to the west and north. Not half an hour later he picked up a fresh trail, a broad path stamped hard by thousands of feet, and spurring recklessly along it until he sighted the herd he plunged helter-skelter into their midst, where they were packed like sardines in the broad pocket of a dry wash.
“Hey there! Whoopee–hep–hep!” he yelled, ploughing his way into the pack; and Hardy swinging quickly around the flank, rushed the ruck of them forward in his wake. Upon the brow of the hill the boss herder and his helpers brandished their carbines and shouted, but their words were drowned in the blare and bray which rose from below. Shoot they dared not, for it meant the beginning of a bloody feud, and their warnings were unheeded in the mêlée. The herd was far up the wash and galloping wildly toward the north before the frantic Mexicans could catch up with it on foot, and even then they could do nothing but run along the wings to save themselves from a “cut.” More than once, in the night-time, the outraged cowmen of the Four Peaks country had thus dashed through their bands, scattering them to the wolves and the coyotes, destroying a year’s increase in a night, while the herders, with visions of shap lessons before them, fired perfunctory rifle shots at the moon. It was a form of reprisal that they liked least of all, for it meant a cut, and a cut meant sheep wandering aimlessly without a master until they became coyote bait–at the rate of five dollars a head.
The padron was a kind man and called them compadres, when he was pleased, but if one of them suffered a cut he cursed, and fired him, and made him walk back to town. Hence when Chico and Grande suddenly gave over their drive and rode away to the northwest the Mexican herders devoted all their attention to keeping the herd together, without trying to make any gun plays. And when the stampede was abated and still no help came they drifted their sheep steadily to the north, leaving the camp rustlers to bring up the impedimenta as best they could. Jasper Swope had promised to protect them whenever they blew their horns, but it was two days since they had seen him, and the two Americanos had harried them like hawks.
Never had armed men so lacked a leader as on that day. Their orders were to shoot only in self-defence; for a war was the last thing which the Swope brothers wanted, with their entire fortunes at stake, and no show of weapons could daunt the ruthless Grande and Chico. All the morning the cow horns bellowed and blared as, sweating and swinging their hondas, the stern-eyed Americanos rushed band after band away. Not a word was passed–no threats, no commands, no warnings for the future, but like avenging devils they galloped from one herd to the other and back again, shoving them forward relentlessly, even in the heat of noon. At evening the seven bands, hopelessly mixed and mingled in the panic, were halfway through the long pass, and the herders were white with dust and running. But not until dusk gathered in the valleys did Creede rein in his lathered horse and turn grimly back to camp.
His face was white and caked with dust, the dirt lay clotted in his beard, and only the whites of his eyes, rolling and sanguinary, gave evidence of his humanity; his shirt, half torn from his body by plunging through the cat-claws, hung limp and heavy with sweat; and the look of him was that of a madman, beside himself with rage. The dirt, the sweat, the grime, were as heavy on Hardy, and his eyes rolled like a negro’s beneath the mask of dust, but weariness had overcome his madness and he leaned forward upon the horn. They glanced at each other indifferently and then slumped down to endure the long ten miles which lay between them and home. It had been a stern fight and the excitement had lulled their hunger, but now the old, slow pang gnawed at their vitals and they rolled like drunkards in the saddle.
It was a clear, velvety night, and still, after the wind of the day. Their horses jogged dumbly along, throwing up their heads at every step from weariness, and the noises of the night fell dully upon their jaded ears. But just as they turned into Carrizo Creek Cañon, Creede suddenly reined in old Bat Wings and held up his hand to Hardy.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, still listening. “There! Didn’t you hear that gun go off? Well, I did–and it was a thirty-thirty, too, over there toward the Pocket.”
“Those herders are always shooting away their ammunition,” said Hardy peevishly. “Come on, let’s get back to camp.”
“They don’t shoot in the night-time, though,” grumbled Creede, leading off again. “I’ll bet ye some of them Greasers has seen a ghost. Say,” he cried, “the boys may be out doin’ some night ridin’!”
But when they rode into camp every man was in his blankets.
“Hey, what’s all that shootin’ goin’ on over there?” he called, waking up the entire outfit in his excitement.
“Sheepmen,” responded some sleeper briefly.
“Cleanin’ their guns, mebbe,” suggested another, yawning. “Did you move ’em, Jeff?”
“You betcher neck!” replied Creede promptly, “and I’m goin’ back in the mornin’, too.”
