On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane
will undoubtedly be confined to a narrow trail far below us; by the payment of a nominal grazing fee you will be absolutely guaranteed in all your rights and watched over by the Federal Government!”
“Oh, hell!” exclaimed the big cowboy, rising up suddenly from his place, “don’t talk Government to me, whatever you do! W’y, Judge,” he cried, throwing out his hands, “they ain’t no Government here. They ain’t no law. I could go over and kill one of them sheep-herders and you wouldn’t see an officer in two days. I’ve lived here for nigh onto twenty-six years and the nearest I ever come to seein’ the Government was a mule branded ‘U. S.’”
He stopped abruptly and, striding out into the darkness, picked up a log of wood and laid it carefully upon the fire.
“Judge,” he said, turning suddenly and wagging an accusing finger at his former employer, “I’ve heard a lot from you about this reserve, how the President was goin’ to telegraph you the news the minute he signed the proclamation, and send a ranger in to protect the range, and all that, but I ain’t seen you do nothin’! Now if you’re goin’ to make good you’ve got jest about three days to do it in –– after that the sheep will have us dished. Maybe you could use your pull to kinder hurry things up a little –– do a little telegraphin’, or somethin’ like that.”
“I’ll do it!” cried the judge, taking the bait like a fish, “I’ll do it at once! I want your best horse, Jeff, and a guide. I’ll wire the chief forester from Bender!”
“Keno!” said Creede sententiously, “and give my regards to Teddy.”
As the old judge disappeared over the western rim the next morning the rodéo boss smiled grimly behind his hand, and glanced significantly at Hardy. Then, with the outfit behind him, he rode slowly up the cañon, leaving his partner to his steady job as “family man” –– entertaining the boss.
For two days the sheepmen watched the river eagerly, waiting for a drop; then suddenly, as the snow water ran by and a cool day checked the distant streams, it fell, and the swift pageant of the crossing began. At sun-up a boss herder rode boldly out into the current and swam it with his horse; brawny Mexicans leapt into the thicket of palo verdes that grew against the cliff and cut branches to build a chute; Jasper Swope in his high sombrero and mounted on his black mule galloped down from the hidden camp and urged his men along. Still the same ominous silence hung about the shore where Juan Alvarez lay buried beneath the cross. There was no watcher on Lookout Point, no horsemen lurking in the distance; only the lowing of the day herd, far up the cañon, and the lapping of muddy waters. Across the river the low malpai cliffs rose up like ramparts against them and Black Butte frowned down upon them like a watch tower, but of the men who might be there watching there was no sign.
The sheepman studied upon the situation for a while; then he sent a messenger flying back to camp and soon a hardy band of wethers came down, led by an advance guard of goats, and their plaintive bleating echoed in a confused chorus from the high cliffs as they entered the wings of the chute. Already the camp rustlers had driven them out on the slanting rock and encircled the first cut with their canvas wagon cover, when Jasper Swope held up his hand for them to stop. At the last moment and for no cause he hesitated, touched by some premonition, or suspicious of the silent shore. One after another the herders clambered back and squatted idly against the cool cliff, smoking and dangling their polished carbines; the sheep, left standing upon the rock, huddled together and stood motionless; the goats leapt nimbly up on adjacent bowlders and gazed across the river intently; then, throwing up his hand again, the sheepman spurred his black mule recklessly into the water, waving his big hat as he motioned for the sheep to cross.
As the long hours of that portentous morning wore on, palpitating to the clamor of the sheep, a great quiet settled upon Hidden Water. Sitting just within the door Hardy watched Lucy as she went about her work, but his eyes were wandering and haggard and he glanced from time to time at the Black Butte that stood like a sentinel against the crossing. In the intervals of conversation the bleating of the sheep rose suddenly from down by the river, and ceased; he talked on, feverishly, never stopping for an answer, and Lucy looked at him strangely, as if wondering at his preoccupation. Again the deep tremolo rose up, echoing from the cliffs, and Hardy paused in the midst of a story to listen. He was still staring out the doorway when Lucy Ware came over and laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Rufus,” she said, “what is it you are always listening for? Day after day I see you watching here by the door, and when I talk you listen for something else. Tell me –– is it –– are you watching for Kitty?”
“Kitty?” repeated Hardy, his eyes still intent. “Why no; why should I be watching for her?”
At his answer, spoken so impassively, she drew away quickly, but he caught her hand and stopped her.
“Ah no,” he said, “if I could only listen for something else it would be better –– but all I hear is sheep. I’m like old Bill Johnson; I can still shoot straight and find my way in the mountains, but every time I hear a sheep blat I change. Poor old Bill, he’s over across the river there now; the boys have heard his hounds baying up in the high cliffs for a week. I’ve seen him a time or two since he took to the hills and he’s just as quiet and gentle with me as if he were my father, but if anybody mentions sheep he goes raving crazy in a minute. Jeff says he’s been that way himself for years, and now it’s got me, too. If I get much worse,” he ended, suddenly glancing up at her with a wistful smile, “you’ll have to take me away.”
“Away!” cried Lucy eagerly, “would you go? You know father and I have talked of it time and again, but you just stick and stick, and nothing will make you leave. But listen –– what was that?”
A succession of rifle shots, like the popping of wet logs over a fire, came dully to their ears, muffled by the bleating of sheep and the echoing of the cliffs. Hardy leapt to his feet and listened intently, his eyes burning with suppressed excitement; then he stepped reluctantly back into the house and resumed his seat.
“I guess it’s only those Mexican herders,” he said. “They shoot that way to drive their sheep.”
“But look!” cried Lucy, pointing out the door, “the Black Butte is afire! Just see that great smoke!”
Hardy sprang up again and dashed out into the open. The popping of thirty-thirtys had ceased, but from the summit of the square-topped butte a signal fire rose up to heaven, tall and straight and black.
“Aha!” he muttered, and without looking at her he ran out to the corral to saddle Chapuli. But when he came back he rode slowly, checking the impatience of his horse, until at last he dismounted beside her. For days his eyes had been furtive and evasive, but now at last they were steady.
“Lucy,” he said, “I haven’t been very honest with you, but I guess you know what this means –– the boys are turning back the sheep.” His voice was low and gentle, and he stood very straight before her, like a soldier. Yet, even though she sensed what was in his mind, Lucy smiled. For a month he had been to her like another man, a man without emotion or human thought, and now in a moment he had come back, the old Rufus that she had known in her heart so long.
“Yes,” she said, holding out her hand to him, “I knew it. But you are working for me, you know, and I cannot let you go. Listen, Rufus,” she pleaded, as he drew away, “have I ever refused you anything? Tell me what you want to do.”
“I want to go down there and help turn back those sheep,” he said, bluntly. “You know me, Lucy –– my heart is in this fight –– my friends are in it –– and I must go.”
He waited for some answer, but Lucy only turned away. There were tears in her eyes when she looked back at him and her lips trembled, but she passed into the house without a word. Hardy gazed wonderingly after her and his heart smote him; she was like some sensitive little child to whom every rough word was a blow, and he had hurt her. He glanced at the signal fire that rolled up black and sombre as the watcher piled green brush upon it, then he dropped his bridle rein and stepped quickly into the house.
“You