Hidden Water

“Yes,” roared Creede, “he said: ‘That’s all right.’ And what’s more, there was another Mexican there that heard him! Now how about it, officer; how much have I got to take off this dam’ sheep puller before I git the right to talk back? Is he the judge and jury in this matter, or is he just a plain buttinsky?”

“I’ll have to ask you gentlemen to key down a little,” replied the deputy noncommittally, “and let’s get through with this as soon as possible. Now, Mr. Creede, you seem to be willing to talk about this matter. I understand that there was some shots fired at the time you speak of.”

“Sure thing,” replied Creede. “Juan took a couple of shots at me as I was goin’ down the cañon. He looked so dam’ funny, sittin’ up on that ledge like a monkey-faced owl, that I couldn’t help laughin’, and of course it riled him some. But that’s all right–I wouldn’t hold it up against a dead man.”

The deputy sheriff laughed in spite of himself, and the coroner chuckled, too. The death of a Mexican sheep-herder was not a very sombre matter to gentlemen of their profession.

“I suppose you were armed?” inquired the coroner casually.

“I had my six-shooter in my shaps, all right.”

“Ah, is that the gun? What calibre is it?”

“A forty-five.”

The officers of the law glanced at each other knowingly, and the deputy turned back toward the ranch.

“The deceased was shot with a thirty-thirty,” observed the coroner briefly, and there the matter was dropped.

“Umm, a thirty-thirty,” muttered Creede, “now who in–” He paused and nodded his head, and a look of infinite cunning came into his face as he glanced over his shoulder at the retreating posse.

“Bill Johnson!” he said, and then he laughed–but it was not a pleasant laugh.

CHAPTER XXII

PORTENTS OF WAR

There were signs of impending war on Bronco Mesa. As God sent the rain and the flowers and grass sprang up they grappled with each other like murderers, twining root about root for the water, fighting upward for the light–and when it was over the strongest had won. Every tree and plant on that broad range was barbed and fanged against assault; every creature that could not flee was armed for its own defence; it was a land of war, where the strongest always won. What need was there for words? Juan Alvarez was dead, shot from some distant peak while rounding up his sheep–and his sheep, too, were dead.

They buried the boss herder under a pile of rocks on Lookout Point and planted a cross above him, not for its Christian significance, nor yet because Juan was a good Catholic, but for the Mexicans to look at in the Spring, when the sheep should come to cross. Jim Swope attended to this himself, after the coroner had given over the body, and for a parting word he cursed Jeff Creede.

Then for a day the world took notice of their struggle–the great outside world that had left them to fight it out. Three thousand head of sheep had been killed; mutton enough to feed a great city for a day had been destroyed–and all in a quarrel over public land. The word crept back to Washington, stripped to the bare facts–three thousand sheep and their herder killed by cattlemen on the proposed Salagua Reserve–and once more the question rose, Why was not that Salagua Reserve proclaimed? No one answered. There was another sheep and cattle war going on up in Wyoming, and the same question was being asked about other proposed reserves. But when Congress convened in December the facts began to sift out: there was a combination of railroad and lumber interests, big cattlemen, sheepmen, and “land-grabbers” that was “against any interference on the part of the Federal Government,” and “opposed to any change of existing laws and customs as to the grazing of live stock upon the public domain.” This anomalous organization was fighting, and for years had been fighting, the policy of the administration to create forest reserves and protect the public land; and, by alliances with other anti-administration forces in the East, had the President and his forester at their mercy. There would be no forestry legislation that Winter–so the newspapers said. But that made no difference to the Four Peaks country.

Only faint echoes of the battle at Washington reached the cowmen’s ears, and they no longer gave them any heed. For years they had been tolled along by false hopes; they had talked eagerly of Forest Rangers to draw two-mile circles around their poor ranches and protect them from the sheep; they had longed to lease the range, to pay grazing fees, anything for protection. But now they had struck the first blow for themselves, and behold, on the instant the sheep went round, the grass crept back onto the scarred mesa, the cattle grew fat on the range! Juan Alvarez, to be sure, was dead; but their hands were clean, let the sheepmen say what they would. What were a few sheep carcasses up on the high mesa? They only matched the cattle that had died off during the drought. When they met a sheep-herder now he gave them the trail.

Tucked away in a far corner of the Territory, without money, friends, or influence, there was nothing for it but to fight. All nature seemed conspiring to encourage them in their adventure–the Winter came on early, with heavy rains; the grass took root again among the barren rocks and when, in a belated rodéo, they gathered their beef steers, they received the highest selling price in years. All over Arizona, and in California, New Mexico, and Texas, the great drought had depleted the ranges; the world’s supply of beef had been cut down; feeders were scarce in the alfalfa fields of Moroni; fat cattle were called for from Kansas City to Los Angeles; and suddenly the despised cowmen of the Four Peaks saw before them the great vision which always hangs at the end of the rainbow in Arizona–a pot of gold, if the sheep went around. And what would make the sheep go around? Nothing but a thirty-thirty.

