by Stewart Edward White
ONE. THE OLE
CHAPTER TWO. THE
CHAPTER SEVEN. A
CORNER IN HORSES
THE OLD TIMER
CHAPTER TEN. THE
THE SAILOR WITH
THE MURDER ON
PART II. THE TWO
CHAPTER ONE. THE
CHAPTER TWO. THE
MAN WITH NERVE
PART III. THE
CHAPTER ONE. THE
PASSING OF THE
CHAPTER TWO. THE
THE PAPER A YEAR
CHAPTER SIX. THE
THE LONG TRAIL
CHAPTER TEN. THE
IN THE ARROYO
CHAPTER ONE. THE OLE VIRGINIA
The ring around the sun had thickened all day long, and the
turquoise blue of the Arizona sky had filmed. Storms in the dry
countries are infrequent, but heavy; and this surely meant storm.
We had ridden since sun-up over broad mesas, down and out of deep
canons, along the base of the mountain in the wildest parts of the
territory. The cattle were winding leisurely toward the high country;
the jack rabbits had disappeared; the quail lacked; we did not see a
single antelope in the open.
"It's a case of hole up," the Cattleman ventured his opinion. "I
have a ranch over in the Double R. Charley and Windy Bill hold it
down. We'll tackle it. What do you think?"
The four cowboys agreed. We dropped into a low, broad
watercourse, ascended its bed to big cottonwoods and flowing water,
followed it into box canons between rim-rock carved fantastically and
painted like a Moorish facade, until at last in a widening below a
rounded hill, we came upon an adobe house, a fruit tree, and a round
corral. This was the Double R.
Charley and Windy Bill welcomed us with soda biscuits. We turned
our horses out, spread our beds on the floor, filled our pipes, and
squatted on our heels. Various dogs of various breeds investigated
us. It was very pleasant, and we did not mind the ring around the
"Somebody else coming," announced the Cattleman finally.
"Uncle Jim," said Charley, after a glance.
A hawk-faced old man with a long white beard and long white hair
rode out from the cottonwoods. He had on a battered broad hat
abnormally high of crown, carried across his saddle a heavy "eight
square" rifle, and was followed by a half-dozen lolloping hounds.
The largest and fiercest of the latter, catching sight of our
group, launched himself with lightning rapidity at the biggest of the
ranch dogs, promptly nailed that canine by the back of the neck, shook
him violently a score of times, flung him aside, and pounced on the
next. During the ensuing few moments that hound was the busiest thing
in the West. He satisfactorily whipped four dogs, pursued two cats up
a tree, upset the Dutch oven and the rest of the soda biscuits,
stampeded the horses, and raised a cloud of dust adequate to represent
the smoke of battle. We others were too paralysed to move. Uncle Jim
sat placidly on his white horse, his thin knees bent to the ox-bow
stirrups, smoking. In ten seconds the trouble was over, principally
because there was no more trouble to make. The hound returned
leisurely, licking from his chops the hair of his victims. Uncle Jim
shook his head. "Trailer," said he sadly, "is a little severe." We
greed heartily, and turned in to welcome Uncle Jim with a fresh batch
of soda biscuits. The old man was ne of the typical"long hairs." He
had come to the Galiuro Mountains in '69, and since '69 he had
remained in the Galiuro Mountains, spite of man or the devil. At
present he possessed some hundreds of cattle, which he was reputed to
water, in a dry season, from an ordinary dishpan. In times past he
had prospected. That evening, the severe Trailer having dropped to
slumber, he held forth on big-game hunting and dogs, quartz claims and
Apaches. "Did you ever have any very close calls?" I asked.
He ruminated a few moments, refilled his pipe with some awful
tobacco, and told the following experience:
In the time of Geronimo I was living just about where I do now;
and that was just about in line with the raiding. You see, Geronimo,
and Ju , and old Loco used to pile out of the reservation at Camp
Apache, raid south to the line, slip over into Mexico when the
soldiers got too promiscuous, and raid there until they got ready to
come back. Then there was always a big medicine talk. Says Geronimo:
 Pronounced "Hoo."
"I am tired of the warpath. I will come back from Mexico with all
my warriors, if you will escort me with soldiers and protect my
people." "All right," says the General, being only too glad to get him
back at all. So, then, in ten minutes there wouldn't be a buck in
camp, but next morning they shows up again, each with about fifty head
"Where'd you get those hosses?" asks the General, suspicious.
"Had 'em pastured in the hills," answers Geronimo.
"I can't take all those hosses with me; I believe they're stolen!"
says the General.
"My people cannot go without their hosses," says Geronimo.
So, across the line they goes, and back to the reservation. In
about a week there's fifty-two frantic Greasers wanting to know
where's their hosses. The army is nothing but an importer of stolen
stock, and knows it, and can't help it.
Well, as I says, I'm between Camp Apache and the Mexican line, so
that every raiding party goes right on past me. The point is that
I'm a thousand feet or so above the valley, and the renegades is in
such a devil of a hurry about that time that they never stop to climb
up and collect me. Often I've watched them trailing down the valley
in a cloud of dust. Then, in a day or two, a squad of soldiers would
come up, and camp at my spring for a while. They used to send
soldiers to guard every water hole in the country so the renegades
couldn't get water. After a while, from not being bothered none, I
got thinking I wasn't worth while with them.
Me and Johnny Hooper were pecking away at the old Virginia mine
then. We'd got down about sixty feet, all timbered, and was thinking
of cross-cutting. One day Johnny went to town, and that same day I
got in a hurry and left my gun at camp.
I worked all the morning down at the bottom of the shaft, and when
I see by the sun it was getting along towards noon, I put in three
good shots, tamped 'em down, lit the fusees, and started to climb out.
It ain't noways pleasant to light a fuse in a shaft, and then have to
climb out a fifty-foot ladder, with it burning behind you. I never
did get used to it. You keep thinking, "Now suppose there's a flaw in
that fuse, or something, and she goes off in six seconds instead of
two minutes? where'll you be then?" It would give you a good boost
towards your home on high, anyway.
So I climbed fast, and stuck my head out the top without
looking--and then I froze solid enough. There, about fifty feet
away, climbing up the hill on mighty tired hosses, was a dozen of the
ugliest Chiricahuas you ever don't want to meet, and in addition a
Mexican renegade named Maria, who was worse than any of 'em. I see at
once their bosses was tired out, and they had a notion of camping at
my water hole, not knowing nothing about the Ole Virginia mine.
For two bits I'd have let go all holts and dropped backwards,
trusting to my thick head for easy lighting. Then I heard a little
fizz and sputter from below. At that my hair riz right up so I could
feel the breeze blow under my bat. For about six seconds I stood
there like an imbecile, grinning amiably. Then one of the Chiricahuas
made a sort of grunt, and I sabed that they'd seen the original
exhibit your Uncle Jim was making of himself.
Then that fuse gave another sputter and one of the Apaches said
"Un dah." That means "white man." It was harder to turn my head
than if I'd had a stiff neck; but I managed to do it, and I see that
my ore dump wasn't more than ten foot away. I mighty near overjumped
it; and the next I knew I was on one side of it and those Apaches on
the other. Probably I flew; leastways I don't seem to remember
That didn't seem to do me much good. The renegades were grinning
and laughing to think how easy a thing they had; and I couldn't
rightly think up any arguments against that notion--at least from
their standpoint. They were chattering away to each other in Mexican
for the benefit of Maria. Oh, they had me all distributed, down to my
suspender buttons! And me squatting behind that ore dump about as
formidable as a brush rabbit! Then, all at once, one of my shots went
off down in the shaft.
"Boom!" says she, plenty big; and a slather of rock, and stones
come out of the mouth, and began to dump down promiscuous on the
scenery. I got one little one in the shoulder-blade, and found time
to wish my ore dump had a roof. But those renegades caught it square
in the thick of trouble. One got knocked out entirely for a minute,
by a nice piece of country rock in the head.
"Otra vez!" yells I, which means "again."
"Boom!" goes the Ole Virginia prompt as an answer.
I put in my time dodging, but when I gets a chance to look, the
Apaches has all got to cover, and is looking scared.
"Otra vez!" yells I again.
"Boom!" says the Ole Virginia.
This was the biggest shot of the lot, and she surely cut loose. I
ought to have been half-way up the bill watching things from a safe
distance, but I wasn't. Lucky for me the shaft was a little on the
drift, so she didn't quite shoot my way. But she distributed about a
ton over those renegades. They sort of half got to their feet
"Otra vez!" yells I once more, as bold as if I could keep her
shooting all day.
It was just a cold, raw blazer; and if it didn't go through I
could see me as an Apache parlour ornament. But it did. Those
Chiricahuas give one yell and skipped. It was surely a funny sight,
after they got aboard their war ponies, to see them trying to dig out
on horses too tired to trot.
I didn't stop to get all the laughs, though. In fact, I give one
jump off that ledge, and I lit a-running. A quarter-hoss couldn't
have beat me to that shack. There I grabbed old Meat-in-the-pot and
made a climb for the tall country, aiming to wait around until dark,
and then to pull out for Benson. Johnny Hooper wasn't expected till
next day, which was lucky. From where I lay I could see the Apaches
camped out beyond my draw, and I didn't doubt they'd visited the
place. Along about sunset they all left their camp, and went into the
draw, so there, I thinks, I sees a good chance to make a start before
dark. I dropped down from the mesa, skirted the butte, and angled
down across the country. After I'd gone a half mile from the cliffs,
I ran across Johnny Hooper's fresh trail headed towards camp!
My heart jumped right up into my mouth at that. Here was poor old
Johnny, a day too early, with a pack-mule of grub, walking innocent
as a yearling, right into the bands of those hostiles. The trail
looked pretty fresh, and Benson's a good long day with a pack animal,
so I thought perhaps I might catch him before he runs into trouble.
So I ran back on the trail as fast as I could make it. The sun was
down by now, and it was getting dusk.
I didn't overtake him, and when I got to the top of the canon I
crawled along very cautious and took a look. Of course, I expected
to see everything up in smoke, but I nearly got up and yelled when I
see everything all right, and old Sukey, the pack-mule, and Johnny's
hoss hitched up as peaceful as babies to the corral.
"THAT'S all right!" thinks I, "they're back in their camp, and
haven't discovered Johnny yet. I'll snail him out of there."
So I ran down the hill and into the shack. Johnny sat in his
chair--what there was of him. He must have got in about two hours
before sundown, for they'd had lots of time to put in on him. That's
the reason they'd stayed so long up the draw. Poor old Johnny! I was
glad it was night, and he was dead. Apaches are the worst Injuns
there is for tortures. They cut off the bottoms of old man Wilkins's
feet, and stood him on an ant-hill--.
In a minute or so, though, my wits gets to work.
"Why ain't the shack burned?" I asks myself, "and why is the hoss
and the mule tied all so peaceful to the corral?"
It didn't take long for a man who knows Injins to answer THOSE
conundrums. The whole thing was a trap--for me--and I'd walked into
it, chuckle-headed as a prairie-dog!
With that I makes a run outside--by now it was dark--and listens.
Sure enough, I hears hosses. So I makes a rapid sneak back over the
Everything seemed all right till I got up to the rim-rock. Then I
heard more hosses--ahead of me. And when I looked back I could see
some Injuns already at the shack, and starting to build a fire
In a tight fix, a man is pretty apt to get scared till all hope is
gone. Then he is pretty apt to get cool and calm. That was my case.
I couldn't go ahead--there was those hosses coming along the trail.
I couldn't go back--there was those Injins building the fire. So I
skirmished around till I got a bright star right over the trail head,
and I trained old Meat-in-the- pot to bear on that star, and I made up
my mind that when the star was darkened I'd turn loose. So I lay
there a while listening. By and by the star was blotted out, and I
cut loose, and old Meat-in-the-pot missed fire--she never did it
before nor since; I think that cartridge--
Well, I don't know where the Injins came from, but it seemed as if
the hammer had hardly clicked before three or four of them bad piled
on me. I put up the best fight I could, for I wasn't figuring to be
caught alive, and this miss-fire deal had fooled me all along the
line. They surely had a lively time. I expected every minute to feel
a knife in my back, but when I didn't get it then I knew they wanted
to bring me in alive, and that made me fight harder. First and last,
we rolled and plunged all the way from the rim-rock down to the
canon-bed. Then one of the Injins sung out:
And I thought of that renegade Mexican, and what I'd heard bout
him, and that made me fight harder yet.
But after we'd fought down to the canon-bed, and had lost most of
our skin, a half-dozen more fell on me, and in less than no time they
had me tied. Then they picked me up and carried me over to where
they'd built a big fire by the corral."
Uncle Jim stopped with an air of finality, and began lazily to
refill his pipe. From the open mud fireplace he picked a coal.
Outside, the rain, faithful to the prophecy of the wide-ringed sun,
beat fitfully against the roof.
"That was the closest call I ever had," said he at last.
"But, Uncle Jim," we cried in a confused chorus, "how did you get
away? What did the Indians do to you? Who rescued you?"
Uncle Jim chuckled.
"The first man I saw sitting at that fire," said he, "was
Lieutenant Price of the United States Army, and by him was Tom Horn."
"'What's this?' he asks, and Horn talks to the Injins in Apache.
"'They say they've caught Maria,' translates Horn back again.
"'Maria-nothing!' says Lieutenant Price. 'This is Jim Fox. I know
"So they turned me loose. It seems the troops had driven off the
renegades an hour before."
"And the Indians who caught you, Uncle Jim? You said they were
"Were Tonto Basin Apaches," explained the old man--"government
scouts under Tom Horn."
CHAPTER TWO. THE EMIGRANTS
After the rain that had held us holed up at the Double R over one
day, we discussed what we should do next.
"The flats will be too boggy for riding, and anyway the cattle
will be in the high country," the Cattleman summed up the situation.
"We'd bog down the chuck-wagon if we tried to get back to the J. H.
But now after the rain the weather ought to be beautiful. What shall
"Was you ever in the Jackson country?" asked Uncle Jim. "It's the
wildest part of Arizona. It's a big country and rough, and no one
lives there, and there's lots of deer and mountain lions and bear.
Here's my dogs. We might have a hunt."
"Good!" said we.
We skirmished around and found a condemned army pack saddle with
aparejos, and a sawbuck saddle with kyacks. On these, we managed to
condense our grub and utensils. There were plenty of horses, so our
bedding we bound flat about their naked barrels by means of the
squaw-hitch. Then we started.
That day furnished us with a demonstration of what Arizona horses
can do. Our way led first through a canon-bed filled with rounded
boulders and rocks, slippery and unstable. Big cottonwoods and oaks
grew so thick as partially to conceal the cliffs on either side of us.
The rim-rock was mysterious with caves; beautiful with hanging
gardens of tree ferns and grasses growing thick in long transverse
crevices; wonderful in colour and shape. We passed the little canons
fenced off by the rustlers as corrals into which to shunt from the
herds their choice of beeves.
The Cattleman shook his head at them. "Many a man has come from
Texas and established a herd with no other asset than a couple of
horses and a branding-iron," said he.
Then we worked up gradually to a divide, whence we could see a
range of wild and rugged mountains on our right. They rose by slopes
and ledges, steep and rough, and at last ended in the thousand-foot
cliffs of the buttes, running sheer and unbroken for many miles.
During all the rest of our trip they were to be our companions, the
only constant factors in the tumult of lesser peaks, precipitous
canons, and twisted systems in which we were constantly involved.
The sky was sun-and-shadow after the rain. Each and every
Arizonan predicted clearing.
"Why, it almost never rains in Arizona," said Jed Parker. "And
when it does it quits before it begins."
Nevertheless, about noon a thick cloud gathered about the tops of
the Galiuros above us. Almost immediately it was dissipated by the
wind, but when the peaks again showed, we stared with astonishment to
see that they were white with snow. It was as though a magician had
passed a sheet before them the brief instant necessary to work his
great transformation. Shortly the sky thickened again, and it began
Travel had been precarious before; but now its difficulties were
infinitely increased. The clay sub-soil to the rubble turned
slippery and adhesive. On the sides of the mountains it was almost
impossible to keep a footing. We speedily became wet, our hands
puffed and purple, our boots sodden with the water that had trickled
from our clothing into them.
"Over the next ridge," Uncle Jim promised us, "is an old shack
that I fixed up seven years ago. We can all make out to get in it."
Over the next ridge, therefore, we slipped and slid, thanking the
god of luck for each ten feet gained. It was growing cold. The
cliffs and palisades near at hand showed dimly behind the falling
rain; beyond them waved and eddied the storm mists through which the
mountains revealed and concealed proportions exaggerated into
unearthly grandeur. Deep in the clefts of the box canons the streams
were filling. The roar of their rapids echoed from innumerable
precipices. A soft swish of water usurped the world of sound.
Nothing more uncomfortable or more magnificent could be imagined.
We rode shivering. Each said to himself, "I can stand this--right
now--at the present moment. Very well; I will do so, and I will
refuse to look forward even five minutes to what I may have to stand,"
which is the true philosophy of tough times and the only effective way
to endure discomfort.
By luck we reached the bottom of that canon without a fall. It
was wide, well grown with oak trees, and belly deep in rich horse
feed--an ideal place to camp were it not for the fact that a thin
sheet of water a quarter of an inch deep was flowing over the entire
surface of the ground. We spurred on desperately, thinking of a warm
fire and a chance to steam.
The roof of the shack had fallen in, and the floor was six inches
deep in adobe mud.
We did not dismount--that would have wet our saddles--but sat on
our horses taking in the details. Finally Uncle Jim came to the
front with a suggestion.
"I know of a cave," said he, "close under a butte. It's a big
cave, but it has such a steep floor that I'm not sure as we could
stay in it; and it's back the other side of that ridge."
"I don't know how the ridge is to get back over--it was slippery
enough coming this way--and the cave may shoot us out into space, but
I'd like to LOOK at a dry place anyway," replied the Cattleman.
We all felt the same about it, so back over the ridge we went.
About half way down the other side Uncle Jim turned sharp to the
right, and as the "hog back" dropped behind us, we found ourselves
out on the steep side of a mountain, the perpendicular cliff over us
to the right, the river roaring savagely far down below our left, and
sheets of water glazing the footing we could find among the boulders
and debris. Hardly could the ponies keep from slipping sideways on
the slope, as we proceeded farther and farther from the solidity of
the ridge behind us, we experienced the illusion of venturing out on a
tight rope over abysses of space. Even the feeling of danger was only
an illusion, however, composite of the falling rain, the deepening
twilight, and the night that had already enveloped the plunge of the
canon below. Finally Uncle Jim stopped just within the drip from the
"Here she is," said he.
We descended eagerly. A deer bounded away from the base of the
buttes. The cave ran steep, in the manner of an inclined tunnel, far
up into the dimness. We had to dig our toes in and scramble to make
way up it at all, but we found it dry, and after a little search
discovered a foot-ledge of earth sufficiently broad for a seat.
"That's all right," quoth Jed Parker. "Now, for sleeping places."
We scattered. Uncle Jim and Charley promptly annexed the slight
overhang of the cliff whence the deer had jumped. It was dry at the
moment, but we uttered pessimistic predictions if the wind should
change. Tom Rich and Jim Lester had a little tent, and insisted on
descending to the canon-bed.
"Got to cook there, anyways," said they, and departed with the two
pack mules and their bed horse.
That left the Cattleman, Windy Bill, Jed Parker, and me. In a
moment Windy Bill came up to us whispering and mysterious.
"Get your cavallos and follow me," said he.
We did so. He led us two hundred yards to another cave, twenty
feet high, fifteen feet in diameter, level as a floor.
"How's that?" he cried in triumph. "Found her just now while I was
rustling nigger-heads for a fire."
We unpacked our beds with chuckles of joy, and spread them
carefully within the shelter of the cave. Except for the very edges,
which did not much matter, our blankets and "so-guns," protected by
the canvas "tarp," were reasonably dry. Every once in a while a spasm
of conscience would seize one or the other of us.
"It seems sort of mean on the other fellows," ruminated Jed
"They had their first choice," cried we all.
"Uncle Jim's an old man," the Cattleman pointed out.
But Windy Bill had thought of that. "I told him of this yere cave
first. But he allowed he was plumb satisfied."
We finished laying out our blankets. The result looked good to
us. We all burst out laughing.
"Well, I'm sorry for those fellows," cried the Cattleman. We
hobbled our horses and descended to the gleam of the fire, like
guilty conspirators. There we ate hastily of meat, bread and coffee,
merely for the sake of sustenance. It certainly amounted to little in
the way of pleasure. The water from the direct rain, the shivering
trees, and our hat brims accumulated in our plates faster than we
could bail it out. The dishes were thrust under a canvas. Rich and
Lester decided to remain with their tent, and so we saw them no more
We broke off back-loads of mesquite and toiled up the hill,
tasting thickly the high altitude in the severe labour. At the big
cave we dumped down our burdens, transported our fuel piecemeal to the
vicinity of the narrow ledge, built a good fire, sat in a row, and lit
our pipes. In a few moments, the blaze was burning high, and our
bodies had ceased shivering. Fantastically the firelight revealed the
knobs and crevices, the ledges and the arching walls. Their shadows
leaped, following the flames, receding and advancing like playful
beasts. Far above us was a single tiny opening through which the
smoke was sucked as through a chimney. The glow ruddied the men's
features. Outside was thick darkness, and the swish and rush and roar
of rising waters. Listening, Windy Bill was reminded of a story. We
leaned back comfortably against the sloping walls of the cave, thrust
our feet toward the blaze, smoked, and hearkened to the tale of Windy
There's a tur'ble lot of water running loose here, but I've seen
the time and place where even what is in that drip would be worth a
gold mine. That was in the emigrant days. They used to come over
south of here, through what they called Emigrant Pass, on their way to
Californy. I was a kid then, about eighteen year old, and what I
didn't know about Injins and Agency cattle wasn't a patch of alkali.
I had a kid outfit of h'ar bridle, lots of silver and such, and I
used to ride over and be the handsome boy before such outfits as
They were queer people, most of 'em from Missoury and such-like
southern seaports, and they were tur'ble sick of travel by the time
they come in sight of Emigrant Pass. Up to Santa Fe they mostly hiked
along any old way, but once there they herded up together in bunches
of twenty wagons or so, 'count of our old friends, Geronimo and Loco.
A good many of 'em had horned cattle to their wagons, and they
crawled along about two miles an hour, hotter'n hell with the blower
on, nothin' to look at but a mountain a week way, chuck full of
alkali, plenty of sage-brush and rattlesnakes--but mighty little
Why, you boys know that country down there. Between the
Chiricahua Mountains and Emigrant Pass it's maybe a three or four
days' journey for these yere bull-slingers.
Mostly they filled up their bellies and their kegs, hoping to last
through, but they sure found it drier than cork legs, and generally
long before they hit the Springs their tongues was hangin' out a foot.
You see, for all their plumb nerve in comin' so far, the most of them
didn't know sic'em. They were plumb innocent in regard to savin'
their water, and Injins, and such; and the long-haired buckskin fakes
they picked up at Santa Fe for guides wasn't much better.
That was where Texas Pete made his killing.
Texas Pete was a tough citizen from the Lone Star. He was about
as broad as he was long, and wore all sorts of big whiskers and black
eyebrows. His heart was very bad. You never COULD tell where Texas
Pete was goin' to jump next. He was a side-winder and a diamond-back
and a little black rattlesnake all rolled into one. I believe that
Texas Pete person cared about as little for killin' a man as for
takin' a drink--and he shorely drank without an effort. Peaceable
citizens just spoke soft and minded their own business; onpeaceable
citizens Texas Pete used to plant out in the sagebrush.
Now this Texas Pete happened to discover a water hole right out in
the plumb middle of the desert. He promptly annexed said water hole,
digs her out, timbers her up, and lays for emigrants.
He charged two bits a head--man or beast--and nobody got a
mouthful till he paid up in hard coin.
Think of the wads he raked in! I used to figure it up, just for
the joy of envyin' him, I reckon. An average twenty-wagon outfit,
first and last, would bring him in somewheres about fifty dollars--and
besides he had forty-rod at four bits a glass. And outfits at that
time were thicker'n spatter.
We used all to go down sometimes to watch them come in. When they
see that little canvas shack and that well, they begun to cheer up and
move fast. And when they see that sign, "Water, two bits a head,"
their eyes stuck out like two raw oysters.
Then come the kicks. What a howl they did raise, shorely. But it
didn't do no manner of good. Texas Pete didn't do nothin' but sit
there and smoke, with a kind of sulky gleam in one corner of his eye.
He didn't even take the trouble to answer, but his Winchester lay
across his lap. There wasn't no humour in the situation for him.
"How much is your water for humans?" asks one emigrant.
"Can't you read that sign?" Texas Pete asks him.
"But you don't mean two bits a head for HUMANS!" yells the man.
"Why, you can get whisky for that!"
"You can read the sign, can't you?" insists Texas Pete.
"I can read it all right?" says the man, tryin' a new deal, "but
they tell me not to believe more'n half I read."
But that don't go; and Mr. Emigrant shells out with the rest.
I didn't blame them for raisin' their howl. Why, at that time the
regular water holes was chargin' five cents a head from the government
freighters, and the motto was always "Hold up Uncle Sam," at that.
Once in a while some outfit would get mad and go chargin' off dry;
but it was a long, long way to the Springs, and mighty hot and dusty.
Texas Pete and his one lonesome water hole shorely did a big
Late one afternoon me and Gentleman Tim was joggin' along above
Texas Pete's place. It was a tur'ble hot day--you had to prime
yourself to spit--and we was just gettin' back from drivin' some beef
up to the troops at Fort Huachuca. We was due to cross the Emigrant
Trail--she's wore in tur'ble deep--you can see the ruts to-day. When
we topped the rise we see a little old outfit just makin' out to drag
It was one little schooner all by herself, drug along by two poor
old cavallos that couldn't have pulled my hat off. Their tongues was
out, and every once in a while they'd stick in a chuck-hole. Then a
man would get down and put his shoulder to the wheel, and everybody'd
take a heave, and up they'd come, all a-trembling and weak.
Tim and I rode down just to take a look at the curiosity.
A thin-lookin' man was drivin', all humped up.
"Hullo, stranger," says I, "ain't you 'fraid of Injins?"
"Yes," says he.
"Then why are you travellin' through an Injin country all alone?"
"Couldn't keep up," says he. "Can I get water here?"
"I reckon," I answers.
He drove up to the water trough there at Texas Pete's, me and
Gentleman Tim followin' along because our trail led that way. But he
hadn't more'n stopped before Texas Pete was out.
