He rode down to the store with his posse, bought a feed of grain for his horses and provisions for his men, and half an hour afterward went galloping out the Carrizo trail, his keen eye scanning the distant ridges and reading the desert signs like a book. It did not take an Indian trailer to interpret the deep-trampled record of that path. Two days before a big herd of cows and calves had come into Verde Crossing from Carrizo, driven by many shod horses and hustled along in a hurry. As he approached Carrizo fresher tracks cut across the old signs, the tracks of cows and calves fleeing from scampering ponies, and at the Springs the fresh signs closed in and trampled out all evidence of the old drive. It was the last page of the story, written indelibly in the sandy earth. On the open parada ground the cropped ears had all been gathered, but the bruised bushes, the blood and signs of struggle told the plain story of Upton's branding, just as the vacancy of the landscape and the long trail leading to the north spelled the material facts of the drama. The Wine-glass cows that used to be about Carrizo Springs were gone – John Upton had driven them north. But why? The answer lay beyond Carrizo Springs, where the white trail leads down from Lost Dog Cañon. There the trampled tracks that led into Verde Crossing stood out plain again in the dust – three days old and pressed on by hurrying horses. If the law could accept the record of Nature's outspread book Crit and Upton were condemned already, the one for stealing Pecos Dalhart's herd, the other for branding over the Wine-glasses. But the law demands more than that. It demands evidence that a lawyer can read; the sworn testimony of honest and unprejudiced witnesses; the identification of men, brands, and cows, proved beyond a doubt; and all this in a country where all cows look alike, all witnesses are partisans, and an honest man is the noblest work of God. Boone Morgan took up the long trail to the north with fire in his eye, and he rode furiously, as was his duty, but deep down in his heart he knew he was after the wrong man, and would not even get him.
CHAPTER XII
MOUNTAIN LAW
AS the sheriff's posse spurred their tired horses up the long slope of the rocky mountain and down into the rough country beyond, the trail grew fresher with every hour, until the blood from mutilated ears showed wet in the trampled dirt. But as the herd made its way into the broken ground the heavy trail split up and divided; at each fork of the cañon a bunch was cut off from the drag of the herd and drifted by a hand or two down onto the lower range, and when at last the trail broke out into the open country again the posse was following the tracks of only three men and twenty or thirty cows. Then they picked up a stray, burned clean into a Circle-Double-cross and freshly ear-marked, and after that the remnant of the band, standing wearily by a water-hole. Every one of them had been freshly branded with a hot iron – no hair-brand or attempt at burning through a sack – and half of their ears were bloody from being torn in the brush; but there were no cowboys loitering near, waiting to be caught with the goods. The horse-tracks still led on until at last they scattered out and mounted the neighboring ridges. But if the trail was lost there were other signs to lead Morgan on his way. The sun was hanging low now, and their horses were jaded from hard riding, but at the familiar bellowing of a cow-herd they pricked up their ears and forged ahead. The valley opened out suddenly before them and there on their regular parada grounds was the entire U outfit, holding a big herd and cutting, roping, and branding by days' works. Innocence and industry were the twin watchwords in that aggregation – they were too busy even to look up – and when Boone Morgan saw the game he rode past them without speaking and tackled the cook for supper.
"Boys are workin' kinder late to-night, ain't they?" he observed, filling his plate from the Dutch ovens.
"Sure are," answered the cook, sententiously. He had caught a glimpse of a star on a deputy's vest, and his orders were not to talk.
"Can't even stop to eat, hey?" continued the sheriff, nodding at an ovenful of cold biscuits that had been wastefully thrown in the dirt. "Well, that's a pity, too, because you sure do make good bread. But a sour-dough biscuit ain't never no good unless it's eaten fresh."
"No," grumbled the cook, taken off his guard, "and ef they's anything I do despise it is to cook up a good oven of bread and then have it spile thataway."
"Well, we're certainly appreciatin' this batch," remarked Morgan, glancing genially around at his busy men. "The boys bein' away yesterday kind of threw you out, I reckon."
"Thet's right," agreed the cook, oblivious of his intent, "I hed a big kittle of beans spile on me, too."