The morning turned black, and flushed rosy, and fell black again, but for once the merciless driver of men slept on, for he was over-weary. It was a noise, far away, plaintive, insistent, which finally brought him to his feet–the bleating of ewes to lambs, of lambs to mothers, of wethers to their fellows, beautiful in itself as the great elemental sounds of the earth, the abysmal roarings of winds and waves and waterfalls, but to the cowman hateful as the clamors of hell. As Creede stood in his blankets, the salt sweat of yesterday still in his eyes, and that accursed blat in his ears, his nerves gave way suddenly, and he began to rave. As the discordant babel drew nearer and nearer his passion rose up like a storm that has been long brewing, his eyes burned, his dirty face turned ghastly. Grabbing up his six-shooter he stood like a prophet of destruction calling down the wrath of God Himself, if there was a God, upon the head of every sheepman. But even as he cursed the first dirty brown wave spewed in over the ridge and swept down upon their valley. Then in a moment his madness overcame him and, raising his heavy pistol, he emptied it against them defiantly, while the resounding cliffs took up his wrath and hurled it back. A herder with his rifle leapt up on a distant rock and looked toward their camp, and at the sight the black anger of Jeff’s father came upon him, filling him with the lust to kill.
He rushed into the house and came out with a high-power rifle. “You will stand up there and laugh at me, will you?” he said, deliberately raising the sights. “You–”
He rested the rifle against one of the ramada posts, and caught his breath to aim, while the cowmen regarded him cynically, yet with a cold speculation in their eyes. Hardy alone sprang forward to spoil his aim, and for a minute they bandied words like pistol shots as they struggled for the gun. Then with a last wailing curse, the big cowboy snapped the cartridge out of his rifle and handed it over to his partner.
“You’re right,” he said, “let the dastard live. But if I ever git another chanst at Jasp Swope I’ll kill him, if I swing for it! He’s the boy I’m lookin’ for, but you see how he dodges me? I’ve been movin’ his sheep for two days! He’s afraid of me–he’s afraid to come out and fight me like a man! But I’ll git ’im–I’ll git ’im yet!”
“All right,” said Hardy soothingly, “you can do it, for all of me. But don’t go to shooting Mexicans off of rocks as if they were turkey buzzards–that’s what gets people into the pen. Now, you just take my advice for once and wash some of that dirt off your face. You’re locoed, man–you’re not a human being–and you won’t be until you wash up and get your belly full.”
Half an hour later they sat down to breakfast, the burly fighting animal and the man who had taught him reason; and as they ate the fierce anger of the cowboy passed away like mists before the morning sun. He heaped his plate up high and emptied it again, drinking coffee from his big cup, and as if ashamed of his brutishness he began forthwith to lay out a campaign of peace. With sheep scurrying in every direction across the range in the great drive that was now on it was no use to try to gather cows. What they had they could day-herd and the rest would have to wait. The thing to do now was to protect the feed around the water, so that the cattle would not have to travel so far in the heat of summer. No objection being offered he gave each man a watercourse to patrol, sending one over into the Pocket to see what had happened to Bill Johnson; and then, with his gun packed in his bed, he started back with Hardy to watch over Hidden Water.
The sun was well up as they topped the high ridge; and the mesa, though ploughed through and through by the trails of the hurrying sheep, still shimmered in its deceptive green. Not for a month had there been a cloud in the sky and the grass on the barren places was already withering in the heat, yet in the distance the greasewood and the palo verdes and giant cactus blended into one mighty sheet of verdure. Only on the ground where the feed should be were there signs of the imminent drought; and where the sheep had crossed the ground lay hard and baked or scuffled into dust. In the presence of those swift destroyers the dreaded año seco had crept in upon them unnoticed, but soon it would scourge the land with heat and dust and failing waters, and cattle lowing to be fed. And there before their eyes, clipping down the precious grass, tearing up the tender plants, shearing away the browse, moved the sheep; army after army, phalanx and cohort, drifting forward irresistibly, each in its cloud of dust. For a minute the two men sat gazing hopelessly; then Creede leaned forward in his saddle and sighed.
“Well,” he observed philosophically, “they’re movin’, anyhow.”
They rode down the long slope and, mounting a low roll, paused again apathetically to watch a band of sheep below.
