The Texican

"Why, what d' you mean?" demanded the cowman, leaving off his blustering and coming nearer.

"Well, if they throw me in I'll tell all I know," replied Pecos. "That's all. They may soak me for the Monkey-wrenches, but I'll sure git you on them Wine-glasses, so you better not try any funny business. What I'm lookin' for now is travellin' expenses – I'm not so stuck on this country that I couldn't be induced to leave it!"

"No-o," sneered the cowman, "I don't reckon you are. They ain't a man between Tonto and the Gila that don't know you for a rustler now. More 'n that, you've defied the officers of the law. No, Mr. Dalhart," he said, a cold glint coming into his eye, "I won't give you a dam' cent for your burnt-over cattle and if you take my advice you'll hit the high places for New Mexico."

"Well, I won't take it, then," replied Pecos, sullenly. "I'm goin' down to the Crossing to see Angy and – hey! there's the old boy now, flaggin' me from the store. Well, good-bye, old Cock Eye, don't worry about me none, I know my way around!" He favored his former employer with a flaunting gesture of farewell, leaned over to catch the forward jump of his horse, and went scampering down the slope and across the level, yipping playfully at every bound.

"Well, the blank-blanked fool!" exclaimed Crittenden, slapping his leg viciously with his quirt at this sudden wrecking of his hopes. "Well, dam' 'im, for a proper eejit!" He ground his teeth in vexation. "W'y, the crazy dum-head!" he groaned, as the cloud of dust receded. "Boone Morgan is shore to come back to the Crossing to-night and catch 'im in the store! Him and that booze-fightin' Angy – I got to git rid of him – but what in the world am I goin' to do?"

From his station on the edge of the mesa he could see the dust to the east where his cowboys were bringing the day's beef-cut down to the river and then, far up toward the northern pass, a couple of horsemen jogging down the Tonto trail. Boone Morgan rode a bay horse, and one of these was solid color, but the other rode an animal that showed a patch of white – looked kind of familiar, too. He watched them until they showed up clear against a clay-bank and then, making sure that the man on the bay was Morgan, he spurred across the flat to the store. Whatever happened, he must be sure to get Pecos out of town, for Upton had been talking Wine-glass to Morgan, and they might summon him for a witness.

There was a sound of clanking glasses inside the door as Crittenden rode up, and the voice of Angevine Thorne, flamboyantly proclaiming a toast.

"Then here's to the revolution," he ended up, "and a pleasant journey to you, Cumrad, wherever you go!"

They drank, and Crit, sitting outside on his horse, slapped his thigh and laughed silently. "A pleasant journey," eh? Well, let it go at that and he would put up the whiskey.

"You'll be sure and write me often," continued Angy, caressingly, "and I'll send your Voice of Reason to you, so you can keep up with the times."

"All right, Pardner," answered Pecos, "but say, give Marcelina my best and tell her I'll be back in the spring. Tell 'er something real nice for me, Angy, will you? Aw, to hell with the cows; it'll be her I come back for! Gittin' a little too warm for me right now, but I'll be here when she comes home in the spring. Well, let's take another drink to the sweetest little girl that ever lived and then I'll be on my way!" The glasses clicked again and as Angy began another peroration Old Crit pulled his horse around with an oath and started up the road. So that was why he had been turned down by Marcelina – Pecos was making love to her while he was gone! And he'd be back in the springtime, eh? Well, not if there was room in the county jail and Boone Morgan would take him down! Hot with his new-made scheme for revenge he spurred his horse to a gallop and was just swinging around the first turn in the trail when he fetched up face to face with Morgan and John Upton!

The world is full of hatred in a thousand forms but there is none more bitter than that between two men who have seen a former friendship turn to gall and wormwood. So bitter was the enmity between Upton and Old Crit that it needed but the time and occasion to break out into a war. Short, freckle-faced, and red-headed, with a week's growth of stubby beard and a clear green eye, John Upton was not a man that one would pick for an enemy, and the single swift move that he made toward his pistol expressed his general sentiments plainer than any words. As for Crittenden, his emotions were too badly mixed to lead to action, but the one-eyed glare which he conferred upon his cow-stealing rival convinced Boone Morgan at a glance that Old Crit was dangerous.