"Cost you four bits to water them hosses," says he.
The man looked up kind of bewildered.
"I'm sorry," says he, "I ain't got no four bits. I got my roll
lifted off'n me."
"No water, then," growls Texas Pete back at him.
The man looked about him helpless.
"How far is it to the next water?" he asks me.
"Twenty mile," I tells him.
"My God!" he says, to himself-like.
Then he shrugged his shoulders very tired.
"All right. It's gettin' the cool of the evenin'; we'll make it."
He turns into the inside of that old schooner.
"Gi' me the cup, Sue."
A white-faced woman who looked mighty good to us alkalis opened
the flaps and gave out a tin cup, which the man pointed out to fill.
"How many of you is they?" asks Texas Pete.
"Three," replies the man, wondering.
"Well, six bits, then," says Texas Pete, "cash down."
At that the man straightens up a little.
"I ain't askin' for no water for my stock," says he, "but my wife
and baby has been out in this sun all day without a drop of water.
Our cask slipped a hoop and bust just this side of Dos Cabesas. The
poor kid is plumb dry."
"Two bits a head," says Texas Pete.
At that the woman comes out, a little bit of a baby in her arms.
The kid had fuzzy yellow hair, and its face was flushed red and
shiny. "Shorely you won't refuse a sick child a drink of water, sir,"
But Texas Pete had some sort of a special grouch; I guess he was
just beginning to get his snowshoes off after a fight with his own
"What the hell are you-all doin' on the trail without no money at
all?" he growls, "and how do you expect to get along? Such plumb
tenderfeet drive me weary."
"Well," says the man, still reasonable, "I ain't got no money, but
I'll give you six bits' worth of flour or trade or an'thin' I got."
"I don't run no truck-store," snaps Texas Pete, and turns square
on his heel and goes back to his chair.
"Got six bits about you?" whispers Gentleman Tim to me.
"Not a red," I answers.
Gentleman Tim turns to Texas Pete.
"Let 'em have a drink, Pete. I'll pay you next time I come down."
"Cash down," growls Pete.
"You're the meanest man I ever see," observes Tim. "I wouldn't
speak to you if I met you in hell carryin' a lump of ice in your
"You're the softest _I_ ever see," sneers Pete. "Don't they have
any genooine Texans down your way?"
"Not enough to make it disagreeable," says Tim.
"That lets you out," growls Pete, gettin' hostile and handlin' of
Which the man had been standin' there bewildered, the cup hangin'
from his finger. At last, lookin' pretty desperate, he stooped down
to dig up a little of the wet from an overflow puddle lyin' at his
feet. At the same time the hosses, left sort of to themselves and
bein' drier than a covered bridge, drug forward and stuck their noses
in the trough.
Gentleman Tim and me was sittin' there on our hosses, a little to
one side. We saw Texas Pete jump up from his chair, take a quick
aim, and cut loose with his rifle. It was plumb unexpected to us.
We hadn't thought of any shootin', and our six-shooters was tied in,
'count of the jumpy country we'd been drivin' the steers over. But
Gentleman Tim, who had unslung his rope, aimin' to help the hosses out
of the chuckhole, snatched her off the horn, and with one of the
prettiest twenty-foot flip throws I ever see done he snaked old Texas
Pete right out of his wicky-up, gun and all. The old renegade did his
best to twist around for a shot at us; but it was no go; and I never
enjoyed hog-tying a critter more in my life than I enjoyed hog-tying
Texas Pete. Then we turned to see what damage had been done.
We were some relieved to find the family all right, but Texas Pete
had bored one of them poor old crow-bait hosses plumb through the
"It's lucky for you you don't get the old man," says Gentleman Tim
very quiet and polite.
Which Gentleman Tim was an Irishman, and I'd been on the range
long enough with him to know that when he got quiet and polite it was
time to dodge behind something.
"I hope, sir" says he to the stranger, "that you will give your
wife and baby a satisfying drink. As for your hoss, pray do not be
under any apprehension. Our friend, Mr. Texas Pete, here, has kindly
consented to make good any deficiencies from his own corral."
Tim could talk high, wide, and handsome when he set out to.
The man started to say something; but I managed to herd him to one
"Let him alone," I whispers. "When he talks that way, he's mad;
and when he's mad, it's better to leave nature to supply the
He seemed to sabe all right, so we built us a little fire and
started some grub, while Gentleman Tim walked up and down very grand
By and by he seemed to make up his mind. He went over and untied
"Stand up, you hound," says he. "Now listen to me. If you make a
break to get away, or if you refuse to do just as I tell you, I won't
shoot you, but I'll march you up country and see that Geronimo gets
He sorted out a shovel and pick, made Texas Pete carry them right
along the trail a quarter, and started him to diggin' a hole.
Texas Pete started in hard enough, Tim sittin' over him on his
hoss, his six-shooter loose, and his rope free. The man and I stood
by, not darin' to say a word. After a minute or so Texas Pete began
to work slower and slower. By and by he stopped.
"Look here," says he, "is this here thing my grave?"
"I am goin' to see that you give the gentleman's hoss decent
interment," says Gentleman Tim very polite.
"Bury a hoss!" growls Texas Pete.
But he didn't say any more. Tim cocked his six-shooter.
"Perhaps you'd better quit panting and sweat a little," says he.
Texas Pete worked hard for a while, for Tim's quietness was
beginning to scare him up the worst way. By and by he had got down
maybe four or five feet, and Tim got off his hoss.
"I think that will do," says he.
"You may come out. Billy, my son, cover him. Now, Mr. Texas
Pete," he says, cold as steel, "there is the grave. We will place
the hoss in it. Then I intend to shoot you and put you in with the
hoss, and write you an epitaph that will be a comfort to such
travellers of the Trail as are honest, and a warnin' to such as are
not. I'd as soon kill you now as an hour from now, so you may make a
break for it if you feel like it."
He stooped over to look into the hole. I thought he looked an
extra long time, but when he raised his head his face had changed
"March!" says he very brisk.
We all went back to the shack. From the corral Tim took Texas
Pete's best team and hitched her to the old schooner.
"There," says he to the man. "Now you'd better hit the trail.
Take that whisky keg there for water. Good-bye."
We sat there without sayin' a word for some time after the
schooner had pulled out. Then Tim says, very abrupt:
"I've changed my mind."
He got up.
"Come on, Billy," says he to me. "We'll just leave our friend
tied up. I'll be back to-morrow to turn you loose. In the meantime
it won't hurt you a bit to be a little uncomfortable, and hungry--and
We rode off just about sundown, leavin' Texas Pete lashed tight.
Now all this knocked me hell-west and crooked, and I said so, but
I couldn't get a word out of Gentleman Tim. All the answer I could
get was just little laughs.
We drawed into the ranch near midnight, but next mornin' Tim had a
long talk with the boss, and the result was that the whole outfit was
instructed to arm up with a pick or a shovel apiece, and to get set
for Texas Pete's. We got there a little after noon, turned the old
boy out--without firearms--and then began to dig at a place Tim told
us to, near that grave of Texas Pete's. In three hours we had the
finest water-hole developed you ever want to see. Then the boss stuck
up a sign that said:
PUBLIC WATER-HOLE. WATER, FREE.
"Now you old skin," says he to Texas Pete, "charge all you want to
on your own property. But if I ever hear of your layin' claim to this
other hole, I'll shore make you hard to catch."
Then we rode off home. You see, when Gentleman Tim inspected that
grave, he noted indications of water; and it struck him that runnin'
the old renegade out of business was a neater way of gettin' even than
merely killin' him.
Somebody threw a fresh mesquite on the fire. The flames leaped up
again, showing a thin trickle of water running down the other side of
the cave. The steady downpour again made itself prominent through the
"What did Texas Pete do after that?" asked the Cattleman.
"Texas Pete?" chuckled Windy Bill. "Well, he put in a heap of his
spare time lettin' Tim alone."
CHAPTER THREE. THE REMITTANCE MAN
After Windy Bill had finished his story we began to think it time
to turn in. Uncle Jim and Charley slid and slipped down the
chute-like passage leading from the cave and disappeared in the
direction of the overhang beneath which they had spread their bed.
After a moment we tore off long bundles of the nigger-head blades,
lit the resinous ends at our fire, and with these torches started to
make our way along the base of the cliff to the other cave.
Once without the influence of the fire our impromptu links cast an
adequate light. The sheets of rain became suddenly visible as they
entered the circle of illumination. By careful scrutiny of the
footing I gained the entrance to our cave without mishap. I looked
back. Here and there irregularly gleamed and spluttered my
companions' torches. Across each slanted the rain. All else was of
inky blackness except where, between them and me, a faint red
reflection shone on the wet rocks. Then I turned inside.
Now, to judge from the crumbling powder of the footing, that cave
had been dry since Noah. In fact, its roof was nearly a thousand feet
thick. But since we had spread our blankets, the persistent waters
had soaked down and through. The thousand-foot roof had a sprung a
leak. Three separate and distinct streams of water ran as from
spigots. I lowered my torch. The canvas tarpaulin shone with wet,
and in its exact centre glimmered a pool of water three inches deep
and at least two feet in diameter.
"Well, I'll be," I began. Then I remembered those three wending
their way along a wet and disagreeable trail, happy and peaceful in
anticipation of warm blankets and a level floor. I chuckled and sat
on my heels out of the drip.
First came Jed Parker, his head bent to protect the fire in his
pipe. He gained the very centre of the cave before he looked up.
Then he cast one glance at each bed, and one at me. His grave,
hawk-like features relaxed. A faint grin appeared under his long
moustache. Without a word he squatted down beside me.
Next the Cattleman. He looked about him with a comical expression
of dismay, and burst into a hearty laugh.
"I believe I said I was sorry for those other fellows," he
Windy Bill was the last. He stooped his head to enter,
straightened his lank figure, and took in the situation without
"Well, this is handy," said he; "I was gettin' tur'ble dry, and
was thinkin' I would have to climb way down to the creek in all this
He stooped to the pool in the centre of the tarpaulin and drank.
But now our torches began to run low. A small dry bush grew near
the entrance. We ignited it, and while it blazed we hastily sorted a
blanket apiece and tumbled the rest out of the drip.
Our return without torches along the base of that butte was
something to remember. The night was so thick you could feel the
darkness pressing on you; the mountain dropped abruptly to the left,
and was strewn with boulders and blocks of stone. Collisions and
stumbles were frequent. Once I stepped off a little ledge five or six
feet--nothing worse than a barked shin. And all the while the rain,
pelting us unmercifully, searched out what poor little remnants of
dryness we had been able to retain.
At last we opened out the gleam of fire in our cave, and a minute
later were engaged in struggling desperately up the slant that brought
us to our ledge and the slope on which our fire burned.
"My Lord!" panted Windy Bill, "a man had ought to have hooks on
his eyebrows to climb up here!"
We renewed the fire--and blessed the back-load of mesquite we had
packed up earlier in the evening. Our blankets we wrapped around our
shoulders, our feet we hung over the ledge toward the blaze, our backs
we leaned against the hollow slant of the cave's wall. We were not
uncomfortable. The beat of the rain sprang up in the darkness,
growing louder and louder, like horsemen passing on a hard road.
Gradually we dozed off.
For a time everything was pleasant. Dreams came fused with
realities; the firelight faded from consciousness or returned
fantastic to our half-awakening; a delicious numbness overspread our
tired bodies. The shadows leaped, became solid, monstrous. We fell
After a time the fact obtruded itself dimly through our stupor
that the constant pressure of the hard rock had impeded our
circulation. We stirred uneasily, shifting to a better position.
That was the beginning of awakening. The new position did not
suit. A slight shivering seized us, which the drawing closer of the
blanket failed to end. Finally I threw aside my hat and looked out.
Jed Parker, a vivid patch-work comforter wrapped about his shoulders,
stood upright and silent by the fire. I kept still, fearing to awaken
the others. In a short time I became aware that the others were doing
identically the same thing. We laughed, threw off our blankets,
stretched, and fed the fire.
A thick acrid smoke filled the air. The Cattleman, rising, left a
trail of incandescent footprints. We investigated hastily, and
discovered that the supposed earth on the slant of the cave was
nothing more than bat guano, tons of it. The fire, eating its way
beneath, had rendered untenable its immediate vicinity. We felt as
though we were living over a volcano. How soon our ledge, of the same
material, might be attacked, we had no means of knowing. Overcome
with drowsiness, we again disposed our blankets, resolved to get as
many naps as possible before even these constrained quarters were
taken from us.
This happened sooner and in a manner otherwise than we had
expected. Windy Bill brought us to consciousness by a wild yell.
Consciousness reported to us a strange, hurried sound like the
long roll on a drum. Investigation showed us that this cave, too,
had sprung a leak; not with any premonitory drip, but all at once, as
though someone had turned on a faucet. In ten seconds a very
competent streamlet six inches wide had eroded a course down through
the guano, past the fire and to the outer slope. And by the irony of
fate that one--and only one--leak in all the roof expanse of a big
cave was directly over one end of our tiny ledge. The Cattleman
"Reminds me of the old farmer and his kind friend," said he. "Kind
friend hunts up the old farmer in the village.
"'John,' says he, 'I've bad news for you. Your barn has burned
"'My Lord!' says the farmer.
"'But that ain't the worst. Your cow was burned, too.'
"'My Lord!' says the farmer.
"'But that ain't the worst. Your horses were burned.'
"'My Lord!' says the farmer.
"'But, that ain't the worst. The barn set fire to the house, and
it was burned--total loss.'
"'My Lord!' groans the farmer.
"'But that ain't the worst. Your wife and child were killed,
"'At that the farmer began to roar with laughter.
"'Good heavens, man!' cries his friend, astonished, 'what in the
world do you find to laugh at in that?'
"'Don't you see?' answers the farmer. 'Why, it's so darn
"Well," finished the Cattleman, "that's what strikes me about our
case; it's so darn complete!"
"What time is it?" asked Windy Bill.
"Midnight," I announced.
"Lord! Six hours to day!" groaned Windy Bill. "How'd you like to
be doin' a nice quiet job at gardenin' in the East where you could
belly up to the bar reg'lar every evenin', and drink a pussy cafe and
smoke tailor-made cigareets?"
"You wouldn't like it a bit," put in the Cattleman with decision;
whereupon in proof he told us the following story:
Windy has mentioned Gentleman Tim, and that reminded me of the
first time I ever saw him. He was an Irishman all right, but he had
been educated in England, and except for his accent he was more an
Englishman than anything else. A freight outfit brought him into
Tucson from Santa Fe and dumped him down on the plaza, where at once
every idler in town gathered to quiz him.
Certainly he was one of the greenest specimens I ever saw in this
country. He had on a pair of balloon pants and a Norfolk jacket, and
was surrounded by a half-dozen baby trunks. His face was red-cheeked
and aggressively clean, and his eye limpid as a child's. Most of
those present thought that indicated childishness; but I could see
that it was only utter self-unconsciousness.
It seemed that he was out for big game, and intended to go after
silver-tips somewhere in these very mountains. Of course he was
offered plenty of advice, and would probably have made engagements
much to be regretted had I not taken a strong fancy to him.
"My friend," said I, drawing him aside, "I don't want to be
inquisitive, but what might you do when you're home?"
"I'm a younger son," said he. I was green myself in those days,
and knew nothing of primogeniture.
"That is a very interesting piece of family history," said I, "but
it does not answer my question."
"Well now, I hadn't thought of that," said he, "but in a manner of
speaking, it does. I do nothing."
"Well," said I, unabashed, "if you saw me trying to be a younger
son and likely to forget myself and do something without meaning to,
wouldn't you be apt to warn me?"
"Well, 'pon honour, you're a queer chap. What do you mean?"
"I mean that if you hire any of those men to guide you in the
mountains, you'll be outrageously cheated, and will be lucky if
you're not gobbled by Apaches."
"Do you do any guiding yourself, now?" he asked, most innocent of
But I flared up.
"You damn ungrateful pup," I said, "go to the devil in your own
way," and turned square on my heel.
But the young man was at my elbow, his hand on my shoulder.
"Oh, I say now, I'm sorry. I didn't rightly understand. Do wait
one moment until I dispose of these boxes of mine, and then I want the
honour of your further acquaintance."
He got some Greasers to take his trunks over to the hotel, then
linked his arm in mine most engagingly.
"Now, my dear chap," said he, "let's go somewhere for a B S, and
find out about each other."
We were both young and expansive. We exchanged views, names, and
confidences, and before noon we had arranged to hunt together, I to
collect the outfit.
The upshot of the matter was that the Honourable Timothy Clare and
I had a most excellent month's excursion, shot several good bear, and
returned to Tucson the best of friends.
At Tucson was Schiefflein and his stories of a big strike down in
the Apache country. Nothing would do but that we should both go to
see for ourselves. We joined the second expedition; crept in the
gullies, tied bushes about ourselves when monumenting corners, and so
helped establish the town of Tombstone. We made nothing, nor
attempted to. Neither of us knew anything of mining, but we were
both thirsty for adventure, and took a schoolboy delight in playing
the game of life or death with the Chiricahuas.
In fact, I never saw anybody take to the wild life as eagerly as
the Honourable Timothy Clare. He wanted to attempt everything. With
him it was no sooner see than try, and he had such an abundance of
enthusiasm that he generally succeeded. The balloon pants soon went.
In a month his outfit was irreproachable. He used to study us by the
hour, taking in every detail of our equipment, from the smallest to
the most important. Then he asked questions. For all his desire to
be one of the country, he was never ashamed to acknowledge his
"Now, don't you chaps think it silly to wear such high heels to
your boots?" he would ask. "It seems to me a very useless sort of
"No vanity about it, Tim," I explained. "In the first place, it
keeps your foot from slipping through the stirrup. In the second
place, it is good to grip on the ground when you're roping afoot."
"By Jove, that's true!" he cried.
So he'd get him a pair of boots. For a while it was enough to
wear and own all these things. He seemed to delight in his
six-shooter and his rope just as ornaments to himself and horse. But
he soon got over that. Then he had to learn to use them.
For the time being, pistol practice, for instance, would absorb
all his thoughts. He'd bang away at intervals all day, and figure
out new theories all night.
"That bally scheme won't work," he would complain. "I believe if
I extended my thumb along the cylinder it would help that side jump."
He was always easing the trigger-pull, or filing the sights. In
time he got to be a fairly accurate and very quick shot.
The same way with roping and hog-tying and all the rest.
"What's the use?" I used to ask him. "If you were going to be a
buckeroo, you couldn't go into harder training."
"I like it," was always his answer.
He had only one real vice, that I could see. He would gamble.
Stud poker was his favourite; and I never saw a Britisher yet who
could play poker. I used to head him off, when I could, and he was
always grateful, but the passion was strong.
After we got back from founding Tombstone I was busted and had to
go to work.
"I've got plenty," said Tim, "and it's all yours."
"I know, old fellow," I told him, "but your money wouldn't do for
Buck Johnson was just seeing his chance then, and was preparing to
take some breeding cattle over into the Soda Springs Valley. Everybody
laughed at him--said it was right in the line of the Chiricahua raids,
which was true. But Buck had been in there with Agency steers, and
thought he knew. So he collected a trail crew, brought some Oregon
cattle across, and built his home ranch of three-foot adobe walls with
portholes. I joined the trail crew; and somehow or another the
Honourable Timothy got permission to go along on his own hook.
The trail was a long one. We had thirst and heat and stampedes
and some Indian scares. But in the queer atmospheric conditions that
prevailed that summer, I never saw the desert more wonderful. It was
like waking to the glory of God to sit up at dawn and see the colours
change on the dry ranges.
At the home ranch, again, Tim managed to get permission to stay
on. He kept his own mount of horses, took care of them, hunted, and
took part in all the cow work. We lost some cattle from Indians, of
course, but it was too near the Reservation for them to do more than
pick up a few stray head on their way through. The troops were always
after them full jump, and so they never had time to round up the beef.
But of course we had to look out or we'd lose our hair, and many a
cowboy has won out to the home ranch in an almighty exciting race.
This was nuts for the Honourable Timothy Clare, much better than
hunting silver-tips, and he enjoyed it no limit.
Things went along that way for some time, until one evening as I
was turning out the horses a buckboard drew in, and from it descended
Tony Briggs and a dapper little fellow dressed all in black and with a
"Which I accounts for said hat reachin' the ranch, because it's
Friday and the boys not in town," Tony whispered to me.
As I happened to be the only man in sight, the stranger addressed
"I am looking," said he in a peculiar, sing-song manner I have
since learned to be English, "for the Honourable Timothy Clare. Is he
here?" "Oh, you're looking for him are you?" said I. "And who might
You see, I liked Tim, and I didn't intend to deliver him over into
The man picked a pair of eye-glasses off his stomach where they
dangled at the end of a chain, perched them on his nose, and stared
me over. I must have looked uncompromising, for after a few seconds
he abruptly wrinkled his nose so that the glasses fell promptly to his
stomach again, felt his waistcoat pocket, and produced a card. I took
it, and read:
JEFFRIES CASE, Barrister.
"A lawyer!" said I suspiciously.
"My dear man," he rejoined with a slight impatience, "I am not
here to do your young friend a harm. In fact, my firm have been his
family solicitors for generations."
"Very well," I agreed, and led the way to the one-room adobe that
Tim and I occupied.
If I had expected an enthusiastic greeting for the boyhood friend
from the old home, I would have been disappointed. Tim was sitting
with his back to the door reading an old magazine. When we entered he
glanced over his shoulder.
"Ah, Case," said he, and went on reading. After a moment he said
without looking up, "Sit down."
The little man took it calmly, deposited himself in a chair and
his bag between his feet, and looked about him daintily at our rough
quarters. I made a move to go, whereupon Tim laid down his magazine,
yawned, stretched his arms over his head, and sighed.
"Don't go, Harry," he begged. "Well, Case," he addressed the
barrister, "what is it this time? Must be something devilish
important to bring you--how many thousand miles is it--into such a
country as this."
"It is important, Mr. Clare," stated the lawyer in his dry
sing-song tones; "but my journey might have been avoided had you paid
some attention to my letters."
"Letters!" repeated Tim, opening his eyes. "My dear chap, I've had
"Addressed as usual to your New York bankers."
Tim laughed softly. "Where they are, with my last two quarters'
allowance. I especially instructed them to send me no mail. One
spends no money in this country." He paused, pulling his moustache.
"I'm truly sorry you had to come so far," he continued, "and if your
business is, as I suspect, the old one of inducing me to return to my
dear uncle's arms, I assure you the mission will prove quite
fruitless. Uncle Hillary and I could never live in the same county,
let alone the same house."
"And yet your uncle, the Viscount Mar, was very fond of you,"
ventured Case. "Your allowances--"
"Oh, I grant you his generosity in MONEY affairs--"
"He has continued that generosity in the terms of his will, and
those terms I am here to communicate to you."
"Uncle Hillary is dead!" cried Tim.
"He passed away the sixteenth of last June."
A slight pause ensued.
"I am ready to hear you," said Tim soberly, at last.
The barrister stooped and began to fumble with his bag.
"No, not that!" cried Tim, with some impatience. "Tell me in your
The lawyer sat back and pressed his finger points together over
"The late Viscount," said he, "has been graciously pleased to
leave you in fee simple his entire estate of Staghurst, together with
its buildings, rentals, and privileges. This, besides the residential
rights, amounts to some ten thousands pounds sterling per annum."
"A little less than fifty thousand dollars a year, Harry," Tim
shot over his shoulder at me.
"There is one condition," put in the lawyer.
"Oh, there is!" exclaimed Tim, his crest falling. "Well, knowing
my Uncle Hillary--"
"The condition is not extravagant," the lawyer hastily interposed.
"It merely entails continued residence in England, and a minimum of
nine months on the estate. This provision is absolute, and the estate
reverts in its discontinuance, but may I be permitted to observe that
the majority of men, myself among the number, are content to spend the
most of their lives, not merely in the confines of a kingdom, but
between the four walls of a room, for much less than ten thousand
pounds a year. Also that England is not without its attractions for
an Englishman, and that Staghurst is a country place of many
The Honourable Timothy had recovered from his first surprise.
"And if the conditions are not complied with?" he inquired.
"Then the estate reverts to the heirs at law, and you receive an
annuity of one hundred pounds, payable quarterly."
"May I ask further the reason for this extraordinary condition?"
"My distinguished client never informed me," replied the lawyer,
"but"--and a twinkle appeared in his eye--"as an occasional disburser
of funds--Monte Carlo--"
Tim burst out laughing.
"Oh, but I recognise Uncle Hillary there!" he cried. "Well, Mr.
Case, I am sure Mr. Johnson, the owner of this ranch, can put you up,
and to-morrow we'll start back."
He returned after a few minutes to find me sitting' smoking a
moody pipe. I liked Tim, and I was sorry to have him go. Then, too,
I was ruffled, in the senseless manner of youth, by the sudden
altitude to which his changed fortunes had lifted him. He stood in
the middle of the room, surveying me, then came across and laid his
arm on my shoulder.
"Well," I growled, without looking up, "you're a very rich man
now, Mr. Clare."
At that he jerked me bodily out of my seat and stood me up in the
centre of the room, the Irish blazing out of his eyes.
"Here, none of that!" he snapped. "You damn little fool! Don't
you 'Mr. Clare' me!"
So in five minutes we were talking it over. Tim was very much
excited at the prospect. He knew Staghurst well, and told me all
about the big stone house, and the avenue through the trees; and the
hedge-row roads, and the lawn with its peacocks, and the round green
hills, and the labourers' cottages.
"It's home," said he, "and I didn't realise before how much I
wanted to see it. And I'll be a man of weight there, Harry, and
it'll be mighty good."
We made all sorts of plans as to how I was going to visit him just
as soon as I could get together the money for the passage. He had the
delicacy not to offer to let me have it; and that clinched my trust
and love of him.
The next day he drove away with Tony and the dapper little lawyer.
I am not ashamed to say that I watched the buckboard until it
disappeared in the mirage.
I was with Buck Johnson all that summer, and the following winter,
as well. We had our first round-up, found the natural increase much
in excess of the loss by Indians, and extended our holdings up over
the Rock Creek country. We witnessed the start of many Indian
campaigns, participated in a few little brushes with the Chiricahuas,
saw the beginning of the cattle-rustling. A man had not much
opportunity to think of anything but what he had right on hand, but I
found time for a few speculations on Tim. I wondered how he looked
now, and what he was doing, and how in blazes he managed to get away
with fifty thousand a year.
