Hidden Water

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.