“Say,” exclaimed Creede, his eyes beginning to burn, “d’ye notice how them sheep are travellin’? And look at them other bands back yonder! By Joe!” he cried, rising in his stirrups, “we’ve got ’em goin’! Look at the dust out through the pass, and clean to Hell’s Hip Pocket. They’re hikin’, boy, they’re hittin’ it up for The Rolls! But what in the world has struck ’em?”
He stood up straight in his saddle, swinging his head from east to west, but no band of horsemen met his eye. He looked again at the flock below him–the goats, forever in the lead, heading straight for the western pass; the herders swinging their carbines upon the drag–and seemed to study upon the miracle.
“Have you got any money to spare, Rufe?” he inquired quietly.
“Sure,” responded Hardy.
“Well, then,” said Creede deliberately, “I’d like to make you a sporting proposition. I’ll bet you forty dollars to the price of a drink that old Bill Johnson has been shootin’ up their camps. Will you go me? All right, and I’ll make you a little side bet: I’ll bet you any money that Jim Swope has lost some sheep!”
He spurred his horse recklessly down the hill, grinning, and at the clatter of rocks the fearful herders jumped forward and raised a great clamor behind their sheep, whistling and clubbing their guns, but the heart of the monster Grande was no longer turned to wrath. He laughed and called out to them, leaping his horse playfully over washouts and waving his black hat.
“Cuidado, hombres,” he shouted, “be careful–do not hurry–look at the nice grass!” But despite this friendly admonition the herders still yelled and whistled at their sheep, jabbing them spitefully with the sharp muzzles of their rifles until at last, all riot and confusion, they fled away bleating into the west.
CHAPTER XVIII
BAD BLOOD
The sheep were on the run, drifting across Bronco Mesa as if the devil was after them, and Creede could hardly stay on his horse from laughing–but when he drew near to Hidden Water his face changed. There was a fresh sheep trail in the cañon and it led away from the ranch. He spurred forward like the wind, his eyes upon the tracks, and when he came in sight of the house he threw down his hat and swore. Of all the God-forsaken places in Arizona, the Dos S Ranch was the worst. The earth lay bare and desolate before it; the woodpile had disappeared; the bucket was thrown down the well. Never had the flat, mud buildings seemed so deserted or Tommy so tragic in his welcome. The pasture gate was down and even that holy of holies, the branding corral, stunk of sheep. Only the padlocked house had been respected, and that perforce, since nothing short of a sledgehammer could break its welded chain.
Unfastening the battered door they entered the living-room which once had been all light and laughter. There lay the dishes all clean and orderly on the table, the floors swept, the beds made, some withered flowers on Hardy’s desk.
“Huh,” grunted Creede, looking it over coldly, “we’re on the bum, all right, all right, now. How long since they went away?”
“’Bout a year,” replied Hardy, and his partner did not contradict him.
They cooked a hasty meal and ate it, putting the scraps in the frying-pan for Tommy.
“Go to it, Tom,” said Creede, smiling wistfully as the cat lapped away at the grease. “He never could git used to them skirts rustlin’ round here, could he?” And then there was a long silence.
Tommy sat up and washed his face contentedly, peering about with intent yellow eyes and sniffing at the countless odors with which his world was filled–then suddenly with a low whining growl he lashed across the room like a tiger and leapt up into his cat hole. This was a narrow tunnel, punched through the adobe wall near the door and boxed in with a projecting cribbing to keep out the snakes and skunks. Through it when his protectors were away he could escape the rush of pursuing coyotes, or sally forth with equal ferocity when sheep dogs were about. He peered out of his porthole for a moment, warily, then his stump tail began to twitch, he worked his hind claws into the wood, and leapt. A yelp of terror from the ramada heralded his success and Creede ran like a boy to look.
“He’s jumped one, by Joe!” he exclaimed. “What did I tell ye–that cat is a holy terror on dogs!”
The dog in question–a slinking, dispirited cur–wagged its tail apologetically from a distance, shaking its bloody ears, while Tommy swelled and hissed viciously at him from his stronghold. It was a sheep dog, part collie, part shepherd, and the rest plain yellow–a friendly little dog, too, and hungry. But the heart of Creede, ordinarily so tender, was hardened by his disasters.
“Git out of here!” he commanded roughly. “Git, you yap, or I’ll burn you up with a bullet!
“This is what comes of leavin’ your gun off,” he grumbled, as he unbound his bed and grabbed up his pistol. But as he stepped out into the open to shoot, his barbarity was checked by a clatter of hoofs and, looking up, he saw Jasper Swope on his big black mule, ambling truculently in across the open.