And then one Sunday in June, while I was lying on my bunk, Tim
pushed open the door and walked in. I was young, but I'd seen a lot,
and I knew the expression of his face. So I laid low and said
In a minute the door opened again, and Buck Johnson himself came
"How do," said he; "I saw you ride up."
"How do you do," replied Tim.
"I know all about you," said Buck, without any preliminaries;
"your man, Case, has wrote me. I don't know your reasons, and I
don't want to know--it's none of my business--and I ain't goin' to
tell you just what kind of a damn fool I think you are--that's none of
my business, either. But I want you to understand without question
how you stand on the ranch."
"Quite good, sir," said Tim very quietly.
"When you were out here before I was glad to have you here as a
sort of guest. Then you were what I've heerd called a gentleman of
leisure. Now you're nothin' but a remittance man. Your money's
nothin' to me, but the principle of the thing is. The country is
plumb pestered with remittance men, doin' nothin', and I don't aim to
run no home for incompetents. I had a son of a duke drivin' wagon for
me; and he couldn't drive nails in a snowbanks. So don't you herd up
with the idea that you can come on this ranch and loaf."
"I don't want to loaf," put in Tim, "I want a job."
"I'm willing to give you a job," replied Buck, "but it's jest an
ordinary cow-puncher's job at forty a month. And if you don't fill
your saddle, it goes to someone else."
"That's satisfactory," agreed Tim.
"All right," finished Buck, "so that's understood. Your friend
Case wanted me to give you a lot of advice. A man generally has
about as much use for advice as a cow has for four hind legs."
He went out.
"For God's sake, what's up?" I cried, leaping from my bunk.
"Hullo, Harry," said he, as though he had seen me the day before,
"I've come back."
"How come back?" I asked. "I thought you couldn't leave the
estate. Have they broken the will?"
"No," said he.
"Is the money lost?"
"The long and short of it is, that I couldn't afford that estate
and that money."
"What do you mean?"
"I've given it up."
"Given it up! What for?"
"To come back here."
I took this all in slowly.
"Tim Clare," said I at last, "do you mean to say that you have
given up an English estate and fifty thousand dollars a year to be a
remittance man at five hundred, and a cow-puncher on as much more?"
"Exactly," said he.
"Tim," I adjured him solemnly, "you are a damn fool!"
"Maybe," he agreed.
"Why did you do it?" I begged.
He walked to the door and looked out across the desert to where
the mountains hovered like soap-bubbles on the horizon. For a long
time he looked; then whirled on me.
"Harry," said he in a low voice, "do you remember the camp we made
on the shoulder of the mountain that night we were caught out? And do
you remember how the dawn came up on the big snow peaks across the
way--and all the canon below us filled with whirling mists--and the
steel stars leaving us one by one? Where could I find room for that
in English paddocks? And do you recall the day we trailed across the
Yuma deserts, and the sun beat into our skulls, and the dry, brittle
hills looked like papier-mache, and the grey sage-bush ran off into
the rise of the hills; and then came sunset and the hard, dry
mountains grew filmy, like gauze veils of many colours, and melted and
glowed and faded to slate blue, and the stars came out? The English
hills are rounded and green and curried, and the sky is near, and the
stars only a few miles up. And do you recollect that dark night when
old Loco and his warriors were camped at the base of Cochise's
Stronghold, and we crept down through the velvet dark wondering when
we would be discovered, our mouths sticky with excitement, and the
little winds blowing?"
He walked up and down a half-dozen times, his breast heaving.
"It's all very well for the man who is brought up to it, and who
has seen nothing else. Case can exist in four walls; he has been
brought up to it and knows nothing different. But a man like me--
"They wanted me to canter between hedge-row,--I who have ridden
the desert where the sky over me and the plain under me were bigger
than the Islander's universe! They wanted me to oversee little
farms--I who have watched the sun rising over half a world! Talk of
your ten thou' a year and what it'll buy! You know, Harry, how it
feels when a steer takes the slack of your rope, and your pony sits
back! Where in England can I buy that? You know the rising and the
falling of days, and the boundless spaces where your heart grows big,
and the thirst of the desert and the hunger of the trail, and a sun
that shines and fills the sky, and a wind that blows fresh from the
wide places! Where in parcelled, snug, green, tight little England
could I buy that with ten thou'--aye, or an hundred times ten thou'?
No, no, Harry, that fortune would cost me too dear. I have seen and
done and been too much. I've come back to the Big Country, where the
pay is poor and the work is hard and the comfort small, but where a
man and his soul meet their Maker face to face."
The Cattleman had finished his yarn. For a time no one spoke.
Outside, the volume of rain was subsiding. Windy Bill reported a few
stars shining through rifts in the showers. The chill that precedes
the dawn brought us as close to the fire as the smouldering guano
"I don't know whether he was right or wrong," mused the Cattleman,
after a while. "A man can do a heap with that much money. And yet an
old 'alkali' is never happy anywhere else. However," he concluded
emphatically, "one thing I do know: rain, cold, hunger, discomfort,
curses, kicks, and violent deaths included, there isn't one of you
grumblers who would hold that gardening job you spoke of three days!"
CHAPTER FOUR. THE CATTLE RUSTLERS
Dawn broke, so we descended through wet grasses to the canon.
There, after some difficulty, we managed to start a fire, and so ate
breakfast, the rain still pouring down on us. About nine o'clock,
with miraculous suddenness, the torrent stopped. It began to turn
cold. The Cattleman and I decided to climb to the top of the butte
after meat, which we entirely lacked.
It was rather a stiff ascent, but once above the sheer cliffs we
found ourselves on a rolling meadow tableland a half-mile broad by,
perhaps, a mile and a half in length. Grass grew high; here and there
were small live oaks planted park-like; slight and rounded ravines
accommodated brooklets. As we walked back, the edges blended in the
edges of the mesa across the canon. The deep gorges, which had
heretofore seemed the most prominent elements of the scenery, were
lost. We stood, apparently, in the middle of a wide and undulating
plain, diversified by little ridges, and running with a free sweep to
the very foot of the snowy Galiuros. It seemed as though we should be
able to ride horseback in almost any given direction. Yet we knew
that ten minutes' walk would take us to the brink of most stupendous
chasms--so deep that the water flowing in them hardly seemed to move;
so rugged that only with the greatest difficulty could a horseman make
his way through the country at all; and yet so ancient that the
bottoms supported forests, rich grasses, and rounded, gentle knolls.
It was a most astonishing set of double impressions.
We succeeded in killing a nice, fat white-tail buck, and so
returned to camp happy. The rain, held off. We dug ditches,
organised shelters, cooked a warm meal. For the next day we planned
a bear hunt afoot, far up a manzanita canon where Uncle Jim knew of
some "holing up" caves.
But when we awoke in the morning we threw aside our coverings with
some difficulty to look on a ground covered with snow; trees laden
almost to the breaking point with snow, and the air filled with it.
"No bear today" said the Cattleman.
"No," agreed Uncle Jim drily. "No b'ar. And what's more, unless
yo're aimin' to stop here somewhat of a spell, we'll have to make out
We cooked with freezing fingers, ate while dodging avalanches from
the trees, and packed reluctantly. The ropes were frozen, the hobbles
stiff, everything either crackling or wet. Finally the task was
finished. We took a last warming of the fingers and climbed on.
The country was wonderfully beautiful with the white not yet
shaken from the trees and rock ledges. Also it was wonderfully
slippery. The snow was soft enough to ball under the horses' hoofs,
so that most of the time the poor animals skated and stumbled along on
stilts. Thus we made our way back over ground which, naked of these
difficulties, we had considered bad enough.
Imagine riding along a slant of rock shelving off to a bad tumble,
so steep that your pony has to do more or less expert ankle work to
keep from slipping off sideways. During the passage of that rock you
are apt to sit very light. Now cover it with several inches of snow,
stick a snowball on each hoof of your mount, and try again. When you
have ridden it--or its duplicate--a few score of times, select a steep
mountain side, cover it with round rocks the size of your head, and
over that spread a concealing blanket of the same sticky snow. You
are privileged to vary these to the limits of your imagination.
Once across the divide, we ran into a new sort of trouble. You
may remember that on our journey over we had been forced to travel
for some distance in a narrow stream-bed. During our passage we had
scrambled up some rather steep and rough slopes, and hopped up some
fairly high ledges. Now we found the heretofore dry bed flowing a
good eight inches deep. The steep slopes had become cascades; the
ledges, waterfalls. When we came to them, we had to "shoot the
rapids" as best we could, only to land with a PLUNK in an
indeterminately deep pool at the bottom. Some of the pack horses went
down, sousing again our unfortunate bedding, but by the grace of
fortune not a saddle pony lost his feet.
After a time the gorge widened. We came out into the box canon
with its trees. Here the water spread and shoaled to a depth of only
two or three inches. We splashed along gaily enough, for, with the
exception of an occasional quicksand or boggy spot, our troubles were
Jed Parker and I happened to ride side by side, bringing up the
rear and seeing to it that the pack animals did not stray or linger.
As we passed the first of the rustlers' corrals, he called my
attention to them.
"Go take a look," said he. "We only got those fellows out of here
two years ago."
I rode over. At this point the rim-rock broke to admit the
ingress of a ravine into the main canon. Riding a short distance up
the ravine, I could see that it ended abruptly in a perpendicular
cliff. As the sides also were precipitous, it became necessary only
to build a fence across the entrance into the main canon to become
possessed of a corral completely closed in. Remembering the absolute
invisibility of these sunken canons until the rider is almost directly
over them, and also the extreme roughness and remoteness of the
district, I could see that the spot was admirably adapted to
"There's quite a yarn about the gang that held this hole," said
Jed Parker to me, when I had ridden back to him "I'll tell you about
it sometime." We climbed the hill, descended on the Double R, built a
fire in the stove, dried out, and were happy. After a square
meal--and a dry one--I reminded Jed Parker of his promise, and so,
sitting cross-legged on his "so-gun" in the middle of the floor, he
told us the following yarn:
There's a good deal of romance been written about the "bad man,"
and there's about the same amount of nonsense. The bad man is justa
plain murderer, neither more nor less. He never does get into a real,
good, plain, stand-up gunfight if he can possibly help it. His
killin's are done from behind a door, or when he's got his man dead to
rights. There's Sam Cook. You've all heard of him. He had nerve, of
course, and when he was backed into a corner he made good; he was sure
sudden death with a gun. But when he went for a man deliberate, he
didn't take no special chances. For a while he was marshal at
Willets. Pretty soon it was noted that there was a heap of cases of
resisting arrest, where Sam as marshal had to shoot, and that those
cases almost always happened to be his personal enemies. Of course,
that might be all right, but it looked suspicious. Then one day he
killed poor old Max Schmidt out behind his own saloon. Called him
out and shot him in the stomach. Said Max resisted arrest on a
warrant for keepin' open out of hours! That was a sweet warrant to
take out in Willets, anyway! Mrs. Schmidt always claimed that she say
that deal played, and that, while they were talkin' perfectly
peacable, Cook let drive from the hip at about two yards' range.
Anyway, we decided we needed another marshal. Nothin' else was ever
done, for the Vigilantes hadn't been formed, and your individual and
decent citizen doesn't care to be marked by a gun of that stripe.
Leastwise, unless he wants to go in for bad-man methods and do a
little ambusheein' on his own account.
The point is, that these yere bad men are a low-down, miserable
proposition, and plain, cold-blood murderers, willin' to wait for a
sure thing, and without no compunctions whatsoever. The bad man takes
you unawares, when you're sleepin', or talkin', or drinkin', or
lookin' to see what for a day it's goin' to be, anyway. He don't give
you no show, and sooner or later he's goin' to get you in the safest
and easiest way for himself. There ain't no romance about that.
And, until you've seen a few men called out of their shacks for a
friendly conversation, and shot when they happen to look away; or
asked for a drink of water, and killed when they stoop to the spring;
or potted from behind as they go into a room, it's pretty hard to
believe that any man can he so plumb lackin' in fair play or pity or
just natural humanity.
As you boys know, I come in from Texas to Buck Johnson's about ten
year back. I had a pretty good mount of ponies that I knew, and I
hated to let them go at prices they were offerin' then, so I made up
my mind to ride across and bring them in with me. It wasn't so awful
far, and I figured that I'd like to take in what New Mexico looked
About down by Albuquerque I tracked up with another outfit headed
my way. There was five of them, three men, and a woman, and a
yearlin' baby. They had a dozen hosses, and that was about all I
could see. There was only two packed, and no wagon. I suppose the
whole outfit--pots, pans, and kettles--was worth five dollars. It was
just supper when I run across them, and it didn't take more'n one look
to discover that flour, coffee, sugar, and salt was all they carried.
A yearlin' carcass, half-skinned, lay near, and the fry-pan was, full
"Howdy, strangers," says I, ridin' up.
They nodded a little, but didn't say nothin'. My hosses fell to
grazin', and I eased myself around in my saddle, and made a cigareet.
The men was tall, lank fellows, with kind of sullen faces, and sly,
shifty eyes; the woman was dirty and generally mussed up. I knowed
that sort all right. Texas was gettin' too many fences for them.
"Havin' supper?" says I, cheerful.
One of 'em grunted "Yes" at me; and, after a while, the biggest
asked me very grudgin' if I wouldn't light and eat, I told them "No,"
that I was travellin' in the cool of the evenin'.
"You seem to have more meat than you need, though," says I. "I
could use a little of that."
"Help yourself," says they. "It's a maverick we come across."
I took a steak, and noted that the hide had been mighty well cut
to ribbons around the flanks and that the head was gone.
"Well," says I to the carcass, "No one's going to be able to swear
whether you're a maverick or not, but I bet you knew the feel of a
brandin' iron all right."
I gave them a thank-you, and climbed on again. My hosses acted
some surprised at bein' gathered up again, but I couldn't help that.
"It looks like a plumb imposition, cavallos," says I to them,
"after an all-day, but you sure don't want to join that outfit any
more than I do the angels, and if we camp here we're likely to do
I didn't see them any more after that until I'd hit the Lazy Y,
and had started in runnin' cattle in the Soda Springs Valley. Larry
Eagen and I rode together those days, and that's how I got to know him
pretty well. One day, over in the Elm Flat, we ran smack on this
Texas outfit again, headed north. This time I was on my own range,
and I knew where I stood, so I could show a little more curiosity in
"Well, you got this far," says I.
"Yes," says they.
"Where you headed?"
"Over towards the hills."
"What to do?"
"Make a ranch, raise some truck; perhaps buy a few cows."
They went on.
"Truck" says I to Larry, "is fine prospects in this country."
He sat on his horse looking after them.
"I'm sorry for them" says he. "It must he almighty hard
Well, we rode the range for upwards of two year. In that time we
saw our Texas friends--name of Hahn--two or three times in Willets,
and heard of them off and on. They bought an old brand of Steve
McWilliams for seventy-five dollars, carryin' six or eight head of
cows. After that, from time to time, we heard of them buying
more--two or three head from one man, and two or three from another.
They branded them all with that McWilliams iron--T 0--so, pretty
soon, we began to see the cattle on the range.
Now, a good cattleman knows cattle just as well as you know
people, and he can tell them about as far off. Horned critters look
alike to you, but even in a country supportin' a good many thousand
head, a man used to the business can recognise most every individual
as far as he can see him. Some is better than others at it. I
suppose you really have to be brought up to it. So we boys at the Lazy
Y noted all the cattle with the new T 0, and could estimate pretty
close that the Hahn outfit might own, maybe, thirty-five head all
That was all very well, and nobody had any kick comin'. Then one
day in the spring, we came across our first "sleeper."
What's a sleeper? A sleeper is a calf that has been ear-marked,
but not branded. Every owner has a certain brand, as you know, and
then he crops and slits the ears in a certain way, too. In that
manner he don't have to look at the brand, except to corroborate the
ears; and, as the critter generally sticks his ears up inquirin'-like
to anyone ridin' up, it's easy to know the brand without lookin' at
it, merely from the ear-marks. Once in a great while, when a man
comes across an unbranded calf, and it ain't handy to build a fire, he
just ear-marks it and let's the brandin' go till later. But it isn't
done often, and our outfit had strict orders never to make sleepers.
Well, one day in the spring, as I say, Larry and me was ridin',
when we came across a Lazy Y cow and calf. The little fellow was
ear-marked all right, so we rode on, and never would have discovered
nothin' if a bush rabbit hadn't jumped and scared the calf right
across in front of our hosses. Then we couldn't help but see that
there wasn't no brand.
Of course we roped him and put the iron on him. I took the chance
to look at his ears,, and saw that the marking had been done quite
recent, so when we got in that night I reported to Buck Johnson that
one of the punchers was gettin' lazy and sleeperin'. Naturally he
went after the man who had done it; but every puncher swore up and
down, and back and across, that he'd branded every calf he'd had a
rope on that spring. We put it down that someone was lyin', and let
it go at that.
And then, about a week later, one of the other boys reported a
Triangle-H sleeper. The Triangle-H was the Goodrich brand, so we
didn't have nothin' to do with that. Some of them might be
sleeperin' for all we knew. Three other cases of the same kind we
happened across that same spring.
So far, so good. Sleepers runnin' in such numbers was a little
astonishin', but nothin' suspicious. Cattle did well that summer,
and when we come to round up in the fall, we cut out maybe a dozen of
those T 0 cattle that had strayed out of that Hahn country. Of the
dozen there was five grown cows, and seven yearlin's.
"My Lord, Jed," says Buck to me, "they's a heap of these
youngsters comin' over our way."
But still, as a young critter is more apt to stray than an old one
that's got his range established, we didn't lay no great store by that
neither. The Hahns took their bunch, and that's all there was to it.
Next spring, though, we found a few more sleepers, and one day we
came on a cow that had gone dead lame. That was usual, too, but
Buck, who was with me, had somethin' on his mind. Finally he turned
back and roped her, and threw her.
"Look here, Jed," says he, "what do you make of this?"
I could see where the hind legs below the hocks had been burned.
"Looks like somebody had roped her by the hind feet," says I.
"Might be," says he, "but her heels lame that way makes it look
more like hobbles."
So we didn't say nothin' more about that neither, until just by
luck we came on another lame cow. We threw her, too.
"Well, what do you think of this one?" Buck Johnson asks me.
"The feet is pretty well tore up," says I, "and down to the quick,
but I've seen them tore up just as bad on the rocks when they come
down out of the mountains."
You sabe what that meant, don't you? You see, a rustler will take
a cow and hobble her, or lame her so she can't follow, and then he'll
take her calf a long ways off and brand it with his iron. Of course,
if we was to see a calf of one brand followin' of a cow with another,
it would be just too easy to guess what had happened.
We rode on mighty thoughtful. There couldn't be much doubt that
cattle rustlers was at work. The sleepers they had ear-marked,
hopin' that no one would discover the lack of a brand. Then, after
the calf was weaned, and quit followin' of his mother, the rustler
would brand it with his own iron, and change its ear-mark to match.
It made a nice, easy way of gettin' together a bunch of cattle cheap.
But it was pretty hard to guess off-hand who the rustlers might
be. There were a lot of renegades down towards the Mexican line who
made a raid once in a while, and a few oilers  livin' near had
water holes in the foothills, and any amount of little cattle holders,
like this T 0 outfit, and any of them wouldn't shy very hard at a
little sleeperin' on the side. Buck Johnson told us all to watch out,
and passed the word quiet among the big owners to try and see whose
cattle seemed to have too many calves for the number of cows.
The Texas outfit I'm tellin' you about had settled up above in
this Double R canon where I showed you those natural corrals this
morning. They'd built them a 'dobe, and cleared some land, and
planted a few trees, and made an irrigated patch for alfalfa. Nobody
never rode over his way very much, 'cause the country was most too
rough for cattle, and our ranges lay farther to the southward. Now,
however, we began to extend our ridin' a little.
I was down towards Dos Cabesas to look over the cattle there, and
they used to send Larry up into the Double R country. One evenin' he
took me to one side.
"Look here, Jed," says he, "I know you pretty well, and I'm not
ashamed to say that I'm all new at this cattle business--in fact, I
haven't been at it more'n a year. What should be the proportion of
cows to calves anyhow?"
"There ought to be about twice as many cows as there're calves," I
"Then, with only about fifty head of grown cows, there ought not
to be an equal number of yearlin's?"
"I should say not," says I. "What are you drivin' at?"
"Nothin' yet," says he.
A few days later he tackled me again.
"Jed," says he, "I'm not good, like you fellows are, at knowin'
one cow from another, but there's a calf down there branded T 0 that
I'd pretty near swear I saw with an X Y cow last month. I wish you
could come down with me."
We got that fixed easy enough, and for the next month rammed
around through this broken country lookin' for evidence. I saw
enough to satisfy me to a moral certainty, but nothin' for a sheriff;
and, of course, we couldn't go shoot up a peaceful rancher on mere
suspicion. Finally, one day, we run on a four-months' calf all by
himself, with the T 0 iron onto him--a mighty healthy lookin' calf,
"Wonder where HIS mother is!" says I.
"Maybe it's a 'dogie,'" says Larry Eagen--we calls calves whose
mothers have died "dogies."
"No," says I, "I don't hardly think so. A dogie is always under
size and poor, and he's layin' around water holes, and he always has
a big, sway belly onto him. No, this is no dogie; and, if it's an
honest calf, there sure ought to be a T 0 cow around somewhere."
So we separated to have a good look. Larry rode up on the edge of
a little rimrock. In a minute I saw his hoss jump back, dodgin' a
rattlesnake or somethin', and then fall back out of sight. I jumped
my hoss up there tur'ble quick, and looked over, expectin' to see
nothin' but mangled remains. It was only about fifteen foot down, but
I couldn't see bottom 'count of some brush.
"Are you all right?" I yells.
"Yes, yes!" cries Larry, "but for the love of God, get down here
as quick as you can."
I hopped off my hoss and scrambled down somehow.
"Hurt?" says I, as soon as I lit.
"Not a bit--look here."
There was a dead cow with the Lazy Y on her flank.
"And a bullet-hole in her forehead," adds Larry. "And, look here,
that T 0 calf was bald-faced, and so was this cow."
"Reckon we found our sleepers," says I.
So, there we was. Larry had to lead his cavallo down the barranca
to the main canon. I followed along on the rim, waitin' until a place
gave me a chance to get down, too, or Larry a chance to get up. We
were talkin' back and forth when, all at once, Larry shouted again.
"Big game this time," he yells. "Here's a cave and a mountain lion
squallin' in it."
I slid down to him at once, and we drew our six-shooters and went
up to the cave openin', right under the rim-rock. There, sure
enough, were fresh lion tracks, and we could hear a little faint
cryin' like woman.
"First chance," claims Larry, and dropped to his hands and knees
at the entrance.
"Well, damn me!" he cries, and crawls in at once, payin' no
attention to me tellin' him to be more cautious. In a minute he
backs out, carryin' a three-year-old goat. "We seem to he in for
adventures to-day," says he. "Now, where do you suppose that came
from, and how did it get here?"
"Well," says I, "I've followed lion tracks where they've carried
yearlin's across their backs like a fox does a goose. They're
"But where did she come from?" he wonders.
"As for that," says I, "don't you remember now that T 0 outfit had
a yearlin' kid when it came into the country?"
"That's right," says he. "It's only a mile down the canon. I'll
take it home. They must be most distracted about it."
So I scratched up to the top where my pony was waitin'. It was a
tur'ble hard climb, and I 'most had to have hooks on my eyebrows to
get up at all. It's easier to slide down than to climb back. I
dropped my gun out of my holster, and she went way to the bottom, but
I wouldn't have gone back for six guns. Larry picked it up for me.
So we went along, me on the rim-rock and around the barrancas, and
Larry in the bottom carryin' of the kid.
By and by we came to the ranch house, stopped to wait. The minute
Larry hove in sight everybody was out to once, and in two winks the
woman had that baby. Thy didn't see me at all, but I could hear,
plain enough, what they said. Larry told how he had found her in the
cave, and all about the lion tracks, and the woman cried and held the
kid close to her, and thanked him about forty times. Then when she'd
wore the edge off a little, she took the kid inside to feed it or
"Well," says Larry, still laughin', "I must hit the trail."
"You say you found her up the Double R?" asks Hahn. "Was it that
cave near the three cottonwoods?"
"Yes," says Larry.
"Where'd you get into the canyon?"
"Oh, my hoss slipped off into the barranca just above."
"The barranca just above," repeats Hahn, lookin' straight at him.
Larry took one step back.
"You ought to be almighty glad I got into the canyon at all," says
Hahn stepped up, holdin' out his hand.
"That's right," says he. "You done us a good turn there."
Larry took his hand. At the same time Hahn pulled his gun and
shot him through the middle.
It was all so sudden and unexpected that I stood there paralysed.
Larry fell forward the way a man mostly will when he's hit in the
stomach, but somehow he jerked loose a gun and got it off twice. He
didn't hit nothin', and I reckon he was dead before he hit the ground.
And there he had my gun, and I was about as useless as a pocket in a
No, sir, you can talk as much as you please, but the killer is a
low-down ornery scub, and he don't hesitate at no treachery or
ingratitude to keep his carcass safe.
Jed Parker ceased talking. The dusk had fallen in the little
room, and dimly could be seen the recumbent figures lying at ease on
their blankets. The ranch foreman was sitting bolt upright,
cross-legged. A faint glow from his pipe barely distinguished his
"What became of the rustlers?" I asked him.
"Well, sir, that is the queer part. Hahn himself, who had done
the killin', skipped out. We got out warrants, of course, but they
never got served. He was a sort of half outlaw from that time, and
was killed finally in the train hold-up of '97. But the others we
tried for rustling. We didn't have much of a case, as the law went
then, and they'd have gone free if the woman hadn't turned evidence
against them. The killin' was too much for her. And, as the
precedent held good in a lot of other rustlin' cases, Larry's death
was really the beginnin' of law and order in the cattle business."
We smoked. The last light suddenly showed red against the grimy
window. Windy Bill arose and looked out the door.
"Boys," said he, returning. "She's cleared off. We can get back
to the ranch tomorrow."
CHAPTER FIVE. THE DRIVE
A cry awakened me. It was still deep night. The moon sailed
overhead, the stars shone unwavering like candles, and a chill breeze
wandered in from the open spaces of the desert. I raised myself on my
elbow, throwing aside the blankets and the canvas tarpaulin. Forty
other indistinct, formless bundles on the ground all about me were
sluggishly astir. Four figures passed and repassed between me and a
red fire. I knew them for the two cooks and the horse wranglers. One
of the latter was grumbling.
"Didn't git in till moon-up last night," he growled. "Might as
well trade my bed for a lantern and be done with it."