The price of mutton had gone up too, adding a third to the fortune of every sheepman; the ewes were lambing on the desert, bringing forth a hundred per cent or better, with twins–and every lamb must eat! To the hundred thousand sheep that had invaded Bronco Mesa there was added fifty thousand more, and they must all eat. It was this that the sheepmen had foreseen when they sent Juan Alvarez around to raid the upper range–not that they needed the feed then, but they would need it in the Spring, and need it bad. So they had tried to break the way and, failing, had sworn to come in arms. It was a fight for the grass, nothing less, and there was no law to stop it.

As the news of the trouble filtered out and crept into obscure corners of the daily press, Hardy received a long hortatory letter from Judge Ware; and, before he could answer it, another. To these he answered briefly that the situation could only be relieved by some form of Federal control; that, personally, his sympathies were with the cattlemen, but, in case the judge was dissatisfied with his services–But Judge Ware had learned wisdom from a past experience and at this point he turned the correspondence over to Lucy. Then in a sudden fit of exasperation he packed his grip and hastened across the continent to Washington, to ascertain for himself why the Salagua Forest Reserve was not proclaimed. As for Lucy, her letters were as carefully considered as ever–she wrote of everything except the sheep and Kitty Bonnair. Not since she went away had she mentioned Kitty, nor had Hardy ever inquired about her. In idle moments he sometimes wondered what had been in that unread letter which he had burned with Creede’s, but he never wrote in answer, and his heart seemed still and dead. For years the thought of Kitty Bonnair had haunted him, rising up in the long silence of the desert; in the rush and hurry of the round-up the vision of her supple form, the laughter of her eyes, the succession of her moods, had danced before his eyes in changing pictures, summoned up from the cherished past; but now his mind was filled with other things. Somewhere in the struggle against sheep and the drought he had lost her, as a man loses a keep-sake which he has carried so long against his heart that its absence is as unnoticed as its presence, and he never knows himself the poorer. After the drought had come the sheep, the stampede, fierce quarrels with the Swopes, threats and counter-threats–and then the preparations for war. The memory of the past faded away and another thought now haunted his mind, though he never spoke it–when the time came, would he fight, or would he stay with Lucy and let Jeff go out alone? It was a question never answered, but every day he rode out without his gun, and Creede took that for a sign.

As the Rio Salagua, swollen with winter rains, rose up like a writhing yellow serpent and cast itself athwart the land, it drew a line from east to west which neither sheep nor cattle could cross, and the cowmen who had lingered about Hidden Water rode gayly back to their distant ranches, leaving the peaceful Dos S where Sallie Winship had hung her cherished lace curtains and Kitty Bonnair and Lucy Ware had made a home, almost a total wreck. Sheep, drought, and flood had passed over it in six months’ time; the pasture fence was down, the corrals were half dismantled, and the bunk-room looked like a deserted grading camp. For a week Creede and Hardy cleaned up and rebuilt, but every day, in spite of his partner’s efforts to divert his mind, Jeff grew more restless and uneasy. Then one lonely evening he went over to the corner where his money was buried and began to dig.

“What–the–hell–is the matter with this place?” he exclaimed, looking up from his work as if he expected the roof to drop. “Ever since Tommy died it gits on my nerves, bad.” He rooted out his tomato can and stuffed a roll of bills carelessly into his overalls pocket. “Got any mail to go out?” he inquired, coming back to the fire, and Hardy understood without more words that Jeff was going on another drunk.

“Why, yes,” he said, “I might write a letter to the boss. But how’re you going to get across the river–she’s running high now.”

“Oh, I’ll git across the river, all right,” grumbled Creede. “Born to be hung and ye can’t git drowned, as they say. Well, give the boss my best.” He paused, frowning gloomily into the fire. “Say,” he said, his voice breaking a little, “d’ye ever hear anything from Miss Bonnair?”

For a moment Hardy was silent. Then, reading what was in his partner’s heart, he answered gently:

“Not a word, Jeff.”

The big cowboy sighed and grinned cynically.

“That was a mighty bad case I had,” he observed philosophically. “But d’ye know what was the matter with me? Well, I never tumbled to it till afterward, but it was jest because she was like Sallie–talked like her and rode like her, straddle, that way. But I wanter tell you, boy,” he added mournfully, “Sal had a heart.”

He sank once more into sombre contemplation, grumbling as he nursed his wounds, and at last Hardy asked him a leading question about Sallie Winship.

“Did I ever hear from ’er?” repeated Creede, rousing up from his reverie. “No, and it ain’t no use to try. I wrote to her three times, but I never got no answer–I reckon the old lady held ’em out on her. She wouldn’t stand for no bow-legged cowpuncher–and ye can’t blame her none, the way old man Winship used to make her cook for them rodéo hands–but Sallie would’ve answered them letters if she’d got ’em.”

“But where were they living in St. Louis?” persisted Hardy. “Maybe you got the wrong address.”

“Nope, I got it straight–Saint Louie, Mo., jest the way you see it in these money-order catalogues.”

“But didn’t you give any street and number?” cried Hardy, aghast. “Why, for Heaven’s sake, Jeff, there are half a million people in St. Louis–she’d never get it in the world.”