"I'd like to have a word with you, Mr. Crittenden," he said, taking command on the instant, "and since Mr. Upton is interested in this matter I have asked him to come along down. We won't discuss the business I have in hand until we get to town, but now that I've got you two gentlemen together I'd like to ask you to be a little more careful about your branding. My deputies reported to me that on the last round-up calves were found bearing a different iron from their mothers and that mavericks were branded on sight, anywhere on the open range. The law provides, as you know, that no cow-brute can be branded anywhere except in a corral or at a round-up and no man has the right to brand any maverick, orejano, leppy, or sleeper except in the presence and with the consent of witnesses. There have been certain irregularities up here in the past, as is to be expected in a new country, but I want to tell you right now that in the future I'm going to hold you cowmen to the law. I was elected and sworn in to uphold the peace and dignity of Geronimo County, so if you have any little feuds or differences to work off, I'll thank you to do it outside my jurisdiction."

He paused, and as they rode down the broad trail that merged into Verde's main street the rival cattle kings exchanged malignant glances behind his broad and soldierly back. But the sheriff's eyes were to the fore and at sight of Pecos Dalhart's horse tied to the ground in front of the store he chuckled to himself.

"Well, well," he said, reaching down into his inside vest pocket, "I'm just in time to deliver these papers – or am I mistaken in thinking that that hoss yonder belongs to Mr. Dalhart?" He glanced across at Crittenden, who shrugged his shoulders and scowled. "Quite correct, eh? Well, then, if you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment I'll go in and see Mr. Dalhart."

He swung down from his horse with military precision and strode toward the door, carrying a bulky official envelope in his left hand and a cigar stump in his right, but just as he crossed the threshold Pecos Dalhart, startled by his voice, dodged out the back way and ran around the store. It was a break for liberty with him and he took no thought of the cost. Three seconds after the sheriff entered the doorway he came tearing around the corner, heading for his horse. At sight of Upton and Old Crit he paused and reached for his gun – for one tense moment they glared at each other – then, flinging himself into the saddle and hugging his horse's neck, Pecos went spurring away down the trail, reckless of everything but the one main chance of escape.

"Hey! Wait a minute!" roared Boone Morgan, dashing out the doorway and waving his envelope. "Come back heah, you pore dam' fool! Well, don't that beat the devil?" he inquired, turning to Crit and Upton. "I didn't have no warrant for him! No! I jest wanted – " he paused and, noticing the wolfish eagerness with which the cowmen awaited his final words, he suddenly changed his mind. "Well, what's the difference," he grumbled, tucking the big envelope back into his pocket, "he'll keep." He followed the cloud of dust that stood for Pecos Dalhart until it tore up over the rim of the mesa and disappeared, and a deep and subterranean rumbling in his chest paid tribute to the joke. There was something like a thousand dollars in that big official envelope – the balance of the Monkey-wrench tax sale – and all he wanted of Pecos was his written receipt for the money.

CHAPTER XI

THE CATTLE WAR

WHEN Pecos Dalhart, flying from his own evil conscience, went stampeding out into the wilderness, Isaac Crittenden and John Upton gazed after him with but a single thought – who would get his cattle? With Pecos out of the way, Crittenden saw a clear field ahead of him in the Lost Dog country and he joined Morgan in a throaty laugh, but Upton viewed his mad flight with disappointment and chagrin.

"Well, laugh then, you robber," he snarled, turning angrily on Crit, "I s'pose it tickles you to death to see that dam' cow-thief hit the pike – he might talk and git you into trouble. Say, Mr. Morgan," he protested, "ain't you takin' quite a responsibility onto yourself to let that man git away? – you know what we came down here for," he added, jerking his head toward Crit.

"Well, what did you come down here for, you little sawed-off runt?" demanded Crittenden, belligerently. "Hollerin' around, as usual, I s'pose!"

"I come down here to find out about them U cows of mine that you branded into a Wine-glass," retorted Upton, "but you and the sheriff here seem to have some kind of an understandin', lettin' the principal witness git away, and all that, so I reckon I better pull."