Even as I stretched my arms and shivered a little, the two
wranglers threw down their tin plates with a clatter, mounted horses
and rode away in the direction of the thousand acres or so known as
I pulled on my clothes hastily, buckled in my buckskin shirt, and
dove for the fire. A dozen others were before me. It was bitterly
cold. In the east the sky had paled the least bit in the world, but
the moon and stars shone on bravely and undiminished. A band of
coyotes was shrieking desperate blasphemies against the new day, and
the stray herd, awakening, was beginning to bawl and bellow.
Two crater-like dutch ovens, filled with pieces of fried beef,
stood near the fire; two galvanised water buckets, brimming with soda
biscuits, flanked them; two tremendous coffee pots stood guard at
either end. We picked us each a tin cup and a tin plate from the box
at the rear of the chuck wagon; helped ourselves from a dutch oven, a
pail, and a coffee pot, and squatted on our heels as close to the fire
as possible. Men who came too late borrowed the shovel, scooped up
some coals, and so started little fires of their own about which new
While we ate, the eastern sky lightened. The mountains under the
dawn looked like silhouettes cut from slate-coloured paper; those in
the west showed faintly luminous. Objects about us became dimly
visible. We could make out the windmill, and the adobe of the ranch
houses, and the corrals. The cowboys arose one by one, dropped their
plates into the dishpan, and began to hunt out their ropes.
Everything was obscure and mysterious in the faint grey light. I
watched Windy Bill near his tarpaulin. He stooped to throw over the
canvas. When he bent, it was before daylight; when he straightened
his back, daylight had come. It was just like that, as though someone
had reached out his hand to turn on the illumination of the world.
The eastern mountains were fragile, the plain was ethereal, like a
sea of liquid gases. From the pasture we heard the shoutings of the
wranglers, and made out a cloud of dust. In a moment the first of the
remuda came into view, trotting forward with the free grace of the
unburdened horse. Others followed in procession: those near sharp and
well defined, those in the background more or less obscured by the
dust, now appearing plainly, now fading like ghosts. The leader
turned unhesitatingly into the corral. After him poured the stream of
the remuda--two hundred and fifty saddle horses--with an unceasing
thunder of hoofs.
Immediately the cook-camp was deserted. The cowboys entered the
corral. The horses began to circle around the edge of the enclosure
as around the circumference of a circus ring. The men, grouped at the
centre, watched keenly, looking for the mounts they had already
decided on. In no time each had recognised his choice, and, his loop
trailing, was walking toward that part of the revolving circumference
where his pony dodged. Some few whirled the loop, but most cast it
with a quick flip. It was really marvellous to observe the accuracy
with which the noose would fly, past a dozen tossing heads, and over a
dozen backs, to settle firmly about the neck of an animal perhaps in
the very centre of the group. But again, if the first throw failed,
it was interesting to see how the selected pony would dodge, double
back, twist, turn, and hide to escape second cast. And it was
equally interesting to observe how his companions would help him.
They seemed to realise that they were not wanted, and would push
themselves between the cowboy and his intended mount with the utmost
boldness. In the thick dust that instantly arose, and with the
bewildering thunder of galloping, the flashing change of grouping, the
rush of the charging animals, recognition alone would seem almost
impossible, yet in an incredibly short time each had his mount, and
the others, under convoy of the wranglers, were meekly wending their
way out over the plain. There, until time for a change of horses, they
would graze in a loose and scattered band, requiring scarcely any
supervision. Escape? Bless you, no, that thought was the last in
In the meantime the saddles and bridles were adjusted. Always in
a cowboy's "string" of from six to ten animals the boss assigns him
two or three broncos to break in to the cow business. Therefore, each
morning we could observe a half dozen or so men gingerly leading
wicked looking little animals out to the sand "to take the pitch out
of them." One small black, belonging to a cowboy called the Judge,
used more than to fulfil expectations of a good time.
"Go to him, Judge!" someone would always remark.
"If he ain't goin' to pitch, I ain't goin' to make him", the Judge
would grin, as he swung aboard.
The black would trot off quite calmly and in a most matter of fact
way, as though to shame all slanderers of his lamb-like character.
Then, as the bystanders would turn away, he would utter a squeal,
throw down his head, and go at it. He was a very hard bucker, and
made some really spectacular jumps, but the trick on which he based
his claims to originality consisted in standing on his hind legs at so
perilous an approach to the perpendicular that his rider would
conclude he was about to fall backwards, and then suddenly springing
forward in a series of stiff-legged bucks. The first manoeuvre induced
the rider to loosen his seat in order to be ready to jump from under,
and the second threw him before he could regain his grip.
"And they say a horse don't think!" exclaimed an admirer.
But as these were broken horses--save the mark!--the show was all
over after each had had his little fling. We mounted and rode away,
just as the mountain peaks to the west caught the rays of a sun we
should not enjoy for a good half hour yet.
I had five horses in my string, and this morning rode "that C S
horse, Brown Jug." Brown Jug was a powerful and well-built animal,
about fourteen two in height, and possessed of a vast enthusiasm for
cow-work. As the morning was frosty, he felt good.
At the gate of the water corral we separated into two groups. The
smaller, under the direction of Jed Parker, was to drive the mesquite
in the wide flats. The rest of us, under the command of Homer, the
round-up captain, were to sweep the country even as far as the base of
the foothills near Mount Graham. Accordingly we put our horses to the
Mile after mile we thundered along at a brisk rate of speed.
Sometimes we dodged in and out among the mesquite bushes, alternately
separating and coming together again; sometimes we swept over grassy
plains apparently of illimitable extent, sometimes we skipped and
hopped and buck-jumped through and over little gullies, barrancas, and
other sorts of malpais--but always without drawing rein. The men rode
easily, with no thought to the way nor care for the footing. The air
came back sharp against our faces. The warm blood stirred by the rush
flowed more rapidly. We experienced a delightful glow. Of the
morning cold only the very tips of our fingers and the ends of our
noses retained a remnant. Already the sun was shining low and level
across the plains. The shadows of the canons modelled the hitherto
flat surfaces of the mountains.
After a time we came to some low hills helmeted with the outcrop
of a rock escarpment. Hitherto they had seemed a termination of
Mount Graham, but now, when we rode around them, we discovered them
to be separated from the range by a good five miles of sloping plain.
Later we looked back and would have sworn them part of the Dos
Cabesas system, did we not know them to be at least eight miles'
distant from that rocky rampart. It is always that way in Arizona.
Spaces develop of whose existence you had not the slightest
intimation. Hidden in apparently plane surfaces are valleys and
prairies. At one sweep of the eye you embrace the entire area of an
eastern State; but nevertheless the reality as you explore it foot by
foot proves to be infinitely more than the vision has promised.
Beyond the hill we stopped. Here our party divided again, half to
the right and half to the left. We had ridden, up to this time,
directly away from camp, now we rode a circumference of which
headquarters was the centre. The country was pleasantly rolling and
covered with grass. Here and there were clumps of soapweed. Far in a
remote distance lay a slender dark line across the plain. This we
knew to be mesquite; and once entered, we knew it, too, would seem to
spread out vastly. And then this grassy slope, on which we now rode,
would show merely as an insignificant streak of yellow. It is also
like that in Arizona.
I have ridden in succession through grass land, brush land, flower
land, desert. Each in turn seemed entirely to fill the space of the
plains between the mountains.
From time to time Homer halted us and detached a man. The
business of the latter was then to ride directly back to camp,
driving all cattle before him. Each was in sight of his right- and
left-hand neighbour. Thus was constructed a drag-net whose meshes
contracted as home was neared.
I was detached, when of our party only the Cattleman and Homer
remained. They would take the outside. This was the post of honour,
and required the hardest riding, for as soon as the cattle should
realise the fact of their pursuit, they would attempt to "break" past
the end and up the valley. Brown Jug and I congratulated ourselves on
an exciting morning in prospect.
Now, wild cattle know perfectly well what a drive means, and they
do not intend to get into a round-up if they can help it. Were it
not for the two facts, that they are afraid of a mounted man, and
cannot run quite so fast as a horse, I do not know how the cattle
business would be conducted. As soon as a band of them caught sight
of any one of us, they curled their tails and away they went at a
long, easy lope that a domestic cow would stare at in wonder. This
was all very well; in fact we yelled and shrieked and otherwise
uttered cow-calls to keep them going, to "get the cattle started," as
they say. But pretty soon a little band of the many scurrying away
before our thin line, began to bear farther and farther to the east.
When in their judgment they should have gained an opening, they would
turn directly back and make a dash for liberty. Accordingly the
nearest cowboy clapped spurs to his horse and pursued them.
It was a pretty race. The cattle ran easily enough, with long,
springy jumps that carried them over the ground faster than
appearances would lead one to believe. The cow-pony, his nose
stretched out, his ears slanted, his eyes snapping with joy of the
chase, flew fairly "belly to earth." The rider sat slightly forward,
with the cowboy's loose seat. A whirl of dust, strangely
insignificant against the immensity of a desert morning, rose from the
flying group. Now they disappeared in a ravine, only to scramble out
again the next instant, pace undiminished. The rider merely rose
slightly and threw up his elbows to relieve the jar of the rough
gully. At first the cattle seemed to hold their, own, but soon the
horse began to gain. In a short time he had come abreast of the
The latter stopped short with a snort, dodged back, and set out at
right angles to his former course. From a dead run the pony came to a
stand in two fierce plunges, doubled like a shot, and was off on the
other tack. An unaccustomed rider would here have lost his seat. The
second dash was short. With a final shake of the head, the steers
turned to the proper course in the direction of the ranch. The pony
dropped unconcernedly to the shuffling jog of habitual progression.
Far away stretched the arc of our cordon. The most distant rider
was a speck, and the cattle ahead of him were like maggots endowed
with a smooth, swift onward motion. As yet the herd had not taken
form; it was still too widely scattered. Its units, in the shape of
small bunches, momently grew in numbers. The distant plains were
crawling and alive with minute creatures making toward a common tiny
Immediately in our front the cattle at first behaved very well.
Then far down the long gentle slope I saw a break for the upper
valley. The manikin that represented Homer at once became even
smaller as it departed in pursuit. The Cattleman moved down to cover
Homer's territory until he should return--and I in turn edged farther
to the right. Then another break from another bunch. The Cattleman
rode at top speed to head it. Before long he disappeared in the
distant mesquite. I found myself in sole charge of a front three
The nearest cattle were some distance ahead, and trotting along at
a good gait. As they had not yet discovered the chance left open by
unforeseen circumstance, I descended and took in on my cinch while yet
there was time. Even as I mounted, an impatient movement on the part
of experienced Brown Jug told me that the cattle had seen their
I gathered the reins and spoke to the horse. He needed no further
direction, but set off at a wide angle, nicely calculated, to
intercept the truants. Brown Jug was a powerful beast. The spring of
his leap was as whalebone. The yellow earth began to stream past like
water. Always the pace increased with a growing thunder of hoofs. It
seemed that nothing could turn us from the straight line, nothing
check the headlong momentum of our rush. My eyes filled with tears
from the wind of our going. Saddle strings streamed behind. Brown
Jug's mane whipped my bridle band. Dimly I was conscious of soapweed,
sacatone, mesquite, as we passed them. They were abreast and gone
before I could think of them or how they were to be dodged. Two
antelope bounded away to the left; birds rose hastily from the
grasses. A sudden chirk, chirk, chirk, rose all about me. We were in
the very centre of a prairie-dog town, but before I could formulate in
my mind the probabilities of holes and broken legs, the chirk, chirk,
chirking had fallen astern. Brown Jug had skipped and dodged
We were approaching the cattle. They ran stubbornly and well,
evidently unwilling to be turned until the latest possible moment. A
great rage at their obstinacy took possession of us both. A broad
shallow wash crossed our way, but we plunged through its rocks and
boulders recklessly, angered at even the slight delay they
necessitated. The hardland on the other side we greeted with joy.
Brown Jug extended himself with a snort.
Suddenly a jar seemed to shake my very head loose. I found myself
staring over the horse's head directly down into a deep and
precipitous gully, the edge of which was so cunningly concealed by the
grasses as to have remained invisible to my blurred vision. Brown
Jug, however, had caught sight of it at the last instant, and had
executed one of the wonderful stops possible only to a cow-pony.
But already the cattle had discovered a passage above, and were
scrambling down and across. Brown Jug and I, at more sober pace,
slid off the almost perpendicular bank, and out the other side.
A moment later we had headed them. They whirled, and without the
necessity of any suggestion on my part Brown Jug turned after them,
and so quickly that my stirrup actually brushed the ground.
After that we were masters. We chased the cattle far enough to
start them well in the proper direction, and then pulled down to a
walk in order to get a breath of air.
But now we noticed another band, back on the ground over which we
had just come, doubling through in the direction of Mount Graham. A
hard run set them to rights. We turned. More had poured out from the
hills. Bands were crossing everywhere, ahead and behind. Brown Jug
and I went to work.
Being an indivisible unit, we could chase only one bunch at a
time; and, while we were after one, a half dozen others would be
taking advantage of our preoccupation. We could not hold our own.
Each run after an escaping bunch had to be on a longer diagonal.
Gradually we were forced back, and back, and back; but still we
managed to hold the line unbroken. Never shall I forget the dash and
clatter of that morning. Neither Brown Jug nor I thought for a moment
of sparing horseflesh, nor of picking a route. We made the shortest
line, and paid little attention to anything that stood in the way. A
very fever of resistance possessed us. It was like beating against a
head wind, or fighting fire, or combating in any other of the great
forces of nature. We were quite alone. The Cattleman and Homer had
vanished. To our left the men were fully occupied in marshalling the
compact brown herds that had gradually massed--for these antagonists
of mine were merely outlying remnants.
I suppose Brown Jug must have run nearly twenty miles with only
one check. Then we chased a cow some distance and into the dry bed
of a stream, where she whirled on us savagely. By luck her horn hit
only the leather of my saddle skirts, so we left her; for when a cow
has sense enough to "get on the peck," there is no driving her
farther. We gained nothing, and had to give ground, but we succeeded
in holding a semblance of order, so that the cattle did not break and
scatter far and wide. The sun had by now well risen, and was
beginning to shine hot. Brown Jug still ran gamely and displayed as
much interest as ever, but he was evidently tiring. We were both glad
to see Homer's grey showing in the fringe of mesquite.
Together we soon succeeded in throwing the cows into the main
herd. And, strangely enough, as soon as they had joined a compact
band of their fellows, their wildness left them and, convoyed by
outsiders, they set themselves to plodding energetically toward the
As my horse was somewhat winded, I joined the "drag" at the rear.
Here by course of natural sifting soon accumulated all the lazy,
gentle, and sickly cows, and the small calves. The difficulty now
was to prevent them from lagging and dropping out. To that end we
indulged in a great variety of the picturesque cow-calls peculiar to
the cowboy. One found an old tin can which by the aid of a few
pebbles he converted into a very effective rattle.
The dust rose in clouds and eddied in the sun. We slouched easily
in our saddles. The cowboys compared notes as to the brands they had
seen. Our ponies shuffled along, resting, but always ready for a dash
in chase of an occasional bull calf or yearling with independent ideas
of its own.
Thus we passed over the country, down the long gentle slope to the
"sink" of the valley, whence another long gentle slope ran to the base
of the other ranges. At greater or lesser distances we caught the
dust, and made out dimly the masses of the other herds collected by
our companions, and by the party under Jed Parker. They went forward
toward the common centre, with a slow ruminative movement, and the
dust they raised went with them.
Little by little they grew plainer to us, and the home ranch,
hitherto merely a brown shimmer in the distance, began to take on
definition as the group of buildings, windmills,and corrals we knew.
Miniature horsemen could be seen galloping forward to the open white
plain where the herd would be held. Then the mesquite enveloped us;
and we knew little more, save the anxiety lest we overlook laggards in
the brush, until we came out on the edge of that same white plain.
Here were more cattle, thousands of them, and billows of dust, and
a great bellowing, and slim, mounted figures riding and shouting ahead
of the herd. Soon they succeeded in turning the leaders back. These
threw into confusion those that followed. In a few moments the cattle
had stopped. A cordon of horsemen sat at equal distances holding them
"Pretty good haul," said the man next to me; "a good five thousand
CHAPTER SIX. CUTTING OUT
It was somewhere near noon by the time we had bunched and held the
herd of some four or five thousand head in the smooth, wide flat, free
from bushes and dog holes. Each sat at ease on his horse facing the
cattle, watching lazily the clouds of dust and the shifting beasts,
but ready at any instant to turn back the restless or independent
individuals that might break for liberty.
Out of the haze came Homer, the round-up captain, on an easy lope.
As he passed successively the sentries he delivered to each a low
command, but without slacking pace. Some of those spoken to wheeled
their horses and rode away. The others settled themselves in their
saddles and began to roll cigarettes.
"Change horses; get something to eat," said he to me; so I swung
after the file traveling at a canter over the low swells beyond the
The remuda had been driven by its leaders to a corner of the
pasture's wire fence, and there held. As each man arrived he
dismounted, threw off his saddle, and turned his animal loose. Then
he flipped a loop in his rope and disappeared in the eddying herd.
The discarded horse, with many grunts, indulged in a satisfying roll,
shook himself vigorously, and walked slowly away. His labour was over
for the day, and he knew it, and took not the slightest trouble to get
out of the way of the men with the swinging ropes.
Not so the fresh horses, however. They had no intention of being
caught, if they could help it, but dodged and twisted, hid and
doubled behind the moving screen of their friends. The latter,
seeming as usual to know they were not wanted, made no effort to
avoid the men, which probably accounted in great measure for the fact
that the herd as a body remained compact, in spite of the cowboys
threading it, and in spite of the lack of an enclosure.
Our horses caught, we saddled as hastily as possible; and then at
the top speed of our fresh and eager ponies we swept down on the
chuck wagon. There we fell off our saddles and descended on the meat
and bread like ravenous locusts on a cornfield. The ponies stood
where we left them, "tied to the ground", the cattle-country fashion.
As soon as a man had stoked up for the afternoon he rode away.
Some finished before others, so across the plain formed an endless
procession of men returning to the herd, and of those whom they
replaced coming for their turn at the grub.
We found the herd quiet. Some were even lying down, chewing their
cuds as peacefully as any barnyard cows. Most, however, stood
ruminative, or walked slowly to and fro in the confines allotted by
the horsemen, so that the herd looked from a distance like a brown
carpet whose pattern was constantly changing--a dusty brown carpet in
the process of being beaten. I relieved one of the watchers, and
settled myself for a wait.
At this close inspection the different sorts of cattle showed more
distinctly their characteristics. The cows and calves generally
rested peacefully enough, the calf often lying down while the mother
stood guard over it. Steers, however, were more restless. They
walked ceaselessly, threading their way in and out among the standing
cattle, pausing in brutish amazement at the edge of the herd, and
turning back immediately to endless journeyings. The bulls, excited
by so much company forced on their accustomed solitary habit, roared
defiance at each other until the air fairly trembled. Occasionally
two would clash foreheads. Then the powerful animals would push and
wrestle, trying for a chance to gore. The decision of supremacy was a
question of but a few minutes, and a bloody topknot the worst damage.
The defeated one side-stepped hastily and clumsily out of reach, and
then walked away.
Most of the time all we had to do was to sit our horses and watch
these things, to enjoy the warm bath of the Arizona sun, and to
converse with our next neighbours. Once in a while some enterprising
cow, observing the opening between the men, would start to walk out.
Others would fall in behind her until the movement would become
general. Then one of us would swing his leg off the pommel and jog
his pony over to head them off. They would return peacefully enough.
But one black muley cow, with a calf as black and muley as
herself, was more persistent. Time after time, with infinite
patience, she tried it again the moment my back was turned. I tried
driving her far into the herd. No use; she always returned.
Quirtings and stones had no effect on her mild and steady
"She's a San Simon cow," drawled my neighbour. "Everybody knows
her. She's at every round-up, just naturally raisin' hell."
When the last man had returned from chuck, Homer made the
dispositions for the cut. There were present probably thirty men
from the home ranches round about, and twenty representing owners at
a distance, here to pick up the strays inevitable to the season's
drift. The round-up captain appointed two men to hold the
cow-and-calf cut, and two more to hold the steer cut. Several of us
rode into the herd, while the remainder retained their positions as
sentinels to hold the main body of cattle in shape.
Little G and I rode slowly among the cattle looking everywhere.
The animals moved sluggishly aside to give us passage, and closed in
as sluggishly behind us, so that we were always closely hemmed in
wherever we went. Over the shifting sleek backs, through the eddying
clouds of dust, I could make out the figures of my companions moving
slowly, apparently aimlessly, here and there.
Our task for the moment was to search out the unbranded J H
calves. Since in ranks so closely crowded it would be physically
impossible actually to see an animal's branded flank, we depended
entirely on the ear-marks.
Did you ever notice how any animal, tame or wild, always points
his ears inquiringly in the direction of whatever interests or alarms
him? Those ears are for the moment his most prominent feature. So
when a brand is quite indistinguishable because, as now, of press of
numbers, or, as in winter, from extreme length of hair, the cropped
ears tell plainly the tale of ownership. As every animal is so marked
when branded, it follows that an uncut pair of ears means that its
owner has never felt the iron.
So, now we had to look first of all for calves with uncut ears.
After discovering one, we had to ascertain his ownership by examining
the ear-marks of his mother, by whose side he was sure, in this
alarming multitude, to be clinging faithfully.
Calves were numerous, and J H cows everywhere to be seen, so in
somewhat less than ten seconds I had my eye on a mother and son.
Immediately I turned Little G in their direction. At the slap of my
quirt against the stirrup, all the cows immediately about me shrank
suspiciously aside. Little G stepped forward daintily, his nostrils
expanding, his ears working back and forth, trying to the best of his
ability to understand which animals I had selected. The cow and her
calf turned in toward the centre of the herd. A touch of the reins
guided the pony. At once he comprehended. From that time on he
needed no further directions.
Cautiously, patiently, with great skill, he forced the cow through
the press toward the edge of the herd. It had to be done very
quietly, at a foot pace, so as to alarm neither the objects of pursuit
nor those surrounding them. When the cow turned back, Little G
somehow happened always in her way. Before she knew it she was at the
outer edge of the herd. There she found herself, with a group of
three or four companions, facing the open plain. Instinctively she
sought shelter. I felt Little G's muscles tighten beneath me. The
moment for action had come. Before the cow had a chance to dodge
among her companions the pony was upon her like a thunderbolt. She
broke in alarm, trying desperately to avoid the rush. There ensued an
exciting contest of dodgings, turnings,and doublings. Wherever she
turned Little G was before her. Some of his evolutions were
marvellous. All I had to do was to sit my saddle, and apply just that
final touch of judgment denied even the wisest of the lower animals.
Time and again the turn was so quick that the stirrup swept the
ground. At last the cow, convinced of the uselessness of further
effort to return, broke away on a long lumbering run to the open
plain. She was stopped and held by the men detailed, and so formed
the nucleus of the new cut-herd. Immediately Little G, his ears
working in conscious virtue, jog-trotted back into the herd, ready for
After a dozen cows had been sent across to the cut-herd, the work
simplified. Once a cow caught sight of this new band, she generally
made directly for it, head and tail up. After the first short
struggle to force her from the herd, all I had to do was to start her
in the proper direction and keep her at it until her decision was
fixed. If she was too soon left to her own devices, however, she was
likely to return. An old cowman knows to a second just the proper
moment to abandon her.
Sometimes, in spite of our best efforts a cow succeeded in
circling us and plunging into the main herd. The temptation was then
strong to plunge in also, and to drive her out by main force; but the
temptation had to be resisted. A dash into the thick of it might
break the whole band. At once, of his own accord, Little G dropped to
his fast, shuffling walk, and again we addressed ourselves to the task
of pushing her gently to the edge.
This was all comparatively simple--almost any pony is fast enough
for the calf cut--but now Homer gave orders for the steer cut to
begin, and steers are rapid and resourceful and full of natural
cussedness. Little G and I were relieved by Windy Bill, and betook
ourselves to the outside of the herd.
Here we had leisure to observe the effects that up to this moment
we had ourselves been producing. The herd, restless by reason of the
horsemen threading it, shifted, gave ground, expanded, and contracted,
so that its shape and size were always changing in the constant area
guarded by the sentinel cowboys. Dust arose from these movements,
clouds of it, to eddy and swirl, thicken and dissipate in the currents
of air. Now it concealed all but the nearest dimly-outlined animals;
again it parted in rifts through which mistily we discerned the riders
moving in and out of the fog; again it lifted high and thin, so that
we saw in clarity the whole herd and the outriders and the mesas far
away. As the afternoon waned, long shafts of sun slanted through this
dust. It played on men and beasts magically, expanding them to the
dimensions of strange genii, appearing and effacing themselves in the
billows of vapour from some enchanted bottle.
We on the outside found our sinecure of hot noon-tide filched from
us by the cooler hours. The cattle, wearied of standing, and perhaps
somewhat hungry and thirsty, grew more and more impatient. We rode
continually back and forth, turning the slow movement in on itself.
Occasionally some particularly enterprising cow would conclude that
one or another of the cut-herds would suit her better than this mill
of turmoil. She would start confidently out, head and tail up, find
herself chased back, get stubborn on the question, and lead her
pursuer a long, hard run before she would return to her companions.
Once in a while one would even have to be roped and dragged back.
For know, before something happens to you, that you can chase a cow
safely only until she gets hot and winded. Then she stands her
ground and gets emphatically "on the peck."
I remember very well when I first discovered this. It was after I
had had considerable cow work, too. I thought of cows as I had
always seen them--afraid of a horseman, easy to turn with the pony,
and willing to be chased as far as necessary to the work. Nobody told
me anything different. One day we were making a drive in an
exceedingly broken country. I was bringing in a small bunch I had
discovered in a pocket of the hills, but was excessively annoyed by
one old cow that insisted on breaking back. In the wisdom of further
experience, I now conclude that she probably had a calf in the brush.
Finally she got away entirely. After starting the bunch well ahead,
I went after her.
Well, the cow and I ran nearly side by side for as much as half a
mile at top speed. She declined to be headed. Finally she fell down
and was so entirely winded that she could not get up.
"Now, old girl, I've got you!" said I, and set myself to urging
her to her feet.
The pony acted somewhat astonished, and suspicious of the job.
Therein he knew a lot more than I did. But I insisted, and, like a
good pony, he obeyed. I yelled at the cow, and slapped my bat, and
used my quirt. When she had quite recovered her wind, she got slowly
to her feet--and charged me in a most determined manner.