“Hyar!” he shouted, shaking his fist angrily, “don’t you shoot my dog, you–or I’ll be the death of ye!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” responded Creede, bristling back at him. “Keep the blame pup away, then–and keep that other dog away, too, or my cat’ll eat ’im up! Well, I notice you took the occasion to come down and sheep me out,” he observed, as Swope pulled up before the door.
“I did not,” retorted the sheepman promptly, but grinning nevertheless at the damage, “but I see some other feller has though, and saved me the trouble.” He ran his eye approvingly over the devastated homestead; and then, rising in his stirrups, he plunged suddenly into his set speech.
“I’ve took a lot off’n you, Jeff Creede,” he shouted, swinging his arms wildly, “but I’ve got a bellyful of this night work! And I come down to tell you that next time you shoot up one of my camps there’ll be trouble!”
“I never shot up your old camp,” growled Creede, “nor any other camp. I’m dam’ glad to hear that somebody else did though,” he added vindictively, “and I hope to God he fixed you good and proper. Now what can I do for you, Mr. Swope?” he inquired, thrusting out his chin. “I suppose you must be hurryin’ on, of course.”
“No!” cried Swope, slapping his saddle horn vehemently. “I come down here to git some satisfaction out of you! My sheep has been killed and my men has been intimidated on this here public range, and I want to tell you right now, Mr. Creede, that this funny business has got to stop!”
“Well, don’t choke!” said the cowman, fingering his gun coldly. “Go ahead and stop it, why don’t you?”
He paused, a set smile on his lips, and for a moment their eyes met in the baleful glare which rival wolves, the leaders of their packs, confer upon each other. Then Hardy stepped out into the open, holding up his hand for peace.
“You are mistaken, Mr. Swope,” he said quietly. “Jeff hasn’t shot up any camps–he hasn’t even packed a gun for the last three days.”
“Oh, he hain’t, hey?” sneered the sheepman, showing his jagged teeth. “He seems to have one now.”
“You betcher neck I have,” cried Creede, flaring up at the implication, “and if you’re lookin’ for trouble, Jasp Swope, you can open up any time.”
“W’y what’s the matter with you?” protested Swope righteously. “You must have somethin’ on your mind, the way you act.”
Then without waiting for a reply to this innuendo he turned his attention to Hardy.
“He hain’t shot up any camps,” he repeated, “ner packed a gun for three days, hey? Now here’s where I prove you a liar, Mr. Smarty. I seen him with my own eyes take six shots at one of my herders this very mornin’–and you was there!”
He punctuated his speech by successive downward jabs of his grimy forefinger as if he were stabbing his adversary to the heart, and Hardy turned faint and sick with chagrin. Never had he hated a man as he hated this great, overbearing brute before him–this man-beast, with his hairy chest and freckled hands that clutched at him like an ape’s. Something hidden, a demon primordial and violent, rose up in him against this crude barbarian with his bristling beard and gloating pig eyes, and he forgot everything but his own rage at being trapped.
“You lie!” he cried passionately; and then in his anger he added a word which he had never used, a word which goes deep under the skin and makes men fight.
For a moment the sheepman sat staring, astounded by his vehemence; but before he could move the sudden silence was split by the yelp of a dog–a wild, gibbering yelp that made them jump and bristle like hounds that are assailed from behind–and, mingling stridently with it, was the harsh snarl of a cat. There was a swift scramble in the dust by the door, an oath from the sheepman, and the yellow dog dashed away again, with Tommy at his heels.
Creede was the first man to regain his nerve and, seeing his pet triumphant, he let out a whoop of derisive laughter.
“Ah-hah-hah!” he hollered, pointing with his pistol hand, “look at that, will ye–look at ’im–yee-pah– go after ’im, Tommy–we’ll show the–”
The fighting blood of the sheepman sided in as quickly with his dog.
“I’ll kill that dam’ cat!” he yelled, swinging down from his saddle, “if you don’t let up! Hey, Nip! Sick ’im!” He turned and motioned to his other dog, which had been standing dumbly by, and instantly he joined in the chase. “Sick ’em, boy, sick ’em!” he bellowed, urging him on, and before Creede could get his face straight the long, rangy brindle had dashed up from behind and seized Tommy by the back.