"Not before you eat them words, Mr. Upton," cut in the sheriff, fiercely. "I don't let no man make insinuations like that about me without callin' on him to retract – and I ain't never been disappointed yet!"

"Well, you jest let that Dalhart feller git away, didn't you?" demanded Upton, defiantly.

"I certainly did, sir," replied Boone Morgan, with ponderous dignity, "and when you git ready to start I shall accord you the same courtesy! There are no papers out for Mr. Dalhart and unless I detect him in some breach of law or receive a warrant for his arrest I've got no right to lay a finger on him. Now you know very well I've got no understanding with Crittenden, and I'm goin' to ask you to apologize for that statement you jest made."

"Well, I didn't mean no offence," protested the cowman, meekly, "and I apologize, all right – but at the same time it don't seem right to let that dam' cattle-rustler git away like that."

"No," responded the sheriff, with heavy sarcasm, "it don't. But bein' as he's gone you cowmen will have a chance to show what good citizens you are. I don't know jest what Mr. Dalhart's plans are, but when it comes around to the spring round-up I want to find every one of them Monkey-wrench cattle thar! He's paid his taxes in full and he's entitled to the full protection of the law, so long as he keeps the peace. You hear me talking, now; this brand-burnin' has gone far enough."

"But how about them U cows I lost?" put in Upton, pertinently. "Do Crit and this Pecos Dalhart git to keep all the critters they stole?"

"Stole, nothin'!" retorted Crittenden hotly. "How about them J I C cows of yourn?"

"You make a business of burnin' my brand!" rejoined Upton, shaking his finger threateningly. "You hire men to rob me and rake my whole upper range! I'm losin' more now than I did when the Apaches was in the hills; but I'll git even with you yet, you dam', humped-back old cow-thief!"

"Well, I see you gentlemen are goin' to keep on quarrellin'," observed Boone Morgan, picking up his bridle-rein, "and I might as well go on about my business. You got no more respect for the law, either one of you, than a common cattle-rustler, and I'm goin' to quit wrastlin' with you, right now. But you can cut this out and paste it in your hats – the first man that steals a cow in Geronimo County, and I catch 'im, is goin' to git the limit. Angy, gimme a bag of crackers and some of that jerked beef – I'm tired of hearin' this yawp."

So genuine was his disgust that Boone Morgan plunged through the cold river at nightfall and took the long trail for Geronimo, but the memory of his last words lingered in the minds of the warring cowmen for many a day, and though Pecos Dalhart was known to be over in New Mexico somewhere his Monkey-wrench herd remained safe in Lost Dog Cañon. As for the sheriff, having abandoned all idea of peace, he transacted his business in the mountains by deputy and sat quiet in Geronimo, waiting only for the first break to come back and make his word good. It had a wonderful restraining influence upon Crit and Upton, this prolonged and ominous absence, but as spring came on and the new crop of calves began to gambol on the mesas, the old spirit of grab rose up and overleapt the dull fear of last winter. Once more both Crit and Upton began to take on nervy cowboys – men who by their boasts or by their silence let it be known that they were game – and the cow-camp at Verde Crossing sheltered gun-men from all over the Far West. From the Tonto country there came rumors that Upton was bringing in bad men from Pleasant Valley, fresh from the bloody combats where the Grahams and Tewkesburys met. Bill Todhunter rode in when the round-up was well begun and looked the outfits over with grave unconcern, dropping out of sight on the trail and turning up at Geronimo two days later to report that all was well in Lost Dog Cañon. There were no deputy sheriffs in disguise on this round-up – both Crittenden and Upton satisfied themselves of that early in the day – and as the work went on and the lust for spoils grew with each branded maverick, the war spirit crept in and grew apace.