"They'll sure be hungry when they do hit camp," said the sheriff, continuing his lead, "livin' on cold grub that way. Hello," he exclaimed, looking up as John Upton came hurrying in, "here comes Mr. Upton now – ganted down to a shadow."
"Oh, I don't know!" replied Upton, guardedly, "b'lieve I could eat a little, though."
"Well, I reckon you ought to," said Morgan, "after goin' two days on cold grub."
"Cold grub!" repeated the cowman, glancing at the cook.
"Why, sure. And that's a long, hard ride over to Carrizo, too." The sheriff took a big mouthful and waited.
"What in hell you talkin' about?" demanded the cowman, sullenly.
"Why, wasn't you over to Carrizo yesterday?"
"Nope."
"And never eat no cold grub?" inquired the sheriff, gazing quizzically toward Joe, the cook.
"Dam' yore heart, Joe!" burst out Upton, looking daggers at the startled pot-tender, "have you been blabbin' already?"
"That'll be all, Mr. Upton," said Boone Morgan, quietly, "I'm up here lookin' for the owner of this new Circle Double-cross brand. Is that your iron? It is? Well, I'll have to ask you to go back with me to-morrow and explain where them cows come from."
"Well, by the holy – jumpin' – " The cowman paused in his wrath and fixed his fiery eyes on Boone Morgan. "Did Ike Crittenden put you up to this?" he demanded, and taking silence for consent he went off into a frenzy of indignation. "Well, what you chasin' me for?" he yelled, choking with exasperation. "Old Crit goes over into Lost Dog and runs off every dam' one of them Monkey-wrench cows, and you come right through his camp and jump me! They wasn't a critter in Lost Dog that hadn't been burnt over my U, and you know it; but ump-um – Crit's a friend of mine – never make him any trouble – go over and tackle Upton – he's a Tonto County man!"
The sheriff listened to this tirade with a tolerant smile, feeding himself liberally the while. He had long ago learned that the world's supply of self-righteousness is not held in monopoly by the truly good – also that every horse must go to the length of his picket rope before he will stop and eat. But when the fireworks were over he remarked by way of conversation, "Crit's got one of your JIC cows down there in his corral – a red three, bald-faced and kind of spotted on the shoulders. Looks like it had been branded lately."
"Yes, an' I've got one of his ICU2's down in my corral," retorted Upton, "and it sure has been branded lately – you could smell the burnt hair when I picked it up five days ago. They ain't a man in my outfit that don't know that old cow for an ICU, too."
"Um," commented Morgan, "you think he stole it, hey?"
"I know it!" replied Upton, with decision. "You can see her yoreself, down in my headquarters corral, and I picked her up in the track of Crit's round-up."
"Well, you better swear out a warrant, then, and we'll take the cow down for evidence. You were hintin' that I'm standin' in with Crittenden, but jest swear to a complaint and see how quick I'll serve the papers."
For a moment the cowman cocked his head and regarded him shrewdly – then he shook his head. "I've got too much loose stock runnin' on his range," he said.
"I'll protect your property," urged the sheriff. "Come on, now – quit your kickin' and make a complaint."
"Nope – too dangerous! I can take care of myself in the hills, but if them Geronimo lawyers ever git holt of me I'm done for. You can take me down to-morrer, if you want to, but I'd rather stick to my own game."
"All right," said the sheriff, "we'll see what Crit will do."
There was a big crowd around the store at Verde Crossing when Boone Morgan and his posse rode in, and at sight of John Upton by his side there was a general craning of necks on the part of Crittenden's cowboys. This was the first time that a sheriff had attempted to stop the lawless raids and counter-raids of these two cattle kings and the gun-men looked upon him with disfavor, for even a professional bad man is jealous of his job. An appeal to the courts would divert their extra wages into the pockets of the lawyers – it would dock their pay and double their work, and to a man they were against it. Yet here came Upton with the sheriff, and Bill Todhunter had already spotted some Spectacle cows that had drifted back to the corrals. As for Crit, his nerve was good, for he felt the fighting courage of his men behind him, and he went out to meet his ancient enemy with a taunting sneer.
"Well, I'm glad to see one man git what's comin' to him," he observed, taking note of Upton's guard.
"Yes," retorted Upton, caustically, "and if I'd jest tell a half of what I know, you'd be mixin' 'dobes down at the Pen."