Now, a bull, or a steer, is not difficult to dodge. He lowers his
head, shuts his eyes, and comes in on one straight rush. But a cow
looks to see what she is doing; her eyes are open every minute, and it
overjoys her to take a side hook at you even when you succeed in
eluding her direct charge.
The pony I was riding did his best, but even then could not avoid
a sharp prod that would have ripped him up had not my leather bastos
intervened. Then we retired to a distance in order to plan further;
but we did not succeed in inducing that cow to revise her ideas, so at
last we left her. When, in some chagrin, I mentioned to the round-up
captain the fact that I had skipped one animal, he merely laughed.
"Why, kid," said he, "you can't do nothin' with a cow that gets on
the prod that away 'thout you ropes her; and what could you do with
her out there if you DID rope her?"
So I learned one thing more about cows.
After the steer cut had been finished, the men representing the
neighbouring ranges looked through the herd for strays of their
brands. These were thrown into the stray-herd, which had been
brought up from the bottom lands to receive the new accessions. Work
was pushed rapidly, as the afternoon was nearly gone.
In fact, so absorbed were we that until it was almost upon us we
did not notice a heavy thunder-shower that arose in the region of the
Dragoon Mountains, and swept rapidly across the zenith. Before we knew
it the rain had begun. In ten seconds it had increased to a deluge,
and in twenty we were all to leeward of the herd striving desperately
to stop the drift of the cattle down wind.
We did everything in our power to stop them, but in vain. Slickers
waved, quirts slapped against leather, six-shooters flashed, but still
the cattle, heads lowered, advanced with slow and sullen persistence
that would not be stemmed. If we held our ground, they divided around
us. Step by step we were forced to give way--the thin line of
nervously plunging horses sprayed before the dense mass of the cattle.
"No, they won't stampede," shouted Charley to my question.
"There's cows and calves in them. If they was just steers or grown
critters, they might."
The sensations of those few moments were very vivid--the blinding
beat of the storm in my face, the unbroken front of horned heads
bearing down on me, resistless as fate, the long slant of rain with
the sun shining in the distance beyond it.
Abruptly the downpour ceased. We shook our hats free of water,
and drove the herd back to the cutting grounds again.
But now the surface of the ground was slippery, and the rapid
manoeuvring of horses had become a matter precarious in the extreme.
Time and again the ponies fairly sat on their haunches and slid when
negotiating a sudden stop, while quick turns meant the rapid
scramblings that only a cow-horse could accomplish. Nevertheless the
work went forward unchecked. The men of the other outfits cut their
cattle into the stray-herd. The latter was by now of considerable
size, for this was the third week of the round-up.
Finally everyone expressed himself as satisfied. The largely
diminished main herd was now started forward by means of shrill
cowboy cries and beating of quirts. The cattle were only too eager
to go. From my position on a little rise above the stray-herd I could
see the leaders breaking into a run, their heads thrown forward as
they snuffed their freedom. On the mesa side the sentinel riders
quietly withdrew. From the rear and flanks the horsemen closed in.
The cattle poured out in a steady stream through the opening thus
left on the mesa side. The fringe of cowboys followed, urging them
on. Abruptly the cavalcade turned and came loping back. The cattle
continued ahead on a trot, gradually spreading abroad over the
landscape, losing their integrity as a herd. Some of the slower or
hungrier dropped out and began to graze. Certain of the more wary
disappeared to right or left.
Now, after the day's work was practically over, we had our first
accident. The horse ridden by a young fellow from Dos Cabesas
slipped, fell, and rolled quite over his rider. At once the animal
lunged to his feet, only to he immediately seized by the nearest
rider. But the Dos Cabesas man lay still, his arms and legs spread
abroad, his head doubled sideways in a horribly suggestive manner. We
hopped off. Two men straightened him out, while two more looked
carefully over the indications on the ground.
"All right," sang out one of them, "the horn didn't catch him."
He pointed to the indentation left by the pommel. Indeed five
minutes brought the man to his senses. He complained of a very
twisted back. Homer set one of the men in after the bed-wagon, by
means of which the sufferer was shortly transported to camp. By the
end of the week he was again in the saddle. How men escape from this
common accident with injuries so slight has always puzzled me. The
horse rolls completely over his rider, and yet it seems to be the
rarest thing in the world for the latter to be either killed or
Now each man had the privilege of looking through the J H cuts to
see if by chance steers of his own had been included in them. When
all had expressed themselves as satisfied, the various bands were
started to the corrals.
From a slight eminence where I had paused to enjoy the evening I
looked down on the scene. The three herds, separated by generous
distance one from the other, crawled leisurely along; the riders,
their hats thrust back, lolled in their saddles, shouting
conversation to each other, relaxing after the day's work; through
the clouds strong shafts of light belittled the living creatures,
threw into proportion the vastness of the desert.
CHAPTER SEVEN. A CORNER IN HORSES
It was dark night. The stay-herd bellowed frantically from one of
the big corrals; the cow-and-calf-herd from a second. Already the
remuda, driven in from the open plains, scattered about the thousand
acres of pasture. Away from the conveniences of fence and corral, men
would have had to patrol all night. Now, however, everyone was
gathered about the camp fire.
Probably forty cowboys were in the group, representing all types,
from old John, who had been in the business forty years, and had
punched from the Rio Grande to the Pacific, to the Kid, who would
have given his chance of salvation if he could have been taken for
ten years older than he was. At the moment Jed Parker was holding
forth to his friend Johnny Stone in reference to another old crony who
had that evening joined the round-up.
"Johnny," inquired Jed with elaborate gravity, and entirely
ignoring the presence of the subject of conversation, "what is that
thing just beyond the fire, and where did it come from?"
Johnny Stone squinted to make sure.
"That?" he replied. "Oh, this evenin' the dogs see something run
down a hole, and they dug it out, and that's what they got."
The newcomer grinned.
"The trouble with you fellows," he proffered "is that you're so
plumb alkalied you don't know the real thing when you see it."
"That's right," supplemented Windy Bill drily. "HE come from New
"No!" cried Jed. "You don't say so? Did he come in one box or in
Under cover of the laugh, the newcomer made a raid on the dutch
ovens and pails. Having filled his plate, he squatted on his heels
and fell to his belated meal. He was a tall, slab-sided individual,
with a lean, leathery face, a sweeping white moustache, and a grave
and sardonic eye. His leather chaps were plain and worn, and his hat
had been fashioned by time and wear into much individuality. I was
not surprised to hear him nicknamed Sacatone Bill.
"Just ask him how he got that game foot," suggested Johnny Stone
to me in an undertone, so, of course, I did not. Later someone told
me that the lameness resulted from his refusal of an urgent invitation
to return across a river. Mr. Sacatone Bill happened not to be riding
his own horse at the time. The Cattleman dropped down beside me a
"I wish," said he in a low voice, "we could get that fellow
talking. He is a queer one. Pretty well educated apparently. Claims
to be writing a book of memoirs. Sometimes he will open up in good
shape, and sometimes he will not. It does no good to ask him direct,
and he is as shy as an old crow when you try to lead him up to a
subject. We must just lie low and trust to Providence."
A man was playing on the mouth organ. He played excellently well,
with all sorts of variations and frills. We smoked in silence. The
deep rumble of the cattle filled the air with its diapason. Always
the shrill coyotes raved out in the mesquite. Sacatone Bill had
finished his meal, and had gone to sit by Jed Parker, his old friend.
They talked together low-voiced. The evening grew, and the eastern
sky silvered over the mountains in anticipation of the moon.
Sacatone Bill suddenly threw back his head and laughed.
"Reminds me f the time I went to Colorado!" he cried.
"He's off!" whispered the Cattleman.
A dead silence fell on the circle. Everybody shifted position the
better to listen to the story of Sacatone Bill.
About ten year ago I got plumb sick of punchin' cows around my
part of the country. She hadn't rained since Noah, and I'd forgot
what water outside a pail or a trough looked like. So I scouted
around inside of me to see what part of the world I'd jump to, and as
I seemed to know as little of Colorado and minin' as anything else, I
made up the pint of bean soup I call my brains to go there. So I
catches me a buyer at Henson and turns over my pore little bunch of
cattle and prepared to fly. The last day I hauled up about twenty
good buckets of water and threw her up against the cabin. My buyer
was settin' his hoss waitin' for me to get ready. He didn't say
nothin' until we'd got down about ten mile or so.
"Mr. Hicks," says he, hesitatin' like, "I find it a good rule in
this country not to overlook other folks' plays, but I'd take it
mighty kind if you'd explain those actions of yours with the pails of
"Mr. Jones," says I, "it's very simple. I built that shack five
year ago,and it's never rained since. I just wanted to settle in my
mind whether or not that damn roof leaked."
So I quit Arizona, and in about a week I see my reflection in the
winders of a little place called Cyanide in the Colorado mountains.
Fellows, she was a bird. They wasn't a pony in sight, nor a
squar' foot of land that wasn't either street or straight up. It
made me plumb lonesome for a country where you could see a long ways
even if you didn't see much. And this early in the evenin' they
wasn't hardly anybody in the streets at all.
I took a look at them dark, gloomy, old mountains, and a sniff at
a breeze that would have frozen the whiskers of hope, and I made a
dive for the nearest lit winder. They was a sign over it that just
THIS IS A SALOON
I was glad they labelled her. I'd never have known it. They had a
fifteen-year old kid tendin' bar, no games goin', and not a soul in
"Sorry to disturb your repose, bub," says I, "but see if you can
sort out any rye among them collections of sassapariller of yours."
I took a drink, and then another to keep it company--I was
beginnin' to sympathise with anythin' lonesome. Then I kind of
sauntered out to the back room where the hurdy-gurdy ought to be.
Sure enough, there was a girl settin' on the pianner stool,
another in a chair, and a nice shiny Jew drummer danglin' his feet
from a table. They looked up when they see me come in, and went right
"Hello, girls!" says I.
At that they stopped talkin' complete.
"How's tricks?" says I.
"Who's your woolly friend?" the shiny Jew asks of the girls.
I looked at him a minute, but I see he'd been raised a pet, and
then, too, I was so hungry for sassiety I was willin' to pass a bet
"Don't you ADMIRE these cow gents?" snickers one of the girls.
"Play somethin', sister," says I to the one at the pianner.
She just grinned at me.
"Interdooce me," says the drummer in a kind of a way that made
them all laugh a heap.
"Give us a tune," I begs, tryin' to be jolly, too.
"She don't know any pieces," says the Jew.
"Don't you?" I asks pretty sharp.
"No," says she.
"Well, I do," says I.
I walked up to her, jerked out my guns, and reached around both
sides of her to the pianner. I run the muzzles up and down the
keyboard two or three times, and then shot out half a dozen keys.
"That's the piece I know," says I.
But the other girl and the Jew drummer had punched the breeze.
The girl at the pianner just grinned, and pointed to the winder
where they was some ragged glass hangin'. She was dead game.
"Say, Susie," says I, "you're all right, but your friends is
tur'ble. I may be rough, and I ain't never been curried below the
knees, but I'm better to tie to than them sons of guns."
"I believe it," says she.
So we had a drink at the bar, and started out to investigate the
wonders of Cyanide.
Say, that night was a wonder. Susie faded after about three
drinks, but I didn't seem to mind that. I hooked up to another
saloon kept by a thin Dutchman. A fat Dutchman is stupid, but a thin
one is all right.
In ten minutes I had more friends in Cyanide than they is fiddlers
in hell. I begun to conclude Cyanide wasn't so lonesome. About four
o'clock in comes a little Irishman about four foot high, with more
upper lip than a muley cow,and enough red hair to make an artificial
aurorer borealis. He had big red hands with freckles pasted onto
them, and stiff red hairs standin' up separate and lonesome like
signal stations. Also his legs was bowed.
He gets a drink at the bar, and stands back and yells:
"God bless the Irish and let the Dutch rustle!"
Now, this was none of my town, so I just stepped back of the end
of the bar quick where I wouldn't stop no lead. The shootin' didn't
"Probably Dutchy didn't take no note of what the locoed little
dogie DID say," thinks I to myself.
The Irishman bellied up to the bar again, and pounded on it with
"Look here!" he yells. "Listen to what I'm tellin' ye! God bless
the Irish and let the Dutch rustle! Do ye hear me?"
"Sure, I hear ye," says Dutchy, and goes on swabbin' his bar with
At that my soul just grew sick. I asked the man next to me why
Dutchy didn't kill the little fellow.
"Kill him! " says this man. "What for?"
"For insultin' of him, of course."
"Oh, he's drunk," says the man, as if that explained anythin'.
That settled it with me. I left that place, and went home,and it
wasn't more than four o'clock, neither. No, I don't call four
o'clock late. It may be a little late for night before last, but
it's just the shank of the evenin' for to-night.
Well, it took me six weeks and two days to go broke. I didn't
know sic em, about minin'; and before long I KNEW that I didn't 'know
sic 'em. Most all day I poked around them mountains---not like
our'n--too much timber to be comfortable. At night I got to droppin'
in at Dutchy's. He had a couple of quiet games goin', and they was
one fellow among that lot of grubbin' prairie dogs that had heerd tell
that cows had horns. He was the wisest of the bunch on the cattle
business. So I stowed away my consolation, and made out to forget
comparing Colorado with God's country.
About three times a week this Irishman I told you of--name
O'Toole--comes bulgin' in. When he was sober he talked minin' high,
wide, and handsome. When he was drunk he pounded both fists on the
bar and yelled for action, tryin' to get Dutchy on the peck.
"God bless the Irish and let the Dutch rustle!" he yells about six
times. "Say, do you hear?"
"Sure," says Dutchy, calm as a milk cow, "sure, I hears ye!"
I was plumb sorry for O'Toole. I'd like to have given him a run;
but, of course, I couldn't take it up without makin' myself out a
friend of this Dutchy party, and I couldn't stand for that. But I
did tackle Dutchy about it one night when they wasn't nobody else
"Dutchy," says I, "what makes you let that bow-legged cross
between a bulldog and a flamin' red sunset tromp on you so? It looks
to me like you're plumb spiritless."
Dutchy stopped wiping glasses for a minute.
"Just you hold on" says he. "I ain't ready yet. Bimeby I make him
sick; also those others who laugh with him."
He had a little grey flicker in his eye, and I thinks to myself
that maybe they'd get Dutchy on the peck yet.
As I said, I went broke in just six weeks and two days. And I was
broke a plenty. No hold-outs anywhere. It was a heap long ways to
cows; and I'd be teetotally chawed up and spit out if I was goin' to
join these minin' terrapins defacin' the bosom of nature. It sure
looked to me like hard work.
While I was figurin' what next, Dutchy came in. Which I was
tur'ble surprised at that, but I said good-mornin' and would he rest
his poor feet.
"You like to make some money?" he asks.
"That depends," says I, "on how easy it is."
"It is easy," says he. "I want you to buy hosses for me."
"Hosses! Sure!" I yells, jumpin' up. "You bet you! Why, hosses
is where I live! What hosses do you want?"
"All hosses," says he, calm as a faro dealer.
"What?" says I. "Elucidate, my bucko. I don't take no such
blanket order. Spread your cards."
"I mean just that," says he. "I want you to buy all the hosses in
this camp, and in the mountains. Every one."
"Whew!" I whistles. "That's a large order. But I'm your meat."
"Come with me, then," says he. I hadn't but just got up, but I
went with him to his little old poison factory. Of course, I hadn't
had no breakfast; but he staked me to a Kentucky breakfast. What's a
Kentucky breakfast? Why, a Kentucky breakfast is a three-pound steak,
a bottle of whisky, and a setter dog. What's the dog for? Why, to
eat the steak, of course.
We come to an agreement. I was to get two-fifty a head
commission. So I started out. There wasn't many hosses in that
country, and what there was the owners hadn't much use for unless it
was to work a whim. I picked up about a hundred head quick enough,
and reported to Dutchy.
"How about burros and mules?" I asks Dutchy.
"They goes," says he. "Mules same as hosses; burros four bits a
head to you."
At the end of a week I had a remuda of probably two hundred
animals. We kept them over the hills in some "parks," as these sots
call meadows in that country. I rode into town and told Dutchy.
"Got them all?" he asks.
"All but a cross-eyed buckskin that's mean, and the bay mare that
Noah bred to."
"Get them," says he.
"The bandits want too much," I explains.
"Get them anyway," says he.
I went away and got them. It was scand'lous; such prices.
When I hit Cyanide again I ran into scenes of wild excitement. The
whole passel of them was on that one street of their'n, talkin'
sixteen ounces to the pound. In the middle was Dutchy, drunk as a
soldier-just plain foolish drunk.
"Good Lord!" thinks I to myself, "he ain't celebratin' gettin'
that bunch of buzzards, is he?"
But I found he wasn't that bad. When he caught sight of me, he
fell on me drivellin'.
"Look there!" he weeps, showin' me a letter.
I was the last to come in; so I kept that letter--here she is.
I'll read her.
Dear Dutchy:--I suppose you thought I'd flew the coop, but I
haven't and this is to prove it. Pack up your outfit and hit the
trail. I've made the biggest free gold strike you ever see. I'm
sending you specimens. There's tons just like it, tons and tons. I
got all the claims I can hold myself; but there's heaps more. I've
writ to Johnny and Ed at Denver to come on. Don't give this away.
Make tracks. Come in to Buck Canon in the Whetstones and oblige.
Somebody showed me a handful of white rock with yeller streaks in
it. His eyes was bulgin' until you could have hung your hat on them.
That O'Toole party was walkin' around, wettin' his lips with his
tongue and swearin' soft.
"God bless the Irish and let the Dutch rustle!" says he. "And the
fool had to get drunk and give it away!"
The excitement was just started, but it didn't last long. The
crowd got the same notion at the same time, and it just melted. Me
and Dutchy was left alone.
I went home. Pretty soon a fellow named Jimmy Tack come around a
little out of breath.
"Say, you know that buckskin you bought off'n me?" says he, "I
want to buy him back."
"Oh, you do," says I.
"Yes," says he. "I've got to leave town for a couple of days, and
I got to have somethin' to pack."
"Wait and I'll see," says I.
Outside the door I met another fellow.
"Look here," he stops me with. "How about that bay mare I sold
you? Can you call that sale off? I got to leave town for a day or
"Wait," says I. "I'll see."
By the gate was another hurryin' up.
"Oh, yes," says I when he opens his mouth. "I know all your
troubles. You have to leave town for a couple of days, and you want
back that lizard you sold me. Well, wait."
After that I had to quit the main street and dodge back of the hog
ranch. They was all headed my way. I was as popular as a snake in a
I hit Dutchy's by the back door.
"Do you want to sell hosses?" I asks. "Everyone in town wants to
Dutchy looked hurt.
"I wanted to keep them for the valley market," says he, "but--How
much did you give Jimmy Tack for his buckskin?"
"Twenty," says I.
"Well, let him have it for eighty," says Dutchy; "and the others
I lay back and breathed hard.
"Sell them all, but the one best hoss," says he--"no, the TWO
"Holy smoke!" says I, gettin' my breath. "If you mean that,
Dutchy, you lend me another gun and give me a drink."
He done so, and I went back home to where the whole camp of
Cyanide was waitin'.
I got up and made them a speech and told them I'd sell them hosses
all right, and to come back. Then I got an Injin boy to help, and we
rustled over the remuda and held them in a blind canon. Then I called
up these miners one at a time, and made bargains with them. Roar!
Well, you could hear them at Denver, they tell me, and the weather
reports said, "Thunder in the mountains." But it was cash on
delivery, and they all paid up. They had seen that white quartz with
the gold stickin' into it, and that's the same as a dose of loco to
Why didn't I take a hoss and start first? I did think of it--for
about one second. I wouldn't stay in that country then for a million
dollars a minute. I was plumb sick and loathin' it, and just waitin'
to make high jumps back to Arizona. So I wasn't aimin' to join this
stampede, and didn't have no vivid emotions.
They got to fightin' on which should get the first hoss; so I bent
my gun on them and made them draw lots. They roared some more, but
done so; and as fast as each one handed over his dust or dinero he
made a rush for his cabin, piled on his saddle and pack, and pulled
his freight on a cloud of dust. It was sure a grand stampede, and I
enjoyed it no limit.
So by sundown I was alone with the Injin. Those two hundred head
brought in about twenty thousand dollars. It was heavy, but I could
carry it. I was about alone in the landscape; and there were the two
best hosses I had saved out for Dutchy. I was sure some tempted. But
I had enough to get home on anyway; and I never yet drank behind the
bar, even if I might hold up the saloon from the floor. So I grieved
some inside that I was so tur'ble conscientious, shouldered the sacks,
and went down to find Dutchy.
I met him headed his way, and carryin' of a sheet of paper.
"Here's your dinero," says I, dumpin' the four big sacks on the
He stooped over and hefted them. Then he passed one over to me.
"What's that for?" I asks.
"For you," says he.
"My commission ain't that much," I objects.
"You've earned it," says he, "and you might have skipped with the
"How did you know I wouldn't?" I asks.
"Well," says he, and I noted that jag of his had flew. "You see, I
was behind that rock up there, and I had you covered."
I saw; and I began to feel better about bein' so tur'ble
We walked a little ways without sayin' nothin'.
"But ain't you goin' to join the game?" I asks.
"Guess not," says he, jinglin' of his gold. "I'm satisfied."
"But if you don't get a wiggle on you, you are sure goin' to get
left on those gold claims," says I.
"There ain't no gold claims," says he.
"But Henry Smith--" I cries.
"There ain't no Henry Smith," says he.
I let that soak in about six inches.
"But there's a Buck Canon," I pleads. "Please say there's a Buck
"Oh, yes, there's a Buck Canon," he allows. "Nice limestone
formation--make good hard water."
"Well, you're a marvel," says I.
We walked n together down to Dutchy's saloon.
We stopped outside.
"Now," says he, "I'm goin' to take one of those hosses and go
somewheres else. Maybe you'd better do likewise on the other."
"You bet I will," says I.
He turned around and taked up the paper he was carryin'. It was a
sign. It read:
THE DUTCH HAS RUSTLED
"Nice sentiment," says I. "It will be appreciated when the crowd
comes back from that little pasear into Buck Canon. But why not tack
her up where the trail hits the camp? Why on this particular door?"
"Well," said Dutchy, squintin' at the sign sideways, "you see I
sold this place day before yesterday--to Mike O'Toole."
CHAPTER EIGHT. THE CORRAL BRANDING
All that night we slept like sticks of wood. No dreams visited
us, but in accordance with the immemorial habit of those who live
out--whether in the woods, on the plains, among the mountains, or at
sea--once during the night each of us rose on his elbow, looked about
him, and dropped back to sleep. If there had been a fire to
replenish, that would have been the moment to do so; if the wind had
been changing and the seas rising, that would have been the time to
cast an eye aloft for indications, to feel whether the anchor cable
was holding; if the pack-horses had straggled from the alpine meadows
under the snows, this would have been the occasion for intent
listening for the faintly tinkling hell so that next day one would
know in which direction to look. But since there existed for us no
responsibility, we each reported dutifully at the roll-call of habit,
and dropped back into our blankets with a grateful sigh.
I remember the moon sailing a good gait among apparently
stationary cloudlets; I recall a deep, black shadow lying before
distant silvery mountains; I glanced over the stark, motionless
canvases, each of which concealed a man; the air trembled with the
bellowing of cattle in the corrals.
Seemingly but a moment later the cook's howl brought me to
consciousness again. A clear, licking little fire danced in the
blackness. Before it moved silhouettes of men already eating.
I piled out and joined the group. Homer was busy distributing his
men for the day. Three were to care for the remuda; five were to move
the stray-herd from the corrals to good feed; three branding crews
were told to brand the calves we had collected in the cut of the
afternoon before. That took up about half the men. The rest were to
make a short drive in the salt grass. I joined the Cattleman, and
together we made our way afoot to the branding pen.
We were the only ones who did go afoot, however, although the
corrals were not more than two hundred yards' distant. When we
arrived we found the string of ponies standing around outside.
Between the upright bars of greasewood we could see the cattle, and
near the opposite side the men building a fire next the fence. We
pushed open the wide gate and entered. The three ropers sat their
horses, idly swinging the loops of their ropes back and forth. Three
others brought wood and arranged it craftily in such manner as to get
best draught for heatin,--a good branding fire is most decidedly a
work of art. One stood waiting for them to finish, a sheaf of long JH
stamping irons in his hand. All the rest squatted on their heels
along the fence, smoking cigarettes ad chatting together. The first
rays of the sun slanted across in one great sweep from the remote
In ten minutes Charley pronounced the irons ready. Homer, Wooden,
and old California John rode in among the cattle. The rest of the men
arose and stretched their legs and advanced. The Cattleman and I
climbed to the top bar of the gate, where we roosted, he with his
tally-book on his knee.
Each rider swung his rope above his head with one hand, keeping
the broad loop open by a skilful turn of the wrist at the end of each
revolution. In a moment Homer leaned forward and threw. As the loop
settled, he jerked sharply upward, exactly as one would strike to hook
a big fish. This tightened the loop and prevented it from slipping
off. Immediately, and without waiting to ascertain the result of the
manoeuvre, the horse turned and began methodically, without undue
haste, to walk toward the branding fire. Homer wrapped the rope twice
or thrice about the horn, and sat over in one stirrup to avoid the
tightened line and to preserve the balance. Nobody paid any attention
to the calf. The critter had been caught by the two hind legs. As the
rope tightened, he was suddenly upset, and before he could realise
that something disagreeable was happening, he was sliding
majestically along on his belly. Behind him followed his anxious
mother, her head swinging from side to side.
Near the fire the horse stopped. The two "bull-doggers"
immediately pounced upon the victim. It was promptly flopped over on
its right side. One knelt on its head and twisted back its foreleg in
a sort of hammer-lock; the other seized one hind foot, pressed his
boot heel against the other hind leg close to the body, and sat down
behind the animal. Thus the calf was unable to struggle. When once
you have had the wind knocked out of you, or a rib or two broken, you
cease to think this unnecessarily rough. Then one or the other threw
off the rope. Homer rode away, coiling the rope as he went.
"Hot iron!" yelled one of the bull-doggers.
"Marker!" yelled the other.
Immediately two men ran forward. The brander pressed the iron
smoothly against the flank. A smoke and the smell of scorching hair
arose. Perhaps the calf blatted a little as the heat scorched. In a
brief moment it was over. The brand showed cherry, which is the
proper colour to indicate due peeling and a successful mark.
