Hidden Water

The time came in late October, when the sheep were on The Rolls. In orderly battalions they drifted past, herd after herd, until there were ten in sight. If any sheepman resented the silent sentinels that rode along the rim he made no demonstration of the fact–and yet, for some reason every herd sooner or later wandered around until it fetched up against the dead line. There were fuzzy chollas farther out that got caught in the long wool and hurt the shearers’ hands; it was better to camp along the Alamo, where there was water for their stock–so the simple-minded herders said, trying to carry off their bluff; but when Creede scowled upon them they looked away sheepishly. The padron had ordered it–they could say no more.

“Muy bien,” said the overbearing Grande, “and where is your padron?”

“Quien sabe!” replied the herders, hiking up their shoulders and showing the palms of their hands, and “Who knows” it was to the end. There was wise counsel in the camp of the sheepmen; they never had trouble if they could avoid it, and then only to gain a point. But it was this same far-seeing policy which, even in a good year when there was feed everywhere, would not permit them to spare the upper range. For two seasons with great toil and danger they had fought their way up onto Bronco Mesa and established their right to graze there–to go around now would be to lose all that had been gained.

But for once the cowmen of the Four Peaks were equal to the situation. There were no cattle to gather, no day herds to hold, no calves to brand in the pens–every man was riding and riding hard. There was wood on every peak for signal fires and the main camp was established on the high ridge of the Juate, looking north and south and west. When that signal rose up against the sky–whether it was a smoke by day or a fire by night–every man was to quit his post and ride to harry the first herd. Wherever or however it came in, that herd was to be destroyed, not by violence nor by any overt act, but by the sheepmen’s own methods–strategy and stealth.

For once there was no loose joint in the cordon of the cowmen’s defence. From the rim of the Mogollons to the borders of Bronco Mesa the broad trail of the sheep was marked and noted; their shiftings and doublings were followed and observed; the bitterness of Tonto cowmen, crazy over their wrongs, was poured into ears that had already listened to the woes of Pleasant Valley. When at last Jasper Swope’s boss herder, Juan Alvarez, the same man-killing Mexican that Jeff Creede had fought two years before, turned suddenly aside and struck into the old Shep Thomas trail that comes out into the deep crotch between the Peaks, a horseman in chaparejos rode on before him, spurring madly to light the signal fires. That night a fire blazed up from the shoulder of the western mountain and was answered from the Juate. At dawn ten men were in the saddle, riding swiftly, with Jefferson Creede at their head.

It was like an open book to the cowmen now, that gathering of the sheep along the Alamo–a ruse, a feint to draw them away from the Peaks while the blow was struck from behind. Only one man was left to guard that threatened border–Rufus Hardy, the man of peace, who had turned over his pistol to the boss. It was a bitter moment for him when he saw the boys start out on this illicit adventure; but for once he restrained himself and let it pass. The war would not be settled at a blow.

At the shoulder of the Peak the posse of cowmen found Jim Clark, his shaps frayed and his hat slouched to a shapeless mass from long beating through the brush, and followed in his lead to a pocket valley, tucked away among the cedars, where they threw off their packs and camped while Jim and Creede went forward to investigate. It was a rough place, that crotch between the Peaks, and Shep Thomas had cut his way through chaparral that stood horse-high before he won the southern slope. To the north the brush covered all the ridges in a dense thicket, and it was there that the cow camp was hid; but on the southern slope, where the sun had baked out the soil, the mountain side stretched away bare and rocky, broken by innumerable ravines which came together in a redondo or rounded valley and then plunged abruptly into the narrow defile of a box cañon. This was the middle fork, down which Shep Thomas had made his triumphal march the year before, and down which Juan Alvarez would undoubtedly march again.

Never but once had the sheep been in that broad valley, and the heavy rains had brought out long tufts of grama grass from the bunchy roots along the hillsides. As Creede and Jim Clark crept up over the brow of the western ridge and looked down upon it they beheld a herd of forty or fifty wild horses, grazing contentedly along the opposite hillside; and far below, where the valley opened out into the redondo, they saw a band of their own tame horses feeding. Working in from either side–the wild horses from the north, where they had retreated to escape the drought; the range animals from the south, where the sheep had fed off the best grass–they had made the broad mountain valley a rendezvous, little suspecting the enemy that was creeping in upon their paradise. Already the distant bleating of the sheep was in the air; a sheepman rode up to the summit, looked over at the promised land and darted back, and as the first struggling mass of leaders poured out from the cut trail and drifted down into the valley the wild stallions shook out their manes in alarm and trotted farther away.