Ike Crittenden was the first to renew the feud – he came across an old ICU cow and branded her to ICU2. One of Upton's range riders picked her up after the branding and Upton promptly altered the brand on an IC cow, to break even. Then came the grand coup for which Crittenden had long been preparing. On the morning after Upton took his revenge, the whole IC outfit – forty cowboys and every man armed – went galloping over the Carrizo trail to Lost Dog Cañon. By noon they had gathered every animal in the valley; at night they camped with the herd at Carrizo Springs; and the next day every Monkey-wrench cow was safe in the Verde corrals with her Monkey-wrench burnt to a Spectacle () and her ears chopped down to her head. The ear-marks having been altered once already there was nothing for it but to make the new marks deeper and more inclusive – swallow-fork the left and crop the right. The swallow-fork was deep in the left, to take in an underbit that Pecos had cut, and Old Funny-face, who had returned home with the herd, lost the fancy Mexican window and anzuelo in her right ear altogether, along with all other signs of a former ownership. But even then the artistic knife-work of José Garcia was not allowed to perish from the earth. As Funny-face rose up from this last indignity and menaced the perspiring cowboys with her horns, the little Garcia children, hanging over the fence, dashed out through the dust and turmoil and rescued the close-cropped ears. Already, in spite of threats and admonitions, they had gathered quite a collection of variegated crops and swallow-forks to serve as play-cows in their toy corral; but when Marcelina came upon this last bloody evidence of the despite that was shown her lover she snatched the ears away and hid them in the thatched roof. Old Funny-face was Pecos's cow – she knew that as well as she knew the red-spotted, dun-colored ears that had adorned her speckled head. Pecos had bought Funny-face and her calf from her father for thirty dollars, to keep around his camp to milk, and now there was nothing to show for his ownership but the ears. But perhaps Pecos would be glad even for them, if ever he came back. In a letter to Babe he had said he was coming back, now that the sheriff was his friend. But Crit – ha-ah, Ol' Creet – he was stealing all of Pecos's cows, and the sheriff did not care! She stood by a post of the brush ramada and scowled at him as he raged about on his horse, cursing and shouting and waving his arms and hurrying his men along. He was a bad man – ahr, how she hated him – and now he was such a thief!

As the quick work of branding was brought to an end and the herd driven pell-mell down the river and into the heavy willows, the Boss of Verde Crossing sent half of his cowboys down to guard them and began to clean up the corral. First he put out the fires and quenched the hot running-irons and rings; then he removed the branding outfit, dug a deep hole in the river-bed and set his men to work in details, gathering up the clipped ears and swallow-forks from the trampled dirt of the corral. A single ear left lying would be a record of his theft, and when one of the Garcia niños, by an ill-timed dash for more ears, set Crit upon the trail of their play cows he rushed in and ravished all their toy corrals, even though Marcelina stood by the ramada and curled her lip at his haste.

"You will rob even the cheeldren, Meester Creet!" she remarked, as he dumped them all into his hat.

"Mind your own business!" he answered, sharply, and scuttled away like a crab, bearing his plunder with him.

"Ah, you ba-ad man!" observed Marcelina, making faces at his bent back. "I hope Paycos come back and keel you!"

But Isaac Crittenden was not worrying about any such small fry as Pecos Dalhart. Boone Morgan and John Upton were the men he had on his mind and it was about time for Upton to show up. A solitary horseman, high up on the shoulder of the peaks, had watched their departure from Carrizo Springs that morning, and if Upton had not known before he certainly knew very well now that the Monkey-wrench brand was no more. As for Boone Morgan – well, there was an IC cow in the corral, altered by John Upton to JIC, and it was just as big a crime to steal one cow as it was to steal a hundred. One thing was certain, no man from the IC outfit would call on the sheriff for aid; and if Upton was the red-headed terror that he claimed to be, the matter would be settled out of court.

In this particular incident Mr. Crittenden was more than right. The matter was already adjudicated by range law, and entirely to the satisfaction of Upton. For while Crit was hustling his Monkey-wrench herd over to Verde Crossing, the U outfit – also forty strong – had hopped over the shoulder of the Peaks, rounded up every Wine-glass cow that they could gather, and were at that moment busily engaged at Carrizo Springs in altering them to a Circle-cross (). It made a very pretty brand too; but after studying on it for a while and recalling his past experience with Crit, Upton decided to play safe and make it a double cross (). No more ICU2's for John Upton – he had been there once – and Circle Double-cross it went on every animal they marked. The next morning, with every cow and calf well in hand, the U boys began to drift the Circle Double-cross herd back over the mountain, and just as Crittenden was marshalling his fighting men to win back the ravished stock there was a clatter of hoofs down at the Crossing and Boone Morgan rode into camp, followed by a posse of deputies.