“No?” inquired Creede apathetically. “Well, it don’t make no difference, then. I don’t amount to a dam’, anyhow–and this is no place for a woman–but, by God, Rufe, I do git awful lonely when I see you writin’ them letters to the boss. If I only had somebody that cared for me I’d prize up hell to make good. I’d do anything in God’s world–turn back them sheep or give up my six-shooter, jest as she said; but, nope, they’s no such luck for Jeff Creede–he couldn’t make a-winnin’ with a squaw.”

“Jeff,” said Hardy quietly, “how much would you give to get a letter from Sallie?”

“What d’ye mean?” demanded Creede, looking up quickly. Then, seeing the twinkle in his partner’s eye, he made a grab for his money. “My whole wad,” he cried, throwing down the roll. “What’s the deal?”

“All right,” answered Hardy, deliberately counting out the bills, “there’s the ante–a hundred dollars. The rest I hold back for that trip to St. Louis. This hundred goes to the Rinkerton Detective Agency, St. Louis, Missouri, along with a real nice letter that I’ll help you write; and the minute they deliver that letter into the hands of Miss Sallie Winship, formerly of Hidden Water, Arizona, and return an answer, there’s another hundred coming to ’em. Is it a go?”

“Pardner,” said Creede, rising up solemnly from his place, “I want to shake with you on that.”

The next morning, with a package of letters in the crown of his black hat, Jefferson Creede swam Bat Wings across the swift current of the Salagua, hanging onto his tail from behind, and without even stopping to pour the water out of his boots struck into the long trail for Bender.

One week passed, and then another, and at last he came back, wet and dripping from his tussle with the river, and cursing the very name of detectives.

“W’y, shucks!” he grumbled. “I bummed around in town there for two weeks, hatin’ myself and makin’ faces at a passel of ornery sheepmen, and what do I git for my trouble? ‘Dear Mister Creede, your letter of umpty-ump received. We have detailed Detective Moriarty on this case and will report later. Yours truly!’ That’s all–keep the change–we make a livin’ off of suckers–and they’s one born every minute. To hell with these detectives! Well, I never received nothin’ more and finally I jumped at a poor little bandy-legged sheep-herder, a cross between a gorilla and a Digger Injun–scared him to death. But I pulled my freight quick before we had any international complications. Don’t mention Mr. Allan Q. Rinkerton to me, boy, or I’ll throw a fit. Say,” he said, changing the subject abruptly, “how many hundred thousand sheep d’ye think I saw, comin’ up from Bender? Well, sir, they was sheep as far as the eye could see–millions of ’em–and they’ve got that plain et down to the original sand and cactus, already. W’y, boy, if we let them sheepmen in on us this Spring we’ll look like a watermelon patch after a nigger picnic; we’ll be cleaned like Pablo Moreno; they won’t be pickin’s for a billy goat! And Jim ’n’ Jasp have been ribbin’ their herders on scandalous. This little bandy-legged son-of-a-goat that I jumped at down in Bender actually had the nerve to say that I killed Juan Alvarez myself. Think of that, will ye, and me twenty miles away at the time! But I reckon if you took Jasp to pieces you’d find out he was mad over them three thousand wethers–value six dollars per–that I stompeded. The dastard! D’ye see how he keeps away from me? Well, I’m goin’ to call the rodéo right away and work that whole upper range, and when the river goes down you’ll find Jeff Creede right there with the goods if Jasp is lookin’ for trouble. Read them letters, boy, and tell me if I’m goin’ to have the old judge on my hands, too.”

According to the letters, he was; and the boss was also looking forward with pleasure to her visit in the Spring.

“Well, wouldn’t that jar you,” commented Creede, and then he laughed slyly. “Cheer up,” he said, “it might be worse–they’s nothin’ said about Kitty Bonnair.”

Sure enough–not a word about Kitty, and the year before Lucy had spoken about her in every letter! There was something mysterious about it, and sinister; they both felt it.

And when at last the wagon came in, bearing only Judge Ware and Lucy, somehow even Jeff’s sore heart was touched by a sense of loss. But while others might dissemble, Bill Lightfoot’s impulsive nature made no concealment of its chiefest thought.

“Where’s Miss Bunnair?” he demanded, as soon as Lucy Ware was free, and there was a sudden lull in the conversation roundabout as the cowboys listened for the answer.

“I’m sorry,” said Miss Ware, politely evasive, “but she wasn’t able to come with me.”

“She’ll be down bimeby, though, won’t she?” persisted Lightfoot; and when Lucy finally answered with a vague “Perhaps” he turned to the assembled cowboys with a triumphant grin. “Um, now, what’d I tell you!” he said; and one and all they scowled and stabbed him with their eyes.

The rodéo camp was already established beneath the big mesquite, and while three or four careless cowmen held the day herd over against the mesa the rest of the outfit was busy raking The Rolls. It was all very different from what Judge Ware and Lucy had anticipated. There was no sign of excitement in their midst, no ostentatious display of arms or posting of patrols, and what surprised the judge most of all was that in their friendly gatherings around the fire there was no one, save Hardy, who would argue against the sheep.