A second band of outlaws, unseen before, came galloping along the western mountain side, snorting at the clangor and the rank smell of the sheep, and Creede eyed them with professional interest as the leaders trotted past. Many times in the old days he had followed along those same ridges, rounding up the wild horses and sending them dashing down the cañon, so that Hardy could rush out from his hiding place and make his throw. It was a natural hold-up ground, that redondo, and they had often talked of building a horse trap there; but so far they had done no more than rope a chance horse and let the rest go charging down the box cañon and out the other end onto Bronco Mesa.

It was still early in the morning when Juan Alvarez rode down the pass and invaded the forbidden land. He had the name of a bad hombre, this boss herder of Jasper Swope, the kind that cuts notches on his rifle stock. Only one man had ever made Juan eat dirt, and that man now watched him from the high rocks with eyes that followed every move with the unblinking intentness of a mountain lion.

“Uhr-r! Laugh, you son of a goat,” growled Creede, as the big Mexican pulled up his horse and placed one hand complacently on his hip. “Sure, make yourself at home,” he muttered, smiling as his enemy drifted his sheep confidently down into the redondo, “you’re goin’ jest where I want ye. Come sundown and we’ll go through you like a house afire. If he beds in the redondo let’s shoot ’em into that box cañon, Jim,” proposed the big cowman, turning to his partner, “and when they come out the other end all hell wouldn’t stop ’em–they’ll go forty ways for Sunday.”

“Suits me,” replied Jim, “but say, what’s the matter with roundin’ up some of them horses and sendin’ ’em in ahead? That boss Mexican is goin’ to take a shot at some of us fellers if we do the work ourselves.”

“That’s right, Jim,” said Creede, squinting shrewdly at the three armed herders. “I’ll tell ye, let’s send them wild horses through ’em! Holy smoke! jest think of a hundred head of them outlaws comin’ down the cañon at sundown and hammerin’ through that bunch of sheep! And we don’t need to git within gunshot!”

“Fine and dandy,” commented Jim, “but how’re you goin’ to hold your horses to it? Them herders will shoot off their guns and turn ’em back.”

“Well, what’s the matter with usin’ our tame horses for a hold-up herd and then sendin’ the whole bunch through together? They’ll strike for the box cañon, you can bank on that, and if Mr. Juan will only–” But Mr. Juan was not so accommodating. Instead of holding his sheep in the redondo he drifted them up on the mountain side, where he could overlook the country.

“Well, I’ll fix you yet,” observed Creede, and leaving Jim to watch he scuttled down to his horse and rode madly back to camp.

That afternoon as Juan Alvarez stood guard upon a hill he saw, far off to the west, four horsemen, riding slowly across the mesa. Instantly he whistled to his herders, waving his arms and pointing, and in a panic of apprehension they circled around their sheep, crouching low and punching them along until the herd was out of sight. And still the four horsemen rode on, drawing nearer, but passing to the south. But the sheep, disturbed and separated by the change, now set up a plaintive bleating, and the boss herder, never suspecting the trap that was being laid for him, scrambled quickly down from his lookout and drove them into the only available hiding-place–the box cañon. Many years in the sheep business had taught him into what small compass a band of sheep can be pressed, and he knew that, once thrown together in the dark cañon, they would stop their telltale blatting and go to sleep. Leaving his herders to hold them there he climbed back up to his peak and beheld the cowboys in the near distance, but still riding east.

An hour passed and the sheep had bedded together in silence, each standing with his head under another’s belly, as is their wont, when the four horsemen, headed by Jeff Creede himself, appeared suddenly on the distant mountain side, riding hard along the slope. Galloping ahead of them in an avalanche of rocks was the band of loose horses that Alvarez had seen in the redondo that morning, and with the instinct of their kind they were making for their old stamping ground.

