Hidden Water

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.”