“Git out o’ that!” thundered the cowman; and then, without waiting on words, he threw his gun down on the dog and fired.
“Here–none of that, now!” shouted Swope, whipping out his own pistol, and as he leapt forward he held it out before him like a sabre, pointed straight for the cowman’s ribs. His intentions may have been of the best, but Hardy did not wait to see. The brindle dog let out a surprised yelp and dropped. Before Creede could turn to meet his enemy his partner leapt in between them and with a swift blow from the shoulder, struck the sheepman to the ground.
It was a fearful blow, such as men deal in anger without measuring their strength or the cost, and it landed on his jaw. Creede had seen men slugged before, in saloon rows and the rough fights that take place around a town, but never had he seen a single blow suffice–the man’s head go back, his knees weaken, and his whole body collapse as if he had been shot. If he had been felled like a bull in the shambles that goes down in spite of his great strength, Jasper Swope could not have been more completely stunned. He lay sprawling, his legs turned under him, and the hand that grasped the six-shooter relaxed slowly and tumbled it into the dust.
For a minute the two partners stood staring at each other, the one still planted firmly on his feet like a boxer, the other with his smoking pistol in his hand.
“By Joe, boy,” said Creede slowly, “you was just in time that trip.” He stepped forward and laid the fallen man out on his back, passing his gun up to Hardy as he did so.
“I wonder if you killed him,” he muttered, feeling Jasp’s bull neck; and then, as Hardy ran for some water, he remembered Tommy. But there was no Tommy–only a little heap of fur lying very still out in the open.
“My God!” he cried, and leaving the man he ran out and knelt down beside it.
“Pussy!” he whispered, feeling hopelessly for his heart; and then, gathering the forlorn little wisp of fur in his arms, he hurried into the house without a word.
He was still in hiding when Jasper Swope came to and sat up, his hair drenched with water and matted with dirt. Staring doubtfully at the set face of Hardy he staggered to his feet; then the memory of the fight came back to him and he glared at him with a drunkard’s insolence.
“Where’s my gun?” he demanded, suddenly clapping his hand upon the empty holster.
“I’ll take care of that for you,” answered Hardy pointedly. “Now you pile onto that mule of yours and pull your freight, will you?” He led the black mule up close and boosted its master into the saddle, but Swope was not content.
“Where’s that dastard, Jeff Creede?” he demanded. “Well, I wanter see him, that’s all. And say, Mr. Smart Alec, I want that gun, too, see?”
“Well, you won’t get it,” said Hardy.
“I will that,” declared Swope, “’nd I’ll git you, too, Willie, before I git through with you. I’ve had enough of this monkey business. Now gimme that gun, I tell ye, or I’ll come back with more of ’em and take it!”
He raised his voice to a roar, muffled to a beast-like hoarseness by his swollen jaws, and the ramada reverberated like a cavern as he bellowed out his challenge. Then the door was snatched violently open and Jefferson Creede stepped forth, looking black as hell itself. In one hand he held the sheepman’s pistol and in the other his own.
“Here!” he said, and striding forward he thrust Swope’s gun into his hand. “It’s loaded, too,” he added. “Now, you–if you’ve got any shootin’ to do, go to it!”
He stepped back quickly and stood ready, his masterful eyes bent upon his enemy in a scowl of unquenchable hate. Once before they had faced each other, waiting for that mysterious psychic prompting without which neither man nor beast can begin a fight, and Jim had stepped in between–but Hardy stood aside without a word. It was a show-down and, bulldog fighter though he was, Jasper Swope weakened. The anger of his enemy overcame his hostile spirit without a blow, and he turned his pistol away.
“That’s all I wanted,” he said, shoving the gun sullenly into its holster. “They’s two of you, and–”
“And you’re afraid,” put in Creede promptly. He stood gazing at the downcast sheepman, his lip curling contemptuously.
“I’ve never seen a sheepman yet,” he said, “that would fight. You’ve listened to that blat until it’s a part of ye; you’ve run with them Mexicans until you’re kin to ’em; you’re a coward, Jasp Swope, and I always knowed it.” He paused again, his eyes glowing with the hatred that had overmastered his being. “My God,” he said, “if I could only git you to fight to-day I’d give everything I’ve got left!”
The sheepman’s gaze was becoming furtive as he watched them. He glanced sidewise, edging away from the door; then, pricking his mule with his spurs, he galloped madly away, ducking his head at every jump as if he feared a shot.