Once more the sheepman leaped up from his place and scampered down the hill to his herd, rounding up his pack animals as he ran. With mad haste he shooed them into the dark mouth of the cañon, and then hurried in after them like a badger that, hearing the sound of pursuers, backs into some neighboring hole until nothing is visible but teeth and claws. So far the boss herder had reasoned well. His sheep were safe behind him and his back was against a rock; a hundred men could not dislodge him from his position if it ever came to a fight; but he had not reckoned upon the devilish cunning of horse-taming Jeff Creede. Many a time in driving outlaws to the river he had employed that same ruse–showing himself casually in the distance and working closer as they edged away until he had gained his end.

The sun was setting when Creede and his cowboys came clattering down the mountain from the east and spurred across the redondo, whooping and yelling as they rounded up their stock. For half an hour they rode and hollered and swore, apparently oblivious of the filigree of sheep tracks with which the ground was stamped; then as the remuda quieted down they circled slowly around their captives, swinging their wide-looped ropes and waiting for the grand stampede.

The dusk was beginning to gather in the low valley and the weird evensong of the coyotes was at its height when suddenly from the north there came a rumble, as if a storm gathered above the mountain; then with a roar and the thunder of distant hoofs, the crashing of brush and the nearer click of feet against the rocks a torrent of wild horses poured over the summit of the pass and swept down into the upper valley like an avalanche. Instantly Creede and his cowboys scattered, spurring out on either wing to turn them fair for the box cañon, and the tame horses, left suddenly to their own devices, stood huddled together in the middle of the redondo, fascinated by the swift approach of the outlaws. Down the middle of the broad valley they came, flying like the wind before their pursuers; at sight of Creede and his cowboys and the familiar hold-up herd they swerved and slackened their pace; then as the half-circle of yelling cowmen closed in from behind they turned and rushed straight for the box cañon, their flint-like feet striking like whetted knives as they poured into the rocky pass. Catching the contagion of the flight the tame horses joined in of their own accord, and a howl of exultation went up from the Four Peaks cowmen as they rushed in to complete the overthrow. In one mad whirl they mingled–wild horses and tame, and wilder riders behind; and before that irresistible onslaught Juan Alvarez and his herders could only leap up and cling to the rocky cliffs like bats. And the sheep! A minute after, there were no sheep. Those that were not down were gone–scattered to the winds, lost, annihilated!

Seized by the mad contagion, the cowboys themselves joined in the awful rout, spurring through the dark cañon like devils let loose from hell. There was only one who kept his head and waited, and that was Jefferson Creede. Just as the last wild rider flashed around the corner he jumped his horse into the cañon and, looking around, caught sight of Juan Alvarez, half-distraught, crouching like a monkey upon a narrow ledge.

“Well, what–the–hell!” he cried, with well-feigned amazement. “I didn’t know you was here!”

The sheepman swallowed and blinked his eyes, that stood out big and round like an owl’s.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said.

“But it wouldn’t ’a’ made a dam’ bit of difference if I had!” added Creede, and then, flashing his teeth in a hectoring laugh, he put spurs to his horse and went thundering after his fellows.

Not till that moment did the evil-eyed Juan Alvarez sense the trick that had been played upon him.

“Cabrone!” he screamed, and whipping out his pistol he emptied it after Creede, but the bullets spattered harmlessly against the rocks.

Early the next morning Jefferson Creede rode soberly along the western rim of Bronco Mesa, his huge form silhouetted against the sky, gazing down upon the sheep camps that lay along the Alamo; and the simple-minded Mexicans looked up at him in awe. But when the recreant herders of Juan Alvarez came skulking across the mesa and told the story of the stampede, a sudden panic broke out that spread like wildfire from camp to camp. Orders or no orders, the timid Mexicans threw the sawhorses onto their burros, packed up their blankets and moved, driving their bawling sheep far out over The Rolls, where before the chollas had seemed so bad. It was as if they had passed every day beneath some rock lying above the trail, until, looking up, they saw that it was a lion, crouching to make his spring. For years they had gazed in wonder at the rage and violence of Grande Creede, marvelling that the padron could stand against it; but now suddenly the big man had struck, and bravo Juan Alvarez had lost his sheep. Hunt as long as he would he could not bring in a tenth of them. Ay, que malo! The boss would fire Juan and make him walk to town; but they who by some miracle had escaped, would flee while there was yet time.