"Well, what's the trouble up here, Mr. Crittenden?" he inquired, glancing with stern displeasure at the armed men who gathered about their chief. "Is there an Injun uprisin' or have you gone on the warpath yourse'f?"

"You jest come down to my corral," spat back Crittenden, "and I'll show you what's the matter! That low-lived John Upton has been burnin' my brand!" He led the way at a gallop to where the IC cow that had been altered to JIC was tied by the horns to a post. "You see that brand?" he inquired, "well, that was made three days ago by John Upton – you can see the J is still raw."

"Umph!" grunted the sheriff, after a careful scrutiny of the brand, "did anybody see him do it?"

"No, but he done it, all right!"

"Would you swear to it? Can you prove it? How do you know somebody else didn't do it?"

"No, I can't swear to it – and I can't prove it, neither – but one of my boys picked that cow up three days ago right in the track of Upton's outfit, and, knowin' the little whelp as I do, I don't need no lawyer's testimony to make a case!"

"Well, I do," replied Boone Morgan, resolutely, "and I don't want this to go any further until I get the facts! What you goin' to do with all those two-gun cowboys?"

"I'm goin' to take over the mesa after John Upton and his dam', cow-stealin' outfit," cried Crittenden, vehemently, "and if you're lookin' for legal evidence, he went out of Carrizo Springs this mornin' drivin' nigh onto two hundred head of Wine-glass cows, as one of my boys jest told me. Law, nothin'!" shouted the cowman, recklessly. "I ain't goin' to sit around here, twiddlin' my fingers, and waitin' for papers and evidence! What I want is action!"

"Well, you'll get it, all right," replied Morgan, "and dam' quick, too, if you think you can run it over me! I want you to understand, Mr. Crittenden, that I am the sheriff of this county, and the first break you make to go after John Upton I'll send you down to Geronimo with the nippers on, to answer for resisting an officer! Now as for these men of yours, I give every one of 'em notice, here and now, that I want this racket to stop, and the first man that goes up against me will wind up in the county jail. Bill," he continued, turning to his trusted deputy, "I leave you in charge of this layout while I go after John Upton. Keep the whole outfit in camp until I come back, if you have to kill 'em. I've got enough of this."

He rode down to the store with his posse, bought a feed of grain for his horses and provisions for his men, and half an hour afterward went galloping out the Carrizo trail, his keen eye scanning the distant ridges and reading the desert signs like a book. It did not take an Indian trailer to interpret the deep-trampled record of that path. Two days before a big herd of cows and calves had come into Verde Crossing from Carrizo, driven by many shod horses and hustled along in a hurry. As he approached Carrizo fresher tracks cut across the old signs, the tracks of cows and calves fleeing from scampering ponies, and at the Springs the fresh signs closed in and trampled out all evidence of the old drive. It was the last page of the story, written indelibly in the sandy earth. On the open parada ground the cropped ears had all been gathered, but the bruised bushes, the blood and signs of struggle told the plain story of Upton's branding, just as the vacancy of the landscape and the long trail leading to the north spelled the material facts of the drama. The Wine-glass cows that used to be about Carrizo Springs were gone – John Upton had driven them north. But why? The answer lay beyond Carrizo Springs, where the white trail leads down from Lost Dog Cañon. There the trampled tracks that led into Verde Crossing stood out plain again in the dust – three days old and pressed on by hurrying horses. If the law could accept the record of Nature's outspread book Crit and Upton were condemned already, the one for stealing Pecos Dalhart's herd, the other for branding over the Wine-glasses. But the law demands more than that. It demands evidence that a lawyer can read; the sworn testimony of honest and unprejudiced witnesses; the identification of men, brands, and cows, proved beyond a doubt; and all this in a country where all cows look alike, all witnesses are partisans, and an honest man is the noblest work of God. Boone Morgan took up the long trail to the north with fire in his eye, and he rode furiously, as was his duty, but deep down in his heart he knew he was after the wrong man, and would not even get him.