In the meantime the marker was engaged in his work. First, with a
sharp knife he cut off slanting the upper quarter of one ear. Then he
nicked out a swallow-tail in the other. The pieces he thrust into his
pocket in order that at the completion of the work he could thus check
the Cattleman's tally-board as to the number of calves branded.
The bull-dogger let go. The calf sprang up, was appropriated and
smelled over by his worried mother, and the two departed into the herd
to talk it over.
 For the benefit of the squeamish it might be well to note that
the fragments of the ears were cartilaginous, and therefore not
It seems to me that a great deal of unnecessary twaddle is abroad
as to the extreme cruelty of branding. Undoubtedly it is to some
extent painful, and could some other method of ready identification be
devised, it might be as well to adopt it in preference. But in the
circumstance of a free range, thousands of cattle, and hundreds of
owners, any other method is out of the question. I remember a New
England movement looking toward small brass tags to be hung from the
ear. Inextinguishable laughter followed the spread of this doctrine
through Arizona. Imagine a puncher descending to examine politely the
ear-tags of wild cattle on the open range or in a round-up.
But, as I have intimated, even the inevitable branding and
ear-marking are not so painful as one might suppose. The scorching
hardly penetrates below the outer tough skin--only enough to kill the
roots of the hair--besides which it must be remembered that cattle are
not so sensitive as the higher nervous organisms. A calf usually
bellows when the iron bites, but as soon as released he almost
invariably goes to feeding or to looking idly about. Indeed, I have
never seen one even take the trouble to lick his wounds, which is
certainly not true in the case of the injuries they inflict on each
other in fighting. Besides which, it happens but once in a lifetime,
and is over in ten seconds; a comfort denied to those of us who have
our teeth filled.
In the meantime two other calves had been roped by the two other
men. One of the little animals was but a few months old, so the
rider did not bother with its hind legs, but tossed his loop over its
neck. Naturally, when things tightened up, Mr. Calf entered his
objections, which took the form of most vigorous bawlings, and the
most comical bucking, pitching, cavorting, and bounding in the air.
Mr. Frost's bull-calf alone in pictorial history shows the attitudes.
And then, of course, there was the gorgeous contrast between all this
frantic and uncomprehending excitement and the absolute matter-of-fact
imperturbability of horse and rider. Once at the fire, one of the men
seized the tightened rope in one hand, reached well over the animal's
back to get a slack of the loose hide next the belly, lifted strongly,
and tripped. This is called "bull-dogging." As he knew his
business, and as the calf was a small one, the little beast went over
promptly, bit the ground with a whack, and was pounced upon and held.
Such good luck did not always follow, however. An occasional and
exceedingly husky bull yearling declined to be upset in any such
manner. He would catch himself on one foot, scramble vigorously, and
end by struggling back to the upright. Then ten to one he made a dash
to get away. In such case he was generally snubbed up short enough at
the end of the rope; but once or twice he succeeded in running around
a group absorbed in branding. You can imagine what happened next.
The rope, attached at one end to a conscientious and immovable horse
and at the other to a reckless and vigorous little bull, swept its
taut and destroying way about mid-knee high across that group. The
brander and marker, who were standing, promptly sat down hard; the
bull-doggers, who were sitting, immediately turned several most
capable somersaults; the other calf arose and inextricably entangled
his rope with that of his accomplice. Hot irons, hot language, and
dust filled the air.
Another method, and one requiring slightly more knack, is to grasp
the animal's tail and throw it by a quick jerk across the pressure of
the rope. This is productive of some fun if it fails.
By now the branding was in full swing. The three horses came and
went phlegmatically. When the nooses fell, they turned and walked
toward the fire as a matter of course. Rarely did the cast fail. Men
ran to and fro busy and intent. Sometimes three or four calves were
on the ground at once. Cries arose in a confusion: "Marker" "Hot
iron!" "Tally one!" Dust eddied and dissipated. Behind all were
clear sunlight and the organ roll of the cattle bellowing.
Toward the middle of the morning the bull-doggers began to get a
"No more necked calves," they announced. "Catch 'em by the hind
legs, or bull-dog 'em yourself."
And that went. Once in a while the rider, lazy, or careless, or
bothered by the press of numbers, dragged up a victim caught by the
neck. The bull-doggers flatly refused to have anything to do with it.
An obvious way out would have been to flip off the loop and try
again; but of course that would have amounted to a confession of
"You fellows drive me plumb weary," remarked the rider, slowly
dismounting. "A little bit of a calf like that! What you all need
is a nigger to cut up your food for you!"
Then he would spit on his hands and go at it alone. If luck
attended his first effort, his sarcasm was profound.
"There's yore little calf," said he. "Would you like to have me
tote it to you, or do you reckon you could toddle this far with yore
little old iron?"
But if the calf gave much trouble, then all work ceased while the
unfortunate puncher wrestled it down.
Toward noon the work slacked. Unbranded calves were scarce.
Sometimes the men rode here and there for a minute or so before their
eyes fell on a pair of uncropped ears. Finally Homer rode over to the
Cattleman and reported the branding finished. The latter counted the
marks in his tally-book.
"One hundred and seventy-six," he announced.
The markers, squatted on their heels, told over the bits of ears
they had saved. The total amounted to but an hundred and
seventy-five. Everybody went to searching for the missing bit. It
was not forth-coming. Finally Wooden discovered it in his hip pocket.
"Felt her thar all the time," said he, "but thought it must
shorely be a chaw of tobacco."
This matter satisfactorily adjusted, the men all ran for their
ponies. They had been doing a wrestler's heavy work all the morning,
but did not seem to be tired. I saw once in some crank physical
culture periodical that a cowboy's life was physically ill-balanced,
like an oarsman's, in that it exercised only certain muscles of the
body. The writer should be turned loose in a branding corral.
Through the wide gates the cattle were urged out to the open
plain. There they were held for over an hour while the cows wandered
about looking for their lost progeny. A cow knows her calf by scent
and sound, not by sight. Therefore the noise was deafening, and the
Finally the last and most foolish cow found the last and most
foolish calf. We turned the herd loose to hunt water and grass at
its own pleasure, and went slowly back to chuck.
CHAPTER NINE. THE OLD TIMER
About a week later, in the course of the round-up, we reached the
valley of the Box Springs, where we camped for some days at the
dilapidated and abandoned adobe structure that had once been a ranch
house of some importance.
Just at dusk one afternoon we finished cutting the herd which our
morning's drive had collected. The stray-herd, with its new additions
from the day's work, we pushed rapidly into one big stock corral. The
cows and unbranded calves we urged into another. Fifty head of beef
steers found asylum from dust, heat, and racing to and fro, in the
mile square wire enclosure called the pasture. All the remainder, for
which we had no further use we drove out of the flat into the brush
and toward the distant mountains. Then we let them go as best pleased
By now the desert bad turned slate-coloured, and the brush was
olive green with evening. The hard, uncompromising ranges, twenty
miles to eastward, had softened behind a wonderful veil of purple and
pink, vivid as the chiffon of a girl's gown. To the south and
southwest the Chiricahuas and Dragoons were lost in thunderclouds
which flashed and rumbled.
We jogged homewards, our cutting ponies, tired with the quick,
sharp work, shuffling knee deep in a dusk that seemed to disengage
itself and rise upwards from the surface of the desert. Everybody was
hungry and tired. At the chuck wagon we threw off our saddles and
turned the mounts into the remuda. Some of the wisest of us,
remembering the thunderclouds, stacked our gear under the veranda roof
of the old ranch house.
Supper was ready. We seized the tin battery, filled the plates
with the meat, bread, and canned corn, and squatted on our heels. The
food was good, and we ate hugely in silence. When we could hold no
more we lit pipes. Then we had leisure to notice that the storm cloud
was mounting in a portentous silence to the zenith, quenching the
brilliant desert stars.
"Rolls" were scattered everywhere. A roll includes a cowboy's bed
and all of his personal belongings. When the outfit includes a
bed-wagon, the roll assumes bulky proportions.
As soon as we had come to a definite conclusion that it was going
to rain, we deserted the camp fire and went rustling for our
blankets. At the end of ten minutes every bed was safe within the
doors of the abandoned adobe ranch house, each owner recumbent on the
floor claim he had pre-empted, and every man hoping fervently that he
had guessed right as to the location of leaks.
Ordinarily we had depended on the light of camp fires, so now
artificial illumination lacked. Each man was indicated by the
alternately glowing and waning lozenge of his cigarette fire.
Occasionally someone struck a match, revealing for a moment
high-lights on bronzed countenances, and the silhouette of a shading
hand. Voices spoke disembodied. As the conversation developed, we
gradually recognised the membership of our own roomful. I had
forgotten to state that the ranch house included four chambers.
Outside, the rain roared with Arizona ferocity. Inside, men
congratulated themselves, or swore as leaks developed and localised.
Naturally we talked first of stampedes. Cows and bears are the
two great cattle-country topics. Then we had a mouth-organ solo or
two, which naturally led on to songs. My turn came. I struck up the
first verse of a sailor chantey as possessing at least the interest of
Oh, once we were a-sailing, a-sailing were we,
Blow high, blow low, what care we;
And we were a-sailing to see what we could see,
Down on the coast of the High Barbaree.
I had just gone so far when I was brought up short by a tremendous
oath behind me. At the same instant a match flared. I turned to face
a stranger holding the little light above his head, and peering with
fiery intentness over the group sprawled about the floor.
He was evidently just in from the storm. His dripping hat lay at
his feet. A shock of straight, close-clipped vigorous hair stood up
grey above his seamed forehead. Bushy iron-grey eyebrows drawn close
together thatched a pair of burning, unquenchable eyes. A square,
deep jaw, lightly stubbled with grey, was clamped so tight that the
cheek muscles above it stood out in knots and welts.
Then the match burned his thick, square fingers, and he dropped it
into the darkness that ascended to swallow it.
"Who was singing that song?" he cried harshly. Nobody answered.
"Who was that singing?" he demanded again.
By this time I had recovered from my first astonishment.
"I was singing," said I.
Another match was instantly lit and thrust into my very face. I
underwent the fierce scrutiny of an instant, then the taper was
thrown away half consumed.
"Where did you learn it?" the stranger asked in an altered voice.
"I don't remember," I replied; "it is a common enough deep-sea
A heavy pause fell. Finally the stranger sighed.
"Quite like," he said; "I never heard but one man sing it."
"Who in hell are you?" someone demanded out of the darkness.
Before replying, the newcomer lit a third match, searching for a
place to sit down. As he bent forward, his strong, harsh face once
more came clearly into view.
"He's Colorado Rogers," the Cattleman answered for him; "I know
"Well," insisted the first voice, "what in hell does Colorado
Rogers mean by bustin' in on our song fiesta that way?"
"Tell them, Rogers," advised the Cattleman, "tell them--just as
you told it down on the Gila ten years ago next month."
"What?" inquired Rogers. "Who are you?"
"You don't know me," replied the Cattleman, "but I was with Buck
Johnson's outfit then. Give us the yarn."
"Well," agreed Rogers, "pass over the 'makings' and I will."
He rolled and lit a cigarette, while I revelled in the memory of
his rich, great voice. It was of the sort made to declaim against
the sea or the rush of rivers or, as here, the fall of waters and the
thunder--full, from the chest, with the caressing throat vibration
that gives colour to the most ordinary statements. After ten words we
sank back oblivious of the storm, forgetful of the leaky roof and the
dirty floor, lost in the story told us by the Old Timer.
CHAPTER TEN. THE TEXAS RANGERS
I came from Texas, like the bulk of you punchers, but a good while
before the most of you were born. That was forty-odd years ago--and
I've been on the Colorado River ever since. That's why they call me
Colorado Rogers. About a dozen of us came out together. We had all
been Texas Rangers, but when the war broke out we were out of a job.
We none of us cared much for the Johnny Rebs, and still less for the
Yanks, so we struck overland for the West, with the idea of hitting
the California diggings.
Well, we got switched off one way and another. When we got down
to about where Douglas is now, we found that the Mexican Government
was offering a bounty for Apache scalps. That looked pretty good to
us, for Injin chasing was our job, so we started in to collect. Did
pretty well, too, for about three months, and then the Injins began to
get too scarce, or too plenty in streaks. Looked like our job was
over with, but some of the boys discovered that Mexicans, having
straight black hair, you couldn't tell one of their scalps from an
Apache's. After that the bounty business picked up for a while. It
was too much for me, though, and I quit the outfit and pushed on alone
until I struck the Colorado about where Yuma is now.
At that time the California immigrants by the southern route used
to cross just there, and these Yuma Injins had a monopoly on the
ferry business. They were a peaceful, fine-looking lot, without a
thing on but a gee-string. The women had belts with rawhide strings
hanging to the knees. They put them on one over the other until they
didn't feel too decollotey. It wasn't until the soldiers came that
the officers' wives got them to wear handkerchiefs over their breasts.
The system was all right, though. They wallowed around in the hot,
clean sand, like chickens, and kept healthy. Since they took to
wearing clothes they've been petering out, and dying of dirt and
They ran this ferry monopoly by means of boats made of tules,
charged a scand'lous low price, and everything was happy and lovely.
I ran on a little bar and panned out some dust, so I camped a while,
washing gold, getting friendly with the Yumas, and talking horse and
other things with the immigrants.
About a month of this, and the Texas boys drifted in. Seems they
sort of overdid the scalp matter, and got found out. When they saw
me, they stopped and went into camp. They'd travelled a heap of
desert, and were getting sick of it. For a while they tried gold
washing, but I had the only pocket--and that was about skinned. One
evening a fellow named Walleye announced that he had been doing some
figuring, and wanted to make a speech. We told him to fire ahead.
"Now look here," said he, "what's the use of going to California?
Why not stay here?"
"What in hell would we do here?" someone asked. "Collect Gila
monsters for their good looks?"
"Don't get gay," said Walleye. "What's the matter with going into
business? Here's a heap of people going through, and more coming
every day. This ferry business could be made to pay big. Them Injins
charges two bits a head. That's a crime for the only way across. And
how much do you suppose whisky'd be worth to drink after that desert?
And a man's so sick of himself by the time he gets this far that he'd
play chuck-a-luck, let alone faro or monte."
That kind of talk hit them where they lived, and Yuma was founded
right then and there. They hadn't any whisky yet, but cards were
plenty, and the ferry monopoly was too easy. Walleye served notice
on the Injins that a dollar a head went; and we all set to building a
tule raft like the others. Then the wild bunch got uneasy, so they
walked upstream one morning and stole the Injins' boats. The Injins
came after them innocent as babies, thinking the raft had gone adrift.
When they got into camp our men opened up and killed four of them as
a kind of hint. After that the ferry company didn't have any trouble.
The Yumas moved up river a ways, where they've lived ever since.
They got the corpses and buried them. That is, they dug a trench for
each one and laid poles across it, with a funeral pyre on the poles.
Then they put the body on top, and the women of the family cut their
hair off and threw it on. After that they set fire to the outfit,
and, when the poles bad burned through, the whole business fell into
the trench of its own accord. It was the neatest, automatic,
self-cocking, double-action sort of a funeral I ever saw. There
wasn't any ceremony--only crying.
The ferry business flourished at prices which were sometimes hard
to collect. But it was a case of pay or go back, and it was a tur'ble
long ways back. We got us timbers and made a scow; built a baile and
saloon and houses out of adobe; and called her Yuma, after the Injins
that had really started her. We got our supplies through the Gulf of
California, where sailing boats worked up the river. People began to
come in for one reason or another, and first thing we knew we had a
store and all sorts of trimmings. In fact we was a real live town.
CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE SAILOR WITH ONE HAND
At this moment the heavy beat of the storm on the roof ceased with
miraculous suddenness, leaving the outside world empty of sound save
for the DRIP, DRIP, DRIP of eaves. Nobody ventured to fill in the
pause that followed the stranger's last words, so in a moment he
continued his narrative.
We had every sort of people with us off and on, and, as I was
lookout at a popular game, I saw them all. One evening I was on my
way home about two o'clock of a moonlit night, when on the edge of the
shadow I stumbled over a body lying part across the footway. At the
same instant I heard the rip of steel through cloth and felt a sharp
stab in my left leg. For a minute I thought some drunk had used his
knife on me, and I mighty near derringered him as he lay. But somehow
I didn't, and looking closer, I saw the man was unconscious. Then I
scouted to see what had cut me, and found that the fellow had lost a
hand. In place of it he wore a sharp steel hook. This I had tangled
up with and gotten well pricked.
I dragged him out into the light. He was a slim-built young
fellow, with straight black hair, long and lank and oily, a lean
face, and big hooked nose. He had on only a thin shirt, a pair of
rough wool pants, and the rawhide home-made zapatos the Mexicans wore
then instead of boots. Across his forehead ran a long gash, cutting
his left eyebrow square in two.
There was no doubt of his being alive, for he was breathing hard,
like a man does when he gets hit over the head. It didn't sound
good. When a man breathes that way he's mostly all gone.
Well, it was really none of my business, as you might say. Men
got batted over the head often enough in those days. But for some
reason I picked him up and carried him to my 'dobe shack, and laid him
out, and washed his cut with sour wine. That brought him to. Sour
wine is fine to put a wound in shape to heal, but it's no soothing
syrup. He sat up as though he'd been touched with a hot poker, stared
around wild-eyed, and cut loose with that song you were singing. Only
it wasn't that verse. It was another one further along, that went like
Their coffin was their ship, and their grave it was the sea,
Blow high, blow low, what care we;
And the quarter that we gave them was to sink them in the sea,
Down on the coast of the High Barbaree.
It fair made my hair rise to hear him, with the big, still, solemn
desert outside, and the quiet moonlight, and the shadows, and him
sitting up straight and gaunt, his eyes blazing each side his big
eagle nose, and his snaky hair hanging over the raw cut across his
head. However, I made out to get him bandaged up and in shape; and
pretty soon he sort of went to sleep.
Well, he was clean out of his head for nigh two weeks. Most of
the time he lay flat on his back staring at the pole roof, his eyes
burning and looking like they saw each one something a different
distance off, the way crazy eyes do. That was when he was best. Then
again he'd sing that Barbaree song until I'd go out and look at the
old Colorado flowing by just to be sure I hadn't died and gone below.
Or else he'd just talk. That was the worst performance of all. It
was like listening to one end of a telephone, though we didn't know
what telephones were in those days. He began when be was a kid, and
he gave his side of conversations, pausing for replies. I could
mighty near furnish the replies sometimes. It was queer lingo--about
ships and ships' officers and gales and calms and fights and pearls
and whales and islands and birds and skies. But it was all little
stuff. I used to listen by the hour, but I never made out anything
really important as to who the man was, or where he'd come from, or
what he'd done.
At the end of the second week I came in at noon as per usual to
fix him up with grub. I didn't pay any attention to him, for he was
quiet. As I was bending over the fire he spoke. Usually I didn't
bother with his talk, for it didn't mean anything, but something in
his voice made me turn. He was lying on his side, those black eyes of
his blazing at me, but now both of them saw the same distance.
"Where are my clothes?" he asked, very intense.
"You ain't in any shape to want clothes," said I. "Lie still."
I hadn't any more than got the words out of my mouth before he was
atop me. His method was a winner. He had me by the throat with his
hand, and I felt the point of the hook pricking the back of my neck.
One little squeeze--Talk about your deadly weapons!
But he'd been too sick and too long abed. He turned dizzy and
keeled over, and I dumped him back on the bunk. Then I put my
In a minute or so he came to.
"Now you're a nice, sweet proposition," said I, as soon as I was
sure he could understand me. "Here I pick you up on the street and
save your worthless carcass, and the first chance you get you try to
crawl my hump. Explain."
"Where's my clothes?" he demanded again, very fierce.
"For heaven's sake," I yelled at him, "what's the matter with you
and your old clothes? There ain't enough of them to dust a fiddle
with anyway. What do you think I'd want with them? They're safe
"Let me have them," he begged.
"Now, look here," said I, "you can't get up to-day. You ain't
"I know," he pleaded, "but let me see them."
Just to satisfy him I passed over his old duds.
"I've been robbed," he cried.
"Well," said I, "what did you expect would happen to you lying
around Yuma after midnight with a hole in your head?"
"Where's my coat?" he asked.
"You had no coat when I picked you up," I replied.
He looked at me mighty suspicious, but didn't say anything more--
he wouldn't even answer when I spoke to him. After he'd eaten a fair
meal he fell asleep. When I came back that evening the bunk was empty
and he was gone.
I didn't see him again for two days. Then I caught sight of him
quite a ways off. He nodded at me very sour, and dodged around the
corner of the store.
"Guess he suspicions I stole that old coat of his," thinks I; and
afterwards I found that my surmise had been correct.
However, he didn't stay long in that frame of mind. It was along
towards evening, and I was walking on the banks looking down over the
muddy old Colorado, as I always liked to do. The sun had just set,
and the mountains had turned hard and stiff, as they do after the
glow, and the sky above them was a thousand million miles deep of pale
green-gold light. A pair of Greasers were ahead of me, but I could
see only their outlines, and they didn't seem to interfere any with
the scenery. Suddenly a black figure seemed to rise up out of the
ground; the Mexican man went down as though he'd been jerked with a
string, and the woman screeched.
I ran up, pulling my gun. The Mex was flat on his face, his arms
stretched out. On the middle of his back knelt my one-armed friend.
And that sharp hook was caught neatly under the point of the
Mexican's jaw. You bet he lay still.
I really think I was just in time to save the man's life.
According to my belief another minute would have buried the hook in
the Mexican's neck. Anyway, I thrust the muzzle of my Colt's into the
"What's this?" I asked.
The sailor looked up at me without changing his position. He was
not the least bit afraid.
"This man has my coat," he explained.
"Where'd you get the coat?" I asked the Mex.
"I ween heem at monte off Antonio Curvez," said he.
"Maybe," growled the sailor.
He still held the hook under the man's jaw, but with the other
hand he ran rapidly under and over the Mexican's left shoulder. In
the half light I could see his face change. The gleam died from his
eye; the snarl left his lips. Without further delay he arose to his
"Get up and give it here!" he demanded.
The Mexican was only too glad to get off so easy. I don't know
whether he'd really won the coat at monte or not. In any case, he
flew poco pronto, leaving me and my friend together.
The man with the hook felt the left shoulder of the coat again,
looked up, met my eye, muttered something intended to be pleasant,
and walked away.
This was in December.
During the next two months he was a good deal about town, mostly
doing odd jobs. I saw him off and on. He always spoke to me as
pleasantly as he knew how, and once made some sort of a bluff about
paying me back for my trouble in bringing him around. However, I
didn't pay much attention to that, being at the time almighty busy
holding down my card games.
The last day of February I was sitting in my shack smoking a pipe
after supper, when my one-armed friend opened the door a foot,
slipped in, and shut it immediately. By the time he looked towards
me I knew where my six-shooter was.
"That's all right," said I, "but you better stay right there."
I intended to take no more chances with that hook.
He stood there looking straight at me without winking or offering
"What do you want?" I asked.
"I want to make up to you for your trouble," said he. "I've got a
good thing, and I want to let you in on it."
"What kind of a good thing?" I asked.
"Treasure," said he.
"H'm," said I.
I examined him closely. He looked all right enough, neither drunk
"Sit down," said I--"over there; the other side the table." He
did so. "Now, fire away," said I.
He told me his name was Solomon Anderson, but that he was
generally known as Handy Solomon, on account of his hook; that he had
always followed the sea; that lately he had coasted the west shores of
Mexico; that at Guaymas he had fallen in with Spanish friends, in
company with whom he had visited the mines in the Sierra Madre; that
on this expedition the party had been attacked by Yaquis and wiped
out, he alone surviving; that his blanket-mate before expiring had
told him of gold buried in a cove of Lower California by the man's
grandfather; that the man had given him a chart showing the location
of the treasure; that he had sewn this chart in the shoulder of his
coat, whence his suspicion of me and his being so loco about getting
"And it's a big thing," said Handy Solomon to me, "for they's not
only gold, but altar jewels and diamonds. It will make us rich, and
a dozen like us, and you can kiss the Book on that."
"That may all be true," said I, "but why do you tell me? Why
don't you get your treasure without the need of dividing it?"
"Why, mate," he answered, "it's just plain gratitude. Didn't you
save my life, and nuss me, and take care of me when I was nigh
"Look here, Anderson, or Handy Solomon, or whatever you please to
call yourself," I rejoined to this, "if you're going to do business
with me--and I do not understand yet just what it is you want of
me--you'll have to talk straight. It's all very well to say
gratitude, but that don't go with me. You've been around here three
months, and barring a half-dozen civil words and twice as many of the
other kind, I've failed to see any indications of your gratitude
before. It's a quality with a hell of a hang-fire to it."
He looked at me sideways, spat, and looked at me sideways again.
Then he burst into a laugh.
"The devil's a preacher, if you ain't lost your pinfeathers,"'
said he. "Well, it's this then: I got to have a boat to get there;
and she must be stocked. And I got to have help with the treasure, if
it's like this fellow said it was. And the Yaquis and cannibals from
Tiburon is through the country. It's money I got to have, and it's
money I haven't got, and can't get unless I let somebody in as
"Why me?" I asked.
"Why not?" he retorted. "I ain't see anybody I like better."
We talked the matter over at length. I had to force him to each
point, for suspicion was strong in him. I stood out for a larger
party. He strongly opposed this as depreciating the shares, but I
had no intention of going alone into what was then considered a wild
and dangerous country. Finally we compromised. A third of the
treasure was to go to him, a third to me, and the rest was to be
divided among the men whom I should select. This scheme did not
appeal to him.
"How do I know you plays fair?" he complained. "They'll be four
of you to one of me; and I don't like it, and you can kiss the Book
on that." "If you don't like it, leave it," said I, "and get out, and
be damned to you."
Finally he agreed; but he refused me a look at the chart, saying
that he had left it in a safe place. I believe in reality he wanted
to be surer of me, and for that I can hardly blame him.
CHAPTER TWELVE. THE MURDER ON THE BEACH
At this moment the cook stuck his head in at the open door.
"Say, you fellows," he complained, "I got to be up at three
o'clock. Ain't you never going to turn in?"
"Shut up, Doctor!" "Somebody kill him!" "Here, sit down and
listen to this yarn!" yelled a savage chorus.
There ensued a slight scuffle, a few objections. Then silence,
and the stranger took up his story.