"Uhr!" grunted Crittenden, turning away in scorn; but at the same time he took his cue from the words.
"Well, Mr. Crittenden," began Morgan, "here's the man you wanted so bad. Now if you'll jest step into the store and fill out this complaint – "
"Nothin' like that – nothin' like that!" protested the Verde Boss, holding up his hand. "I never said I wanted him arrested!"
"No, but you took me down and showed me that JIC cow and said he stole it, didn't you? And you complained to me that he was in the act of runnin' off your Wine-glass cows, didn't you? Well, that's the same thing, when you're talkin' to an officer."
"Well, it may be all the same, but I don't want 'im arrested. That ain't the way I do business."
"Oh, it ain't, hey? Well, what is your way of doin' business?"
"First principle is never to holler for help," replied Crittenden, grimly. "I know dam' well that little cuss over there burnt my IC cow and run off all my Wine-glasses – but I can't prove nothin' before the law, so you might as well turn 'im loose. Oh, you don't need to laugh, you little, sawed-off runt!" he yelled, addressing himself to Upton, "I'm jest keepin' you out of jail so's I can git at you myself! I'll – "
"Aw, shut up," growled the sheriff, brushing roughly past him. "Come on, boys, let's get out of this before they holler their heads off." He swung angrily up on his horse, jerked its head toward the river and took the crossing in silence, leaving the rival cattle kings to fight it out together. The time might come when one or the other of them would "holler for help," but just at that moment the Verde country was not educated up to the law.
CHAPTER XIII
WELCOME HOME
AFTER the war of words was over and the tumult and shouting had died away, the Angel of Peace, which had been flying high of late, fluttered down and hovered low over Verde Crossing. John Upton rode back up the Tonto trail still breathing forth hostile threats; Crittenden and his men buckled on their extra guns and rode blithely out to the adventure; and the store, from being a general hang-out for noisy and drunken cowboys, became once more a shrine to Venus and a temple of the Muse, with Babe the minstrel and Marcelina the devotee. "Billy Veniro" was the theme – that long, sad tale of the far frontier – sung in tragic tenor to a breathless audience of one. She was very pretty, the little Marcelina, now that she had become a woman. The Sisters had taught her her catechism and something more – the grace and sweetness that come from religious adoration, and the quiet of the cell. The great world, too, as personated by Geronimo, had done its share; her hair was done up in dark masses, her long skirt swept the floor, and with the added dignity of a train her womanhood was complete. She sat by the door where she could watch the Tonto trail – for it was by that road that Pecos was to come – and her melancholy eyes glowed as she listened to the song.
BILLY VENIRO
"Billy Veniro heard them say, in an Arizona town one day,
That a band of Apache Indians were on the trail of death.
He heard them tell of murder done, of the men killed at Rocky Run.
'There is danger at the cow-ranch!' Veniro cried beneath his breath.
"In a ranch forty miles, in a little place that lay
In a green and shady valley, in a mighty wilderness,
Half a dozen homes were there and in one a maiden fair
Helt the heart of Billy Veniro – Billy Veniro's little Bess.
"So no wonder he grew pale, when he heard the cowboy's tale —
Of the men that he'd seen murdered the day before at Rocky Run.
'As sure as there is a God above, I will save the girl I love.
By my love for little Bessie, I must see there is something done!'
"When his brave resolve was made, not a moment more he stayed.
'Why, my man,' his comrades told him when they heard his daring plan,
'You are riding straight to death!' But he answered, 'Hold your breath,
I may never reach the cow-ranch, but I'll do the best I can.'
"As he crossed the alkali bed all his thoughts flew on ahead
To the little band at the cow-ranch, thinking not of danger near,
With his quirt's unceasing whirl and the jingle of his spurs
Little brown Chapo bore the cowboy far away from a far frontier.
"Lower and lower sank the sun, he drew reins at Rocky Run.
'Here those men met death, my Chapo!' and he stroked his horse's mane.
'So shall those we go to warn, ere the breaking of the morn,
If I fail, God help my Bessie!' And he started out again.
"Sharp and keen the rifle shot woke the echoes of the spot.
'I am wounded!' cried Veniro, as he swayed from side to side.
'Where there is life there is always hope, onward slowly I will lope.
