On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane
his voice became low and gentle and he stood before her like some questing knight before his queen, but she only sat gazing at him with eyes that he could not understand.
“Listen, Lucy,” he cried, “I will not go unless you tell me –– and now may I go?”
A smile came over Lucy’s face but she did not speak her thoughts.
“If you will stay for my sake,” she said, “I shall be very happy, but I will not hold you against your will. Oh, Rufus, Rufus!” she cried, suddenly holding out her hands, “can’t you understand? I can’t set myself against you, and yet –– think what it is to be a woman!” She rose up and stood before him, the soft light glowing in her eyes, and Hardy stepped forward to meet her; but in that moment a drumming of hoofs echoed through the doorway, there was a rush of horsemen leaning forward as they rode, and then Jefferson Creede thundered by, glancing back as he spurred down the cañon to meet the sheep.
“My God!” whispered Hardy, following his flight with startled eyes, and as the rout of cowboys flashed up over the top of Lookout Point and were gone he bowed his head in silence.
“Lucy,” he said, at last, “my mind has been far away. I –– I have not seen what was before me, and I shall always be the loser. But look –– I have two friends in all the world, you and Jeff, and you are the dearer by far. But you could see as Jeff went by that he was mad. What he will do at the river I can only guess; he is crazy, and a crazy man will do anything. But if I am with him I can hold him back –– will you let me go?” He held out his hands and as Lucy took them she saw for the first time in his shy eyes –– love. For a moment she gazed at him wistfully, but her heart never faltered. Whatever his will might be she would never oppose it, now that she had his love.
“Yes, Rufus,” she said, “you may go, but remember –– me.”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE LAST CROSSING
The rush and thunder of cow ponies as they hammered over the trail and plunged down through the rocks and trees had hardly lost its echoes in the cliffs when, with a flash of color and a dainty pattering of hoofs, Chapuli came flying over the top of Lookout Point and dashed up the river after them. The cowmen had left their horses in the deep ravine at the end of the malpai bluffs and were already crouched behind the rampart of the rim rocks as close as Indian fighters, each by some loophole in the blackened malpai, with a rifle in his hand. As Hardy crept in from behind, Jeff Creede motioned him to a place at his side greeting him at the same time with a broad grin.
“Hello, sport,” he said, “couldn’t keep out of it, eh? Well, we need ye, all right. Here, you can hold straighter than I can; take my gun and shoot rainbows around the leaders when they start to come across.”
“Not much,” answered Hardy, waving the gun away, “I just came down to keep you out of trouble.”
“Ye-es!” jeered Creede, “first thing I know you’ll be down there fightin’ ’em back with rocks. But say,” he continued, “d’ye notice anything funny up on that cliff? Listen, now!”
Hardy turned his head, and soon above the clamor of the sheep he made out the faint “Owwp! Owwwp!” of hounds.
“It’s Bill Johnson, isn’t it?” he said, and Creede nodded significantly.
“God help them pore sheepmen,” he observed, “if Bill has got his thirty-thirty. Listen to ’em sing, will ye! Ain’t they happy, though? And they don’t give a dam’ for us –– ump-um –– they’re comin’ across anyway. Well, that’s what keeps hell crowded –– let ’er go!”
There was a glitter of carbines against the opposite cliffs where the spare herders had taken to cover, but out on the rocky point where the chute led into the river a gang of Mexicans and two Americans were leading their wagon cover around a fresh cut of goats and sheep. On the sand bar far below the stragglers from the first cut, turned back in the initial rush, were wandering aimlessly about or plodding back to the herd, but the sheepmen with bullheaded persistence were preparing to try again. Chief among them towered the boss, Jasper Swope, wet to the waist from swimming across the river; and as he motioned to the herders to go ahead he ran back and mounted his mule again. With a barbaric shout the Mexicans surged forward on the tarpaulin, sweeping their cut to the very edge; then, as the goats set their feet and held back, a swarthy herder leapt into the midst and tumbled them, sheep and goats alike, into the water. Like plummets they went down into the slow-moving depths, some headfirst, some falling awkwardly on their backs or slipping like beavers on a slide; there was a prolonged and mighty splash and then, one by one the heads bobbed up and floated away until, led by the high-horned goats, they struck out for the opposite shore. Below, yelling and throwing stones to frighten them, a line of Mexicans danced up and down along the rocky shore, and to keep them from drifting into the whirlpool Jasper Swope plunged boldly into the water on his mule.
Sink or swim, the sheep were in the water, and for a minute there was a tense silence along the river; then, as the goats lined out, a rifle shot echoed from the cliffs and a white column of water rose up before the leader. He shook his head, hesitated and looked back, and once more the water splashed in his face, while the deep ploomp of the bullet answered to the shot. Fighting away from the sudden stroke the goat lost his headway and, drifting, fouled those below him; a sudden confusion fell upon the orderly ranks of the invaders and, like a flock of geese whose leader is killed, they jostled against one another, some intent on the farther shore and some struggling to turn back. Instantly a chorus of savage shouts rose up from along the river, the shrill yells of the cowboys mingling with the whooping and whistling of the sheepmen, until at last, overcome by the hostile clamor, the timid sheep turned back toward the main herd, drawing with them the goats. For a minute Jasper Swope fought against them, waving his hat and shouting; then, rather than see them drift too far and be drawn into the clutch of the whirlpool, he whipped his mule about and led them back to the shore.
A second time, calling out all his men to help, the boss sheepman tried to cross the goats alone, intending to hold them on the shore for a lure; but just as they were well lined out the same careful marksman behind the malpai threw water in their faces and turned them back. But this time Jasper Swope did not lead the retreat. Slapping his black mule over the ears with his hat he held straight for the opposite shore, cursing and brandishing his gun.
“You dam’, cowardly passel of tail-twisters!” he cried, shaking his fist at the bluffs, “why don’t you come out into the open like men?”
But a grim silence was his only answer.
“Hey, you bold bad man from Bitter Creek, Texas!” he shouted, riding closer to the beach. “Why don’t you come down and fight me like a man?” His big voice was trembling with excitement and he held his pistol balanced in the air as if awaiting an attack, but Jefferson Creede did not answer him.
“I’ll fight you, man to man, you big blowhard!” thundered Swope, “and there goes my pistol to prove it!” He rose in his stirrups as he spoke and hurled it away from him, throwing his cartridge belt after it. “Now,” he yelled, “you’ve been sayin’ what you’d do; come out of your hole, Jeff Creede, I want ye!”
“Well, you won’t git me, then,” answered Creede, his voice coming cold and impassive from over the rim. “I’ll fight you some other time.”
“Ahrr!” taunted Swope, “hear the coward talk! Here I stand, unarmed, and he’s afraid to come out! But if there’s a man amongst you, send him down, and if he licks me I’ll go around.”
“You’ll go around anyhow, you Mormon-faced wool-puller!” replied the cowman promptly, “and we’re here to see to it, so you might as well chase yourself.”
“No, I like this side,” said the sheepman, pretending to admire the scenery. “I’ll jest stay here