I had a chum named Billy Simpson, and I rung him in for
friendship. Then there was a solemn, tall Texas young fellow, strong
as a bull, straight and tough, brought up fighting Injins. He never
said much, but I knew he'd be right there when the gong struck. For
fourth man I picked out a German named Schwartz. He and Simpson had
just come back from the mines together. I took him because he was a
friend of Billy's, and besides was young and strong, and was the only
man in town excepting the sailor, Anderson, who knew anything about
running a boat. I forgot to say that the Texas fellow was named
Handy Solomon had his boat all picked out. It belonged to some
Basques who had sailed her around from California. I must say when I
saw her I felt inclined to renig, for she wasn't more'n about
twenty-five feet long, was open except for a little sort of cubbyhole
up in the front of her, had one mast, and was pointed at both ends.
However, Schwartz said she was all right. He claimed he knew the
kind; that she was the sort used by French fishermen, and could stand
all sorts of trouble. She didn't look it.
We worked her up to Yuma, partly with oars and partly by sails.
Then we loaded her with grub for a month. Each of us had his own
weapons, of course. In addition we put in picks and shovels, and a
small cask of water. Handy Solomon said that would be enough, as
there was water marked down on his chart. We told the gang that we
were going trading.
At the end of the week we started, and were out four days. There
wasn't much room, what with the supplies and the baggage, for the
five of us. We had to curl up 'most anywheres to sleep. And it
certainly seemed to me that we were in lots of danger. The waves
were much bigger than she was, and splashed on us considerable, but
Schwartz and Anderson didn't seem to mind. They laughed at us.
Anderson sang that song of his, and Schwartz told us of the placers
he had worked. He and Simpson had made a pretty good clean-up, just
enough to make them want to get rich. The first day out Simpson
showed us a belt with about an hundred ounces of dust. This he got
tired of wearing, so he kept it in a compass-box, which was empty.
At the end of the four days we turned in at a deep bay and came to
anchor. The country was the usual proposition--very light-brown,
brittle-looking mountains, about two thousand feet high; lots of sage
and cactus, a pebbly beach, and not a sign of anything fresh and
But Denton and I were mighty glad to see any sort of land.
Besides, our keg of water was pretty low, and it was getting about
time to discover the spring the chart spoke of. So we piled our camp
stuff in the small boat and rowed ashore.
Anderson led the way confidently enough up a dry arroyo, whose
sides were clay and conglomerate. But, though we followed it to the
end, we could find no indications that it was anything more than a
wash for rain floods.
"That's main queer," muttered Anderson, and returned to the beach.
There he spread out the chart--the first look at it we'd had--and
set to studying it.
It was a careful piece of work done in India ink, pretty old, to
judge by the look of it, and with all sorts of pictures of mountains
and dolphins and ships and anchors around the edge. There was our bay,
all right. Two crosses were marked on the land part--one labelled
"oro" and the other "agua."
"Now there's the high cliff," says Anderson, following it out,
"and there's the round hill with the boulder--and if them bearings
don't point due for that ravine, the devil's a preacher."
We tried it again, with the same result. A second inspection of
the map brought us no light on the question. We talked it over, and
looked at it from all points, but we couldn't dodge the truth: the
chart was wrong.
Then we explored several of the nearest gullies, but without
finding anything but loose stones baked hot in the sun.
By now it was getting towards sundown, so we built us a fire of
mesquite on the beach, made us supper, and boiled a pot of beans.
We talked it over. The water was about gone.
"That's what we've got to find first," said Simpson, "no question
of it. It's God knows how far to the next water, and we don't know
how long it will take us to get there in that little boat. If we run
our water entirely out before we start, we're going to be in trouble.
We'll have a good look to-morrow, and if we don't find her, we'll run
down to Mollyhay and get a few extra casks."
 Mulege - I retain the Old Timer's pronunciation.
"Perhaps that map is wrong about the treasure, too," suggested
"I thought of that," said Handy Solomon, "but then, thinks I to
myself, this old rip probably don't make no long stay here--just
dodges in and out like, between tides, to bury his loot. He would
need no water at the time; but he might when he came back, so he
marked the water on his map. But he wasn't noways particular AND
exact, being in a hurry. But you can kiss the Book to it that he
didn't make no such mistakes about the swag."
"I believe you're right," said I.
When we came to turn in, Anderson suggested that he should sleep
aboard the boat. But Billy Simpson, in mind perhaps of the hundred
ounces in the compass-box, insisted that he'd just as soon as not.
After a little objection Handy Solomon gave in, but I thought he
seemed sour about it. We built a good fire, and in about ten seconds
Now, usually I sleep like a log, and did this time until about
midnight. Then all at once I came broad awake and sitting up in my
blankets. Nothing had happened--I wasn't even dreaming--but there I
was as alert and clear as though it were broad noon.
By the light of the fire I saw Handy Solomon sitting, and at his
side our five rifles gathered.
I must have made some noise, for he turned quietly toward me, saw
I was awake, and nodded. The moonlight was sparkling on the hard
stony landscape, and a thin dampness came out from the sea.
After a minute Anderson threw on another stick of wood, yawned,
and stood up.
"It's wet," said he; "I've been fixing the guns."
He showed me how he was inserting a little patch of felt between
the hammer and the nipple, a scheme of his own for keeping damp from
the powder. Then he rolled up in his blanket. At the time it all
seemed quite natural--I suppose my mind wasn't fully awake, for all my
head felt so clear. Afterwards I realised what a ridiculous bluff he
was making: for of course the cap already on the nipple was plenty to
keep out the damp. I fully believe he intended to kill us as we lay.
Only my sudden awakening spoiled his plan.
I had absolutely no idea of this at the time, however. Not the
slightest suspicion entered my head. In view of that fact, I have
since believed in guardian angels. For my next move, which at the
time seemed to me absolutely aimless, was to change my blankets from
one side of the fire to the other. And that brought me alongside the
Owing to this fact, I am now convinced, we awoke safe at daylight,
cooked breakfast, and laid the plan for the day. Anderson directed us.
I was to climb over the ridge before us and search in the ravine on
the other side. Schwartz was to explore up the beach to the left, and
Denton to the right. Anderson said he would wait for Billy Simpson,
who had overslept in the darkness of the cubbyhole, and who was now
paddling ashore. The two of them would push inland to the west until
a high hill would give them a chance to look around for greenery.
We started at once, before the sun would be hot. The hill I had
to climb was steep and covered with chollas, so I didn't get along
very fast. When I was about half way to the top I heard a shot from
the beach. I looked back. Anderson was in the small boat, rowing
rapidly out to the vessel. Denton was running up the beach from one
direction and Schwartz from the other. I slid and slipped down the
bluff, getting pretty well stuck up with the cholla spines.
At the beach we found Billy Simpson lying on his ace, shot through
the back. We turned him over, but he was apparently dead. Anderson
had hoisted the sail, had cut loose from the anchor, and was sailing
Denton stood up straight and tall, looking. Then he pulled his
belt in a hole, grabbed my arm, and started to run up the long curve
of the beach. Behind us came Schwartz. We ran near a mile, and then
fell among some tules in an inlet at the farther point.
"What is it?" I gasped.
"Our only chance--to get him-- said Denton. "He's got to go
around this point--big wind--perhaps his mast will bust--then he'll
come ashore--" He opened and shut his big brown hands.
So there we two fools lay, like panthers in the tules, taking our
only one-in-a-million chance to lay hands on Anderson. Any sailor
could have told us that the mast wouldn't break, but we had winded
Schwartz a quarter of a mile back. And so we waited, our eyes fixed
on the boat's sail, grudging her every inch, just burning to fix
things to suit us a little better. And naturally she made the point
in what I now know was only a fresh breeze, squared away, and dropped
down before the wind toward Guaymas.
We walked back slowly to our camp, swallowing the copper taste of
too hard a run. Schwartz we picked up from a boulder, just
recovering. We were all of us crazy mad. Schwartz half wept, and
blamed and cussed. Denton glowered away in silence. I ground my feet
into the sand in a help less sort of anger, not only at the man
himself, but also at the whole way things had turned out. I don't
believe the least notion of our predicament had come to any of us.
All we knew yet was that we had been done up, and we were hostile
But at camp we found something to occupy us for the moment. Poor
Billy was not dead, as we had supposed, but very weak and sick, and a
hole square through him. When we returned he was conscious, but that
was about all. His eyes were shut, and he was moaning. I tore open
his shirt to stanch the blood. He felt my hand and opened his eyes.
They were glazed, and I don't think he saw me.
"Water, water!" he cried.
At that we others saw all at once where we stood. I remember I
rose to my feet and found myself staring straight into Tom Denton's
eyes. We looked at each other that way for I guess it was a full
minute. Then Tom shook his head.
"Water, water!" begged poor Billy.
Tom leaned over him.
"My God, Billy, there ain't any water!" said he.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN. BURIED TREASURE
The Old Timer's voice broke a little. We had leisure to notice
that even the drip from the eaves had ceased. A faint, diffused
light vouchsafed us dim outlines of sprawling figures and tumbled
bedding. Far in the distance outside a wolf yelped.
We could do nothing for him except shelter him from the sun, and
wet his forehead with sea-water; nor could we think clearly for
ourselves as long as the spark of life lingered in him. His chest
rose and fell regularly, but with long pauses between. When the sun
was overhead he suddenly opened his eyes.
"Fellows," said he, "it's beautiful over there; the grass is so
green, and the water so cool; I am tired of marching, and I reckon
I'll cross over and camp."
Then he died. We scooped out a shallow hole above tide-mark, and
laid him in it, and piled over him stones from the wash.
Then we went back to the beach, very solemn, to talk it over.
"Now, boys," said I, "there seems to me just one thing to do, and
that is to pike out for water as fast as we can."
"Where?" asked Denton.
"Well," I argued, "I don't believe there's any water about this
bay. Maybe there was when that chart was made. It was a long time
ago. And any way, the old pirate was a sailor, and no plainsman, and
maybe he mistook rainwater for a spring. We've looked around this end
of the bay. The chances are we'd use up two or three days exploring
around the other, and then wouldn't be as well off as we are right
"Which way?" asked Denton again, mighty brief.
"Well," said I, "there's one thing I've always noticed in case of
folks held up by the desert: they generally go wandering about here
and there looking for water until they die not far from where they got
lost. And usually they've covered a heap of actual distance."
"That's so," agreed Denton.
"Now, I've always figured that it would be a good deal better to
start right out for some particular place, even if it's ten thousand
miles away. A man is just as likely to strike water going in a
straight line as he is going in a circle; and then, besides, he's
"Correct," said Denton,
"So," I finished, "I reckon we'd better follow the coast south and
try to get to Mollyhay."
"How far is that?" asked Schwartz.
"I don't rightly know. But somewheres between three and five
hundred miles, at a guess."
At that he fell to glowering and grooming with himself, brooding
over what a hard time it was going to be. That is the way with a
German. First off he's plumb scared at the prospect of suffering
anything, and would rather die right off than take long chances.
After he gets into the swing of it, he behaves as well as any man.
"We took stock of what we had to depend on. The total assets
proved to be just three pairs of legs. A pot of coffee had been on
the fire, but that villain had kicked it over when he left. The kettle
of beans was there, but somehow we got the notion they might have been
poisoned, so we left them. I don't know now why we were so
foolish--if poison was his game, he'd have tried it before--but at
that time it seemed reasonable enough. Perhaps the horror of the
morning's work, and the sight of the brittle-brown mountains, and the
ghastly yellow glare of the sun, and the blue waves racing by outside,
and the big strong wind that blew through us so hard that it seemed to
blow empty our souls, had turned our judgment. Anyway, we left a full
meal there in the beanpot.
So without any further delay we set off up the ridge I had started
to cross that morning. Schwartz lagged, sulky as a muley cow, but we
managed to keep him with us. At the top of the ridge we took our
bearings for the next deep bay. Already we had made up our minds to
stick to the sea-coast, both on account of the lower country over
which to travel and the off chance of falling in with a fishing
vessel. Schwartz muttered something about its being too far even to
the next bay, and wanted to sit down on a rock. Denton didn't say
anything, but he jerked Schwartz up by the collar so fiercely that the
German gave it over and came along.
We dropped down into the gully, stumbled over the boulder wash,
and began to toil in the ankle-deep sand of a little sage-brush flat
this side of the next ascent. Schwartz followed steadily enough now,
but had fallen forty or fifty feet behind. This was a nuisance, as we
bad to keep turning to see if he still kept up.
Suddenly he seemed to disappear.
Denton and I hurried back to find him on his hands and knees
behind a sagebrush, clawing away at the sand like mad.
"Can't be water on this flat," said Denton; "he must have gone
"What's the matter, Schwartz?" I asked.
For answer he moved a little to one side, showing beneath his knee
one corner of a wooden box sticking above the sand.
At this we dropped beside him, and in five minutes had uncovered
the whole of the chest. It was not very large, and was locked. A
rock from the wash fixed that, however. We threw back the lid.
It was full to the brim of gold coins, thrown in loose, nigh two
bushels of them.
"The treasure!" I cried.
There it was, sure enough, or some of it. We looked the rest
through, but found nothing but the gold coins. The altar ornaments
and jewels were lacking.
"Probably buried in another box or so," said Denton.
Schwartz wanted to dig around a little.
"No good," said I. "We've got our work cut out for us as it is."
Denton backed me up. We were both old hands at the business, had
each in our time suffered the "cotton-mouth" thirst, and the memory
of it outweighed any desire for treasure.
But Schwartz was money-mad. Left to himself he would have staid
on that sand flat to perish, as certainly as had poor Billy. We had
fairly to force him away, and then succeeded only because we let him
fill all his pockets to bulging with the coins. As we moved up the
next rise, he kept looking back and uttering little moans against the
crime of leaving it.
Luckily for us it was winter. We shouldn't have lasted six hours
at this time of year. As it was, the sun was hot against the shale
and the little stones of those cussed hills. We plodded along until
late afternoon, toiling up one hill and down another, only to repeat
immediately. Towards sundown we made the second bay, where we plunged
into the sea, clothes and all, and were greatly refreshed. I suppose
a man absorbs a good deal that way. Anyhow, it always seemed to help.
We were now pretty hungry, and, as we walked along the shore, we
began to look for turtles or shellfish, or anything else that might
come handy. There was nothing. Schwartz wanted to stop for a night's
rest, but Denton and I knew better than that.
"Look here, Schwartz," said Denton, "you don't realise you're
entered against time in this race--and that you're a damn fool to
carry all that weight in your clothes."
So we dragged along all night.
It was weird enough, I can tell you. The moon shone cold and
white over that dead, dry country. Hot whiffs rose from the baked
stones and hillsides. Shadows lay under the stones like animals
crouching. When we came to the edge of a silvery hill we dropped off
into pitchy blackness. There we stumbled over boulders for a minute
or so, and began to climb the steep shale on the other side. This was
fearful work. The top seemed always miles away. By morning we didn't
seem to have made much of anywhere. The same old hollow-looking
mountains with the sharp edges stuck up in about the same old places.
We had got over being very hungry, and, though we were pretty dry,
we didn't really suffer yet from thirst. About this time Denton ran
across some fishhook cactus, which we cut up and chewed. They have a
sticky wet sort of inside, which doesn't quench your thirst any, but
helps to keep you from drying up and blowing away.
All that day we plugged along as per usual. It was main hard
work, and we got to that state where things are disagreeable, but
mechanical. Strange to say, Schwartz kept in the lead. It seemed to
me at the time that he was using more energy than the occasion called
for--just as man runs faster before he comes to the giving-out point.
However, the hours went by, and he didn't seem to get any more tired
than the rest of us.
We kept a sharp lookout for anything to eat, but there was nothing
but lizards and horned toads. Later we'd have been glad of them, but
by that time we'd got out of their district. Night came. Just at
sundown we took another wallow in the surf, and chewed some more
fishhook cactus. When the moon came up we went on.
I'm not going to tell you how dead beat we got. We were pretty
tough and strong, for all of us had been used to hard living, but
after the third day without anything to eat and no water to drink, it
came to be pretty hard going. It got to the point where we had to
have some REASON for getting out besides just keeping alive. A man
would sometimes rather die than keep alive, anyway, if it came only to
that. But I know I made up my mind I was going to get out so I could
smash up that Anderson, and I reckon Denton had the same idea.
Schwartz didn't say anything, but he pumped on ahead of us, his back
bent over, and his clothes sagging and bulging with the gold he
We used to travel all night, because it was cool, and rest an hour
or two at noon. That is all the rest we did get. I don't know how
fast we went; I'd got beyond that. We must have crawled along mighty
slow, though, after our first strength gave out. The way I used to do
was to collect myself with an effort, look around for my bearings,
pick out a landmark a little distance off, and forget everything but
it. Then I'd plod along, knowing nothing but the sand and shale and
slope under my feet, until I'd reached that landmark. Then I'd clear
my mind and pick out another.
But I couldn't shut out the figure of Schwartz that way. He used
to walk along just ahead of my shoulder. His face was all twisted
up, but I remember thinking at the time it looked more as if he was
worried in his mind than like bodily suffering. The weight of the
gold in his clothes bent his shoulders over.
As we went on the country gradually got to be more mountainous,
and, as we were steadily growing weaker, it did seem things were
piling up on us. The eighth day we ran out of the fishhook cactus,
and, being on a high promontory, were out of touch with the sea. For
the first time my tongue began to swell a little. The cactus had kept
me from that before. Denton must have been in the same fix, for he
looked at me and raised one eyebrow kind of humorous.
Schwartz was having a good deal of difficulty to navigate. I will
say for him that he had done well, but now I could see that his
strength was going on him in spite of himself. He knew it, all right,
for when we rested that day he took all the gold coins and spread them
in a row, and counted them, and put them back in his pocket, and then
all of a sudden snatched out two handfuls and threw them as far as he
"Too heavy," he muttered, but that was all he could bring himself
to throw away.
All that night we wandered high in the air. I guess we tried to
keep a general direction, but I don't know. Anyway, along late, but
before moonrise--she was now on the wane--I came to, and found myself
looking over the edge of a twenty-foot drop. Right below me I made
out a faint glimmer of white earth in the starlight. Somehow it
reminded me of a little trail I used to know under a big rock back in
"Here's a trail," I thought, more than half loco; "I'll follow
At least that's what half of me thought. The other half was
sensible, and knew better, but it seemed to be kind of standing to
one side, a little scornful, watching the performance. So I slid and
slipped down to the strip of white earth, and, sure enough, it was a
trail. At that the loco half of me gave the sensible part the laugh.
I followed the path twenty feet and came to a dark hollow under the
rock, and in it a round pool of water about a foot across. They say
a man kills himself drinking too much, after starving for water. That
may be, but it didn't kill me, and I sucked up all I could hold.
Perhaps the fishhook cactus had helped. Well, sir, it was surprising
how that drink brought me around. A minute before I'd been on the
edge of going plumb loco, and here I was as clear-headed as a lawyer.
I hunted up Denton and Schwartz. They drank, themselves full,
too. Then we rested. It was mighty hard to leave that spring--
Oh, we had to do it. We'd have starved sure, there. The trail
was a game trail, but that did us no good, for we had no weapons.
How we did wish for the coffeepot, so we could take some away. We
filled our hats, and carried them about three hours, before the water
began to soak through. Then we had to drink it in order to save it.
The country fairly stood up on end. We had to climb separate
little hills so as to avoid rolling rocks down on each other. It
took it out of us. About this time we began to see mountain sheep.
They would come right up to the edges of the small cliffs to look at
us. We threw stones at them, hoping to hit one in the forehead, but
of course without any results.
The good effects of the water lasted us about a day. Then we
began to see things again. Off and on I could see water plain as
could be in every hollow, and game of all kinds standing around and
looking at me. I knew these were all fakes. By making an effort I
could swing things around to where they belonged. I used to do that
every once in a while, just to be sure we weren't doubling back, and
to look out for real water. But most of the time it didn't seem to be
worth while. I just let all these visions riot around and have a good
time inside me or outside me, whichever it was. I knew I could get
rid of them any minute. Most of the time, if I was in any doubt, it
was easier to throw a stone to see if the animals were real or not.
The real ones ran away.
We began to see bands of wild horses in the uplands. One day both
Denton and I plainly saw one with saddle marks on him. If only one of
us had seen him, it wouldn't have counted much, but we both made him
out. This encouraged us wonderfully, though I don't see why it should
have. We had topped the high country, too, and had started down the
other side of the mountains that ran out on the promontory. Denton
and I were still navigating without any thought of giving up, but
Schwartz was getting in bad shape. I'd hate to pack twenty pounds
over that country even with rest, food, and water. He was toting it
on nothing. We told him so, and he came to see it, but he never could
persuade himself to get rid of the gold all at once. Instead he threw
away the pieces one by one. Each sacrifice seemed to nerve him up
for another heat. I can shut my eyes and see it now--the wide,
glaring, yellow country, the pasteboard mountains, we three dragging
along, and the fierce sunshine flashing from the doubloons as one by
one they went spinning through the air.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE CHEWED SUGAR CANE
"I'd like to have trailed you fellows," sighed a voice from the
corner. "Would you!" said Colorado Rogers grimly.
It was five days to the next water. But they were worse than the
eight days before. We were lucky, however, for at the spring we
discovered in a deep wash near the coast, was the dried-up skull of a
horse. It had been there a long time, but a few shreds of dried flesh
still clung to it. It was the only thing that could be described as
food that had passed our lips since breakfast thirteen days before.
In that time we had crossed the mountain chain, and had come again to
the sea. The Lord was good to us. He sent us the water, and the
horse's skull, and the smooth hard beach, without breaks or the
necessity of climbing hills. And we needed it, oh, I promise you, we
I doubt if any of us could have kept the direction except by such
an obvious and continuous landmark as the sea to our left. It hardly
seemed worth while to focus my mind, but I did it occasionally just by
way of testing myself. Schwartz still threw away his gold coins, and
once, in one of my rare intervals of looking about me, I saw Denton
picking them up. This surprised me mildly, but I was too tired to be
very curious. Only now, when I saw Schwartz's arm sweep out in what
had become a mechanical movement, I always took pains to look, and
always I saw Denton search for the coin. Sometimes he found it, and
sometimes he did not.
The figures of my companions and the yellow-brown tide sand under
my feet, and a consciousness of the blue and white sea to my left,
are all I remember, except when we had to pull ourselves together for
the purpose of cutting fishhook cactus. I kept going, and I knew I
had a good reason for doing so, but it seemed too much of an effort to
recall what that reason was.
Schwartz threw away a gold piece as another man would take a
stimulant. Gradually, without really thinking about it, I came to
see this, and then went on to sabe why Denton picked up the coins; and
a great admiration for Denton's cleverness seeped through me like
water through the sand. He was saving the coins to keep Schwartz
going. When the last coin went, Schwartz would give out. It all
sounds queer now, but it seemed all right then--and it WAS all right,
So we walked on the beach, losing entire track of time. And after
a long interval I came to myself to see Schwartz lying on the sand,
and Denton standing over him. Of course we'd all been falling down a
lot, but always before we'd got up again.
"He's give out," croaked Denton.
His voice sounded as if it was miles away, which surprised me,
but, when I answered, mine sounded miles away, too, which surprised
me still more.
Denton pulled out a handful of gold coins.
"This will buy him some more walk," said he gravely, "but not
I nodded. It seemed all right, this new, strange purchasing power
of gold--it WAS all right, by God, and as real as buying bricks--
"I'll go on," said Denton, "and send back help. You come after."
"To Mollyhay!" said I.
This far I reckon we'd hung onto ourselves because it was serious.
Now I began to laugh. So did Denton. We laughed and laughed.
"A damn long way To Mollyhay."
said I. Then we laughed some more, until the tears ran down our
cheeks, and we had to hold our poor weak sides. Pretty soon we
fetched up with a gasp.
"A damn long way To Mollyhay,"
whispered Denton, and then off we went into more shrieks. And
when we would sober down a little, one or the other of us would say
"A damn long way To Mollyhay,"
and then we'd laugh some more. It must have been a sweet sight!
At last I realised that we ought to pull ourselves together, so I
snubbed up short, and Denton did the same, and we set to laying
plans. But every minute or so one of us would catch on some word,
and then we'd trail off into rhymes and laughter and repetition.
"Keep him going as long as you can," said Denton.
"And be sure to stick to the beach."
That far it was all right and clear-headed. But the word "beach"
let us out.
"I'm a peach Upon the beach,"
sings I, and there we were both off again until one or the other
managed to grope his way back to common sense again. And sometimes
we crow-hopped solemnly around and around the prostrate Schwartz like
a pair of Injins.
But somehow we got our plan laid at last, slipped the coins into
Schwartz's pocket, and said good-bye.
"Old socks, good-bye, You bet I'll try,"
yelled Denton, and laughing fit to kill, danced off up the beach,
and out into a sort of grey mist that shut off everything beyond a
certain distance from me now.
So I kicked Schwartz, he felt in his pocket, threw a gold piece
away, and "bought a little more walk."
My entire vision was fifty feet or so across. Beyond that was
grey mist. Inside my circle I could see the sand quite plainly and
Denton's footprints. If I moved a little to the left, the wash of the
waters would lap under the edge of that grey curtain.
If I moved to the right, I came to cliffs. The nearer I drew to
them, the farther up I could see, but I could never see to the top.
It used to amuse me to move this area of consciousness about to see
what I could find. Actual physical suffering was beginning to dull,
and my head seemed to be getting clearer.
One day, without any apparent reason, I moved at right angles
across the beach. Directly before me lay a piece of sugar cane, and
one end of it had been chewed.
Do you know what that meant? Animals don't cut sugar cane and
bring it to the beach and chew one end. A new strength ran through
me, and actually the grey mist thinned and lifted for a moment, until
I could make out dimly the line of cliffs and the tumbling sea.
I was not a bit hungry, but I chewed on the sugar cane, and made
Schwartz do the same. When we went on I kept close to the cliff,
even though the walking was somewhat heavier.
I remember after that its getting dark and then light again, so
the night must have passed, but whether we rested or walked I do not
know. Probably we did not get very far, though certainly we staggered
ahead after sun-up, for I remember my shadow.
About midday, I suppose, I made out a dim trail leading up a break
in the cliffs. Plenty of such trails we had seen before. They were
generally made by peccaries in search of cast-up fish-- I hope they
had better luck than we.
But in the middle of this, as though for a sign, lay another piece
of chewed sugar cane.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THE CALABASH STEW
I had agreed with Denton to stick to the beach, but Schwartz could
not last much longer, and I had not the slightest idea how far it
might prove to be to Mollyhay. So I turned up the trail.
We climbed a mountain ten thousand feet high. I mean that; and I
know, for I've climbed them that high, and I know just how it feels,
and how many times you have to rest, and how long it takes, and how
much it knocks out of you. Those are the things that count in
measuring height, and so I tell you we climbed that far. Actually I
suppose the hill was a couple of hundred feet, if not less. But on
account of the grey mist I mentioned, I could not see the top, and the
illusion was complete.