I may never reach the cow-ranch – Bessie dear shall know I tried.
"'I will save her yet,' he cried, 'Bessie Lee shall know I died
For her sake!' And then he halted in the shadow of a hill.
From a branch a twig he broke, and he dipped his pen of oak
In the warm blood that spurted from the wound above his heart.
"From his chaps he took, with weak hand, a little book,
Tore a blank leaf from it, saying, 'This shall be my will.'
He arose and wrote: 'Too late! Apache warriors lay in wait.
Good-bye, Bess, God bless you, darling!' And he felt the warm blood start.
"And he made his message fast – love's first letter and its last —
To his saddle horn he tied it, while his lips were white with pain.
'Take this message, if not me, safe to little Bess,' said he.
Then he tied himself to the saddle and gave his horse the rein.
"Just at dusk a horse of brown, wet with sweat, came panting down
Through the little lane at the cow-ranch and stopped at Bessie's door.
But the cowboy was asleep and his slumbers were so deep
That little Bess could not awake him, if she were to try forevermore.
• • • • • • • • •
"Now you have heard this story told, by the young and by the old,
Way down there at the cow-ranch the night the Apaches came.
Heard them speak of the bloody fight, how the chief fell in the flight
And of those panic-stricken warriors, when they speak Veniro's name."
• • • • • • • • •
"Ay, los Ah-paches!" sighed Marcelina, looking wistfully up the trail. "No ai Ah-paches in mountains now, Babe?"
"No, Marcelina," soothed Angy, "all gone now. Soldiers watch 'em – San Carlos."
"Que malo, los Indios!" shuddered Marcelina. "I am afraid —quien sabe?– who can tell? – I am afraid some bad men shall keel – ah, when say Paycos, he will come?"
"'I'll come a-runnin' – watch for my dust' – that's all he wrote when I told him you was home. Can't you see no dust nor nothin'?"
"There is leetle smoke, like camp-fire, up the valley – and Creet's vaqueros come home down Tonto trail. Pretty soon sundown – nobody come."
Angevine Thorne stepped through the doorway and, shading his bloodshot eyes with a grimy hand, gazed long at the column of thin smoke against the northern sky. "Like as not some one is brandin' an orejano" he said, half to himself. "Might even be Pecos, makin' a signal fire. Hey, look at them bloody cowboys, ridin' in on it! Look at 'em go down that arroyo; will you? Say – I hope – "
"Hope what?"
"Well, I hope Pecos don't come across none of them Spectacle cows on the way in – that's all."
"Ahh, Paycos weel be mad – he weel —Mira! Look, look!"
A furious mob of horsemen came whirling down the trail, crowding about a central object that swayed and fought in their midst; they rushed it triumphantly into the open, swinging their ropes and shouting, and as the rout went by Angy saw Pecos, tied to his horse, his arms bound tight to his sides and a myriad of tangled reatas jerking him about in his saddle.
"Hang the cow-thief!" howled the cowboys, circling and racing back, and all the time Pecos strained and tugged to get one hand to his gun. Then his wild eyes fell on Marcelina and he paused; she held out her hands, and Angy rushed behind the bar for his gun.
"Here, what the hell you mean?" he yelled, breaking from the door. "Quit jerkin' him around like that, or I'll knock you off your horse!" He ran straight through the crowd, belting every horse he met with the barrel of his forty-five, until he brought up with his back to Pecos and his pistol on the mob. "Let go that rope, you – !" he cried, bringing his six-shooter to a point, and as the nearest cowboy threw loose and backed away he shifted his gun to another. "Throw off your dally," he commanded, "and you too, you low-flung Missouri hound! Yes, I mean you!" he shouted, as Crit still held his turns. "What right have you got to drag this man about? I'll shoot the flat out of your eye, you old dastard, if you don't let go that rope!"
Old Crit let go, but he stood his ground with a jealous eye on his prize.
"Don't you tech them ropes," he snarled back, "or I'll do as much for you. I caught him in the act of stealin' one of my cows and – "
"You did not!" broke in Pecos, leaning back like a wing-broke hawk to face his exultant foe, "that calf was mine – and its mother to boot – and you go and burn it to a pair of Spectacles! Can't a man vent his own calf when it's been stole on 'im durin' his absence? Turn me loose, you one-eyed cow-thief, or I'll have yore blood for this!"