For two days Creede rode along the rim of Bronco Mesa–that dead line which at last the sheepmen had come to respect,–and when at last he sighted Jim Swope coming up from Hidden Water with two men who might be officers of the law he laughed and went to meet them. Year in and year out Jim Swope had been talking law–law; now at last they would see this law, and find out what it could do. One of the men with Swope was a deputy sheriff, Creede could tell that by his star; but the other man might be almost anything–a little fat man with a pointed beard and congress shoes; a lawyer, perhaps, or maybe some town detective.

“Is this Mr. Creede?” inquired the deputy, casually flashing his star as they met beside the trail.

“That’s my name,” replied Creede. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, Mr. Creede,” responded the officer, eying his man carefully, “I come up here to look into the killing of Juan Alvarez, a Mexican sheep-herder.”

“The killin’?” echoed Creede, astounded.

“That’s right,” snapped the deputy sheriff, trying to get the jump on him. “What do you know about it?”

“Who–me?” answered the cowman, his eyes growing big and earnest as he grasped the news. “Not a thing. The last time I saw Juan Alvarez he was standin’ on a ledge of rocks way over yonder in the middle fork–and he certainly was all right then.”

“Yes? And when was this, Mr. Creede?”

“Day before yesterday, about sundown.”

“Day before yesterday, eh? And just what was you doin’ over there at the time?”

“Well, I’ll tell ye,” began Creede circumstantially. “Me and Ben Reavis and a couple of the boys had gone over toward the Pocket to catch up our horses. They turned back on us and finally we run ’em into that big redondo up in the middle fork. I reckon we was ridin’ back and forth half an hour out there gittin’ ’em stopped, and we never heard a peep out of this Mexican, but jest as we got our remuda quieted down and was edgin’ in to rope out the ones we wanted, here comes a big band of wild horses that the other boys had scared up over behind the Peaks, roaring down the cañon and into us. Of course, there was nothin’ for it then but to git out of the way and let ’em pass, and we did it, dam’ quick. Well, sir, that bunch of wild horses went by us like the mill tails of hell, and of course our remuda stompeded after ’em and the whole outfit went bilin’ through the box cañon, where it turned out Juan Alvarez had been hidin’ his sheep. That’s all I know about it.”

“Well, did you have any trouble of any kind with this deceased Mexican, Mr. Creede? Of course you don’t need to answer that if it will incriminate you, but I just wanted to know, you understand.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” responded the cowman, waving the suggestion aside with airy unconcern. “This is the first I’ve heard of any killin’, but bein’ as you’re an officer I might as well come through with what I know. I don’t deny for a minute that I’ve had trouble with Juan. I had a fist fight with him a couple of years ago, and I licked him, too–but seein’ him up on that ledge of rocks when I rode through after my horses was certainly one of the big surprises of my life.”

“Uh, you was surprised, was ye?” snarled Swope, who had been glowering at him malignantly through his long recital. “Mebbe–”

“Yes, I was surprised!” retorted Creede angrily. “And I was like the man that received the gold-headed cane–I was pleased, too, if that’s what you’re drivin’ at. I don’t doubt you and Jasp sent that dam’ Greaser in there to sheep us out, and if he got killed you’ve got yourself to thank for it. He had no business in there, in the first place, and in the second place, I gave you fair warnin’ to keep ’im out.”

“You hear that, Mr. Officer?” cried the sheepman. “He admits making threats against the deceased; he–”

“Just a moment, just a moment, Mr. Swope,” interposed the deputy sheriff pacifically. “Did you have any words with this Juan Alvarez, Mr. Creede, when you saw him in the cañon? Any trouble of any kind?”

“No, we didn’t have what you might call trouble–that is, nothin’ serious.”

“Well, just what words passed between you? This gentleman here is the coroner; we’ve got the body down at the ranch house, and we may want to suppeenie you for the inquest.”

“Glad to meet you, sir,” said Creede politely. “Well, all they was to it was this: when I rode in there and see that dam’ Mexican standin’ up on a ledge with his eyes bulgin’ out, I says, ‘What in hell–I didn’t know you was here!’ And he says, ‘Oh, that’s all right.’”

“Jest listen to the son-of-a-gun lie!” yelled Jim Swope, beside himself with rage. “Listen to him! He said that was all right, did he? Three thousand head of sheep stompeded–”