We reached the summit late in the afternoon, for the sun was
square in our eyes. But instead of blinding me, it seemed to clear
my sight, so that I saw below me a little mud hut with smoke rising
behind it, and a small patch of cultivated ground.
I'll pass over how I felt about it: they haven't made the words--
Well, we stumbled down the trail and into the hut. At first I
thought it was empty, but after a minute I saw a very old man
crouched in a corner. As I looked at him he raised his bleared eyes
to me, his head swinging slowly from side to side as though with a
kind of palsy. He could not see me, that was evident, nor hear me,
but some instinct not yet decayed turned him toward a new presence in
the room. In my wild desire for water I found room to think that here
was a man even worse off than myself.
A vessel of water was in the corner. I drank it. It was more than
I could hold, but I drank even after I was filled, and the waste ran
from the corners of my mouth. I had forgotten Schwartz. The excess
made me a little sick, but I held down what I had swallowed, and I
really believe it soaked into my system as it does into the desert
earth after a drought.
In a moment or so I took the vessel and filled it and gave it to
Schwartz. Then it seemed to me that my responsibility had ended. A
sudden great dreamy lassitude came over me. I knew I needed food, but
I had no wish for it, and no ambition to search it out. The man in the
corner mumbled at me with his toothless gums. I remember wondering if
we were all to starve there peacefully together--Schwartz and his
remaining gold coins, the man far gone in years, and myself. I did
not greatly care.
After a while the light was blotted out. There followed a slight
pause. Then I knew that someone had flown to my side, and was
kneeling beside me and saying liquid, pitying things in Mexican. I
swallowed something hot and strong. In a moment I came back from
wherever I was drifting, to look up at a Mexican girl about twenty
She was no great matter in looks, but she seemed like an angel to
me then. And she had sense. No questions, no nothing. Just
business. The only thing she asked of me was if I understood
Then she told me that her brother would be back soon, that they
were very poor, that she was sorry she had no meat to offer me, that
they were VERY poor, that all they had was calabash--a sort of squash.
All this time she was bustling things together. Next thing I know I
had a big bowl of calabash stew between my knees.
Now, strangely enough, I had no great interest in that calabash
stew. I tasted it, sat and thought a while, and tasted it again. By
and by I had emptied the bowl. It was getting dark. I was very
sleepy. A man came in, but I was too drowsy to pay any attention to
him. I heard the sound of voices. Then I was picked up bodily and
carried to an out-building and laid on a pile of skins. I felt the
weight of a blanket thrown over me--
I awoke in the night. Mind you, I had practically had no rest at
all for a matter of more than two weeks, yet I woke in a few hours.
And, remember, even in eating the calabash stew I had felt no hunger
in spite of my long fast. But now I found myself ravenous. You boys
do not know what hunger is. It HURTS. And all the rest of that night
I lay awake chewing on the rawhide of a pack-saddle that hung near me.
Next morning the young Mexican and his sister came to us early,
bringing more calabash stew. I fell on it like a wild animal, and
just wallowed in it, so eager was I to eat. They stood and watched
me--and I suppose Schwartz, too, though I had now lost interest in
anyone but myself--glancing at each other in pity from time to time.
When I had finished the man told me that they had decided to kill
a beef so we could have meat. They were very poor, but God had
brought us to them--
I appreciated this afterward. At the time I merely caught at the
word "meat." It seemed to me I could have eaten the animal entire,
hide, hoofs, and tallow. As a matter of fact, it was mighty lucky
they didn't have any meat. If they had, we'd probably have killed
ourselves with it. I suppose the calabash was about the best thing
for us under the circumstances.
The Mexican went out to hunt up his horse. I called the girl
"How far is it to Mollyhay?" I asked her.
"A league," said she.
So we bad been near our journey's end after all, and Denton was
probably all right.
The Mexican went away horseback. The girl fed us calabash. We
About one o'clock a group of horsemen rode over the hill. When
they came near enough I recognised Denton at their head. That man
was of tempered steel--
They had followed back along the beach, caught our trail where we
had turned off, and so discovered us. Denton had fortunately found
kind and intelligent people.
We said good-bye to the Mexican girl. I made Schwartz give her
one of his gold pieces.
But Denton could not wait for us to say "hullo" even, he was so
anxious to get back to town, so we mounted the horses he had brought
us, and rode off, very wobbly.
We lived three weeks in Mollyhay. It took us that long to get fed
up. The lady I stayed with made a dish of kid meat and stuffed
Why, an hour after filling myself up to the muzzle I'd be hungry
again, and scouting round to houses looking for more to eat!
We talked things over a good deal, after we had gained a little
strength. I wanted to take a little flyer at Guaymas to see if I
could run across this Handy Solomon person, but Denton pointed out
that Anderson would be expecting just that, and would take mighty good
care to be scarce. His idea was that we'd do better to get hold of a
boat and some water casks, and lug off the treasure we had stumbled
over. Denton told us that the idea of going back and scooping all
that dinero up with a shovel had kept him going, just as the idea of
getting even with Anderson had kept me going. Schwartz said that
after he'd carried that heavy gold over the first day, he made up his
mind he'd get the spending of it or bust. That's why he hated so to
throw it away.
There were lots of fishing boats in the harbour, and we hired one,
and a man to run it for next to nothing a week. We laid a course
north, and in six days anchored in our bay.
I tell you it looked queer. There were the charred sticks of the
fire, and the coffeepot lying on its side. We took off our hats at
poor Billy's grave a minute, and then climbed over the cholla-covered
hill carrying our picks and shovels, and the canvas sacks to take the
treasure away in.
There was no trouble in reaching the sandy flat. But when we got
there we found it torn up from one end to the other. A few scattered
timbers and three empty chests with the covers pried off alone
remained. Handy Solomon had been there before us.
We went back to our boat sick at heart. Nobody said a word. We
went aboard and made our Greaser boatman head for Yuma. It took us a
week to get there. We were all of us glum, but Denton was the worst
of the lot. Even after we'd got back to town and fallen into our old
ways of life, he couldn't seem to get over it. He seemed plumb
possessed of gloom, and moped around like a chicken with the pip.
This surprised me, for I didn't think the loss of money would hit him
so hard. It didn't hit any of us very hard in those days.
One evening I took him aside and fed him a drink, and expostulated
"Oh, HELL, Rogers," he burst out, "I don't care about the loot.
But, suffering cats, think how that fellow sized us up for a lot of
pattern-made fools; and how right he was about, it. Why all he did
was to sail out of sight around the next corner. He knew we'd start
across country; and we did. All we had to do was to lay low, and save
our legs. He was BOUND to come back. And we might have nailed him
when he landed."
"That's about all there was to it," concluded Colorado Rogers,
after a pause, "--except that I've been looking for him ever since,
and when I heard you singing that song I naturally thought I'd
landed." "And you never saw him again?" asked Windy Bill. "Well,"
chuckled Rogers, "I did about ten year later. It was in Tucson. I
was in the back of a store, when the door in front opened and this man
came in. He stopped at the little cigar-case by the door. In about
one jump I was on his neck. I jerked him over backwards before he
knew what had struck him, threw him on his face, got my hands in his
back-hair, and began to jump his features against the floor. Then all
at once I noted that this man had two arms; so of course he was the
wrong fellow. "Oh, excuse me," said I, and ran out the back door."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE HONK-HONK BREED
It was Sunday at the ranch. For a wonder the weather bad been
favourable; the windmills were all working, the bogs had dried up,
the beef had lasted over, the remuda had not strayed--in short, there
was nothing to do. Sang had given us a baked bread-pudding with
raisins in it. We filled it--in a wash basin full of it--on top of a
few incidental pounds of chile con, baked beans, soda biscuits, "air
tights," and other delicacies. Then we adjourned with our pipes to
the shady side of the blacksmith's shop where we could watch the
ravens on top the adobe wall of the corral. Somebody told a story
about ravens. This led to road-runners. This suggested rattlesnakes.
They started Windy Bill.
"Speakin' of snakes," said Windy, "I mind when they catched the
great-granddaddy of all the bullsnakes up at Lead in the Black Hills.
I was only a kid then. This wasn't no such tur'ble long a snake,
but he was more'n a foot thick. Looked just like a sahuaro stalk.
Man name of Terwilliger Smith catched it. He named this yere
bullsnake Clarence, and got it so plumb gentle it followed him
everywhere. One day old P. T. Barnum come along and wanted to buy
this Clarence snake--offered Terwilliger a thousand cold--but Smith
wouldn't part with the snake nohow. So finally they fixed up a deal
so Smith could go along with the show. They shoved Clarence in a box
in the baggage car, but after a while Mr. Snake gets so lonesome he
gnaws out and starts to crawl back to find his master. Just as he is
half-way between the baggage car and the smoker, the couplin' give
way--right on that heavy grade between Custer and Rocky Point. Well,
sir, Clarence wound his head 'round one brake wheel and his tail
around the other, and held that train together to the bottom of the
grade. But it stretched him twenty-eight feet and they had to
advertise him as a boa-constrictor."
Windy Bill's story of the faithful bullsnake aroused to
reminiscence the grizzled stranger, who thereupon held forth as
Wall, I've see things and I've heerd things, some of them ornery,
and some you'd love to believe, they was that gorgeous and
improbable. Nat'ral history was always my hobby and sportin' events
my special pleasure and this yarn of Windy's reminds me of the only
chanst I ever had to ring in business and pleasure and hobby all in
one grand merry-go-round of joy. It come about like this: One day, a
few year back, I was sittin' on the beach at Santa Barbara watchin'
the sky stay up, and wonderin' what to do with my year's wages, when a
little squinch-eye round-face with big bow spectacles came and plumped
down beside me.
"Did you ever stop to think," says he, shovin' back his hat, "that
if the horsepower delivered by them waves on this beach in one single
hour could be concentrated behind washin' machines, it would be enough
to wash all the shirts for a city of four hundred and fifty-one
thousand one hundred and thirty-six people?"
"Can't say I ever did," says I, squintin' at him sideways.
"Fact," says he, "and did it ever occur to you that if all the
food a man eats in the course of a natural life could be gathered
together at one time, it would fill a wagon-train twelve miles long?"
"You make me hungry," says I.
"And ain't it interestin' to reflect," he goes on, "that if all
the finger-nail parin's of the human race for one year was to be
collected and subjected to hydraulic pressure it would equal in size
the pyramid of Cheops?"
"Look yere," says I, sittin' up, "did YOU ever pause to excogitate
that if all the hot air you is dispensin' was to be collected together
it would fill a balloon big enough to waft you and me over that
Bullyvard of Palms to yonder gin mill on the corner?"
He didn't say nothin' to that--just yanked me to my feet, faced me
towards the gin mill above mentioned, and exerted considerable
pressure on my arm in urgin' of me forward.
"You ain't so much of a dreamer, after all," thinks I. "In
important matters you are plumb decisive."
We sat down at little tables, and my friend ordered a beer and a
"Chickens," says he, gazin' at the sandwich, "is a dollar apiece
in this country, and plumb scarce. Did you ever pause to ponder over
the returns chickens would give on a small investment? Say you start
with ten hens. Each hatches out thirteen aigs, of which allow a loss
of say six for childish accidents. At the end of the year you has
eighty chickens. At the end of two years that flock has increased to
six hundred and twenty. At the end of the third year--"
He had the medicine tongue! Ten days later him and me was
occupyin' of an old ranch fifty mile from anywhere. When they run
stage-coaches this joint used to be a roadhouse. The outlook was on
about a thousand little brown foothills. A road two miles four rods
two foot eleven inches in sight run by in front of us. It come over
one foothill and disappeared over another. I know just how long it
was, for later in the game I measured it.
Out back was about a hundred little wire chicken corrals filled
with chickens. We had two kinds. That was the doin's of Tuscarora.
My pardner called himself Tuscarora Maxillary. I asked him once if
that was his real name.
"It's the realest little old name you ever heerd tell of," says
he. "I know, for I made it myself--liked the sound of her. Parents
ain't got no rights to name their children. Parents don't have to be
called them names."
Well, these chickens, as I said, was of two kinds. The first was
these low-set, heavyweight propositions with feathers on their laigs,
and not much laigs at that, called Cochin Chinys. The other was a
tall ridiculous outfit made up entire of bulgin' breast and gangle
laigs. They stood about two foot and a half tall, and when they went
to peck the ground their tail feathers stuck straight up to the sky.
Tusky called 'em Japanese Games.
"Which the chief advantage of them chickens is," says he, "that in
weight about ninety per cent of 'em is breast meat. Now my idee is,
that if we can cross 'em with these Cochin Chiny fowls we'll have a
low-hung, heavyweight chicken runnin' strong on breast meat. These
Jap Games is too small, but if we can bring 'em up in size and shorten
their laigs, we'll shore have a winner."
That looked good to me, so we started in on that idee. The theery
was bully, but she didn't work out. The first broods we hatched growed
up with big husky Cochin Chiny bodies and little short necks, perched
up on laigs three foot long. Them chickens couldn't reach ground
nohow. We had to build a table for 'em to eat off, and when they went
out rustlin' for themselves they had to confine themselves to
sidehills or flyin' insects. Their breasts was all right,
though--"And think of them drumsticks for the boardinghouse trade!"
So far things wasn't so bad. We had a good grubstake. Tusky and
me used to feed them chickens twict a day, and then used to set
around watchin' the playful critters chase grasshoppers up an' down
the wire corrals, while Tusky figgered out what'd happen if somebody
was dumfool enough to gather up somethin' and fix it in baskets or
wagons or such. That was where we showed our ignorance of chickens.
One day in the spring I hitched up, rustled a dozen of the
youngsters into coops, and druv over to the railroad to make our
first sale. I couldn't fold them chickens up into them coops at
first, but then I stuck the coops up on aidge and they worked all
right, though I will admit they was a comical sight. At the railroad
one of them towerist trains had just slowed down to a halt as I come
up, and the towerist was paradin' up and down allowin' they was
particular enjoyin' of the warm Californy sunshine. One old terrapin,
with grey chin whiskers, projected over, with his wife, and took a
peek through the slats of my coop. He straightened up like someone
had touched him off with a red-hot poker.
"Stranger," said he, in a scared kind of whisper, "what's them?"
"Them's chickens," says I.
He took another long look.
"Marthy," says he to the old woman, "this will be about all! We
come out from Ioway to see the Wonders of Californy, but I can't go
nothin' stronger than this. If these is chickens, I don't want to see
no Big Trees."
Well, I sold them chickens all right for a dollar and two bits,
which was better than I expected, and got an order for more. About
ten days later I got a letter from the commission house.
"We are returnin' a sample of your Arts and Crafts chickens with
the lovin' marks of the teeth still onto him," says they. "Don't
send any more till they stops pursuin' of the nimble grasshopper.
Dentist bill will foller."
With the letter came the remains of one of the chickens. Tusky
and I, very indignant, cooked her for supper. She was tough, all
right. We thought she might do better biled, so we put her in the
pot over night. Nary bit. Well, then we got interested. Tusky kep'
the fire goin' and I rustled greasewood. We cooked her three days and
three nights. At the end of that time she was sort of pale and
frazzled, but still givin' points to three-year-old jerky on cohesion
and other uncompromisin' forces of Nature. We buried her then, and
went out back to recuperate.
There we could gaze on the smilin' landscape, dotted by about four
hundred long-laigged chickens swoopin' here and there after
"We got to stop that," says I.
"We can't," murmured Tusky, inspired. "We can't. It's born in
'em; it's a primal instinct, like the love of a mother for her young,
and it can't be eradicated! Them chickens is constructed by a divine
providence for the express purpose of chasin' grasshoppers, jest as
the beaver is made for buildin' dams, and the cow-puncher is made for
whisky and faro-games. We can't keep 'em from it. If we was to shut
'em in a dark cellar, they'd flop after imaginary grasshoppers in
their dreams, and die emaciated in the midst of plenty. Jimmy, we're
up agin the Cosmos, the oversoul--" Oh, he had the medicine tongue,
Tusky had, and risin' on the wings of eloquence that way, he had me
faded in ten minutes. In fifteen I was wedded solid to the notion
that the bottom had dropped out of the chicken business. I think now
that if we'd shut them hens up, we might have--still, I don't know;
they was a good deal in what Tusky said.
"Tuscarora Maxillary," says I, "did you ever stop to entertain
that beautiful thought that if all the dumfoolishness possessed now
by the human race could be gathered together, and lined up alongside
of us, the first feller to come along would say to it 'Why, hello,
We quit the notion of chickens for profit right then and there,
but we couldn't quit the place. We hadn't much money, for one thing,
and then we, kind of liked loafin' around and raisin' a little garden
truck, and--oh, well, I might as well say so, we had a notion about
placers in the dry wash back of the house you know how it is. So we
stayed on, and kept a-raisin' these long-laigs for the fun of it. I
used to like to watch 'em projectin' around, and I fed 'em twict a day
about as usual.
So Tusky and I lived alone there together, happy as ducks in
Arizona. About onc't in a month somebody'd pike along the road. She
wasn't much of a road, generally more chuckholes than bumps, though
sometimes it was the other way around. Unless it happened to be a man
horseback or maybe a freighter without the fear of God in his soul, we
didn't have no words with them; they was too busy cussin' the highways
and generally too mad for social discourses.
One day early in the year, when the 'dobe mud made ruts to add to
the bumps, one of these automobeels went past. It was the first
Tusky and me had seen in them parts, so we run out to view her. Owin'
to the high spots on the road, she looked like one of these movin'
picters, as to blur and wobble; sounded like a cyclone mingled with
cuss-words, and smelt like hell on housecleanin' day.
"Which them folks don't seem to be enjoyin' of the scenery," says
I to Tusky. "Do you reckon that there blue trail is smoke from the
machine or remarks from the inhabitants thereof?"
Tusky raised his head and sniffed long and inquirin'.
"It's langwidge," says he. "Did you ever stop to think that all
the words in the dictionary stretched end to end would reach--"
But at that minute I catched sight of somethin' brass lyin' in the
road. It proved to be a curled-up sort of horn with a rubber bulb on
the end. I squoze the bulb and jumped twenty foot over the remark she
"Jarred off the machine," says Tusky.
"Oh, did it?" says I, my nerves still wrong. "I thought maybe it
had growed up from the soil like a toadstool."
About this time we abolished the wire chicken corrals, because we
needed some of the wire. Them long-laigs thereupon scattered all
over the flat searchin' out their prey. When feed time come I had to
screech my lungs out gettin' of 'em in, and then sometimes they didn't
all hear. It was plumb discouragin', and I mighty nigh made up my
mind to quit 'em, but they had come to be sort of pets, and I hated to
turn 'em down. It used to tickle Tusky almost to death to see me out
there hollerin' away like an old bull-frog. He used to come out
reg'lar, with his pipe lit, just to enjoy me. Finally I got mad and
opened up on him.
"Oh," he explains, "it just plumb amuses me to see the dumfool at
his childish work. Why don't you teach 'em to come to that brass
horn, and save your voice?"
"Tusky," says I, with feelin', "sometimes you do seem to get a
glimmer of real sense."
Well, first off them chickens used to throw back-sommersets over
that horn. You have no idee how slow chickens is to learn things. I
could tell you things about chickens--say, this yere bluff about
roosters bein' gallant is all wrong. I've watched 'em. When one
finds a nice feed he gobbles it so fast that the pieces foller down
his throat like yearlin's through a hole in the fence. It's only when
he scratches up a measly one-grain quick-lunch that he calls up the
hens and stands noble and self-sacrificin' to one side. That ain't
the point, which is, that after two months I had them long-laigs so
they'd drop everythin' and come kitin' at the HONK-HONK of that horn.
It was a purty sight to see 'em, sailin' in from all directions
twenty foot at a stride. I was proud of 'em, and named 'em the
Honk-honk Breed. We didn't have no others, for by now the coyotes
and bob-cats had nailed the straight-breds. There wasn't no wild cat
or coyote could catch one of my Honk-honks, no, sir!
We made a little on our placer--just enough to keep interested.
Then the supervisors decided to fix our road, and what's more, THEY
DONE IT! That's the only part in this yarn that's hard to believe,
but, boys, you'll have to take it on faith. They ploughed her, and
crowned her, and scraped her, and rolled her, and when they moved on
we had the fanciest highway in the State of Californy.
That noon--the day they called her a job--Tusky and I sat smokin'
our pipes as per usual, when way over the foothills we seen a cloud
of dust and faint to our cars was bore a whizzin' sound. The chickens
was gathered under the cottonwood for the heat of the day, but they
didn't pay no attention. Then faint, but clear, we heard another of
them brass horns:
"Honk! honk!" says it, and every one of them chickens woke up, and
stood at attention.
"Honk! honk!" it hollered clearer and nearer.
Then over the hill come an automobeel, blowin' vigorous at every
"My God!" I yells to Tusky, kickin' over my chair, as I springs to
my feet. "Stop 'em! Stop 'em!"
But it was too late. Out the gate sprinted them poor devoted
chickens, and up the road they trailed in vain pursuit. The last we
seen of 'em was a mingling of dust and dim figgers goin' thirty mile
an hour after a disappearin' automobeel.
That was all we seen for the moment. About three o'clock the
first straggler came limpin' in, his wings hangin', his mouth open,
his eyes glazed with the heat. By sundown fourteen had returned. All
the rest had disappeared utter; we never seen 'em again. I reckon
they just naturally run themselves into a sunstroke and died on the
It takes a long time to learn a chicken a thing, but a heap longer
to unlearn him. After that two or three of these yere automobeels
went by every day, all a-blowin' of their horns, all kickin' up a hell
of a dust. And every time them fourteen Honk-honks of mine took along
after 'em, just as I'd taught 'em to do, layin' to get to their corn
when they caught up. No more of 'em died, but that fourteen did get
into elegant trainin'. After a while they got plumb to enjoyin' it.
When you come right down to it, a chicken don't have many amusements
and relaxations in this life. Searchin' for worms, chasin'
grasshoppers, and wallerin' in the dust is about the limits of joys
It was sure a fine sight to see 'em after they got well into the
game. About nine o'clock every mornin' they would saunter down to
the rise of the road where they would wait patient until a machine
came along. Then it would warm your heart to see the enthusiasm of
them. With, exultant cackles of joy they'd trail in, reachin' out
like quarter-horses, their wings half spread out, their eyes beamin'
with delight. At the lower turn they'd quit. Then, after talkin' it
over excited-like for a few minutes, they'd calm down and wait for
After a few months of this sort of trainin' they got purty good at
it. I had one two-year-old rooster that made fifty-four mile an hour
behind one of those sixty-horsepower Panhandles. When cars didn't
come along often enough, they'd all turn out and chase jack-rabbits.
They wasn't much fun at that. After a short, brief sprint the rabbit
would crouch down plumb terrified, while the Honk-honks pulled off
triumphal dances around his shrinkin' form.
Our ranch got to be purty well known them days among
automobeelists. The strength of their cars was horse-power, of
course, but the speed of them they got to ratin' by chicken-power.
Some of them used to come way up from Los Angeles just to try out a
new car along our road with the Honk-honks for pace-makers. We
charged them a little somethin', and then, too, we opened up the
road-house and the bar, so we did purty well. It wasn't necessary to
work any longer at that bogus placer. Evenin's we sat around outside
and swapped yarns, and I bragged on my chickens. The chickens would
gather round close to listen.
They liked to hear their praises sung, all right. You bet they
sabe! The only reason a chicken, or any other critter, isn't
intelligent is because he hasn't no chance to expand.
Why, we used to run races with 'em. Some of us would hold two or
more chickens back of a chalk line, and the starter'd blow the horn
from a hundred yards to a mile away, dependin' on whether it was a
sprint or for distance. We had pools on the results, gave odds, made
books, and kept records. After the thing got knowed we made money
hand over fist.
The stranger broke off abruptly and began to roll a cigarette.
"What did you quit it for, then?" ventured Charley, out of the
"Pride," replied the stranger solemnly. "Haughtiness of spirit."
"How so?" urged Charley, after a pause. "Them chickens," continued
the stranger, after a moment, "stood around listenin' to me a-braggin'
of what superior fowls they was until they got all puffed up. They
wouldn't have nothin' whatever to do with the ordinary chickens we
brought in for eatin' purposes, but stood around lookin' bored when
there wasn't no sport doin'. They got to be just like that Four
Hundred you read about in the papers. It was one continual round of
grasshopper balls, race meets, and afternoon hen-parties. They got
idle and haughty, just like folks. Then come race suicide. They got
to feelin' so aristocratic the hens wouldn't have no eggs."
Nobody dared say a word.
"Windy Bill's snake--" began the narrator genially. "Stranger,"
broke in Windy Bill, with great emphasis, "as to that snake, I want
you to understand this: yereafter in my estimation that snake is
nothin' but an ornery angleworm!"
PART II. THE TWO GUN MAN
CHAPTER ONE. THE CATTLE RUSTLERS
Buck Johnson was American born, but with a black beard and a
dignity of manner that had earned him the title of Senor. He had
drifted into southeastern Arizona in the days of Cochise and Victorio
and Geronimo. He had persisted, and so in time had come to control
the water--and hence the grazing--of nearly all the Soda Springs
Valley. His troubles were many, and his difficulties great. There
were the ordinary problems of lean and dry years. There were also the
extraordinary problems of devastating Apaches; rivals for early and
ill-defined range rights--and cattle rustlers.
Senor Buck Johnson was a man of capacity, courage, directness of
method, and perseverance. Especially the latter. Therefore he had
survived to see the Apaches subdued, the range rights adjusted, his
cattle increased to thousands, grazing the area of a principality.
Now, all the energy and fire of his frontiersman's nature he had
turned to wiping out the third uncertainty of an uncertain business.
He found it a task of some magnitude.
For Senor Buck Johnson lived just north of that terra incognita
filled with the mystery of a double chance of death from man or the
flaming desert known as the Mexican border. There, by natural
gravitation, gathered all the desperate characters of three States and
two republics. He who rode into it took good care that no one should
ride behind him, lived warily, slept light, and breathed deep when
once he had again sighted the familiar peaks of Cochise's Stronghold.
No one professed knowledge of those who dwelt therein. They moved,
mysterious as the desert illusions that compassed them about. As you
rode, the ranges of mountains visibly changed form, the monstrous,
snaky, sea-like growths of the cactus clutched at your stirrup, mock
lakes sparkled and dissolved in the middle distance, the sun beat hot
and merciless, the powdered dry alkali beat