"You don't git loose from me – not till the sheriff comes and takes you to the jug. Close in here, boys, and we'll tie him to a tree."
"Not while I'm here!" replied Angy, stepping valiantly to the front. "They don't a man lay a finger on 'im, except over my dead body. You'll have to kill me – or I'll pot Old Crit on you, in spite of hell!" He threw down on his boss with the big forty-five and at a sign from Crit the cowboys fell back and waited.
"Now, lookee here, Angy," began Crittenden, peering uneasily past the gun, "I want you to keep yore hand outer this. Accordin' to law, any citizen has a right to arrest a man caught in the act of stealin' and I claim that feller for my prisoner."
"Well, you don't git 'im," said Angy, shortly. "What's the row, Pecos?"
Pecos Dalhart, still leaning back like a crippled hawk that offers beak and claws to the foe, shifted his hateful eyes from Crittenden and fixed them on his friend.
"I was ridin' down the arroyo," he said, "a while ago, when I came across my old milk cow that I bought of Joe Garcia." He paused and gulped with rage. "One ear was cropped to a grub," he cried, "and the other swallow-forked to 'er head – and her brand was fresh burnt to a pair of hobbles! The calf carried the same brand and while I was barring them Spectacles or Hobbles, or whatever you call 'em, and putting a proper Monkey-wrench in their place, this pack of varmints jumped in and roped me before I could draw a gun, otherwise they would be some dead."
"Nothin' of the kind!" shouted back Crittenden. "You never bought a cow in your life, and you know it! I caught you in the act of stealin' my Spectacle calf and I've got witnesses to prove it – ain't that so, boys?"
"Sure!" chimed the IC cowboys, edging in behind their boss.
"And I demand that man for my prisoner!" he concluded, though pacifically, for Angy still kept his bead.
The negotiations for the custody of Pecos were becoming heated when there was a familiar clatter at the ford and Bill Todhunter rode into camp. His appearance was not such an accident as on the surface appeared, since he had been scouting around the purlieus of Verde Crossing for some days in the hope of catching Old Crit in some overt act, but he put a good face on it and took charge of the prisoner at once. Prisoners were the fruits of his profession, like game to a hunter or mavericks to a cowman, and he pulled the gun out of Pecos's holster and threw loose the tangled ropes with the calm joy of a man who has made a killing.
"Caught 'im in the act, did ye?" he said, turning to Crittenden. "Uh-huh – got any witnesses? All right – where's the calf? Well, send a man up for it, and bring the cow down, too. We'll have a preliminary examination before the J. P. to-morrow and I want that cow and calf for evidence. Now come on, Mr. Dalhart, and remember that anything you say is liable to be used against ye."
Denying and protesting, Pecos did as he was bid; and, still denying his guilt, he went before the magistrate in Geronimo. Crittenden was there with his cowboys; the calf was there with his barred brand and bloody ears – and as the examination progressed Pecos saw the meshes of a mighty net closing relentlessly in upon him. In vain he protested that the calf was his – Isaac Crittenden, the cowman, swore that the animal belonged to him and his cowboys swore to it after him. In vain he called upon José Garcia to give witness to the sale – Joe was in debt to the Boss several hundred dollars and Old Funny-face, the cow, was being hazed across the range by a puncher who had his orders. His written bill of sale was lost, the mother with her brands and vents was gone, and a score of witnesses against him swore to the damning fact that he had been taken red-handed. After hearing all the evidence the Justice of the Peace consulted his notes, frowned, and held the defendant for the action of the grand jury. The witnesses filed out, the court adjourned, and a representative assemblage of cowmen congratulated themselves, as law-abiding citizens of Geronimo County, that there was one less rustler in the hills. At last, after holding up her empty scales for years, the star-eyed Goddess of Justice was vindicated; the mills of the law had a proper prisoner to work upon now and though they were likely to grind a little slow – the grand jury had just adjourned and would not be convened again until fall – they were none the less likely to be sure. Fortunately for the cause of good government the iron hand of the law had closed down upon a man who had neither money, friends, nor influence, and everybody agreed that he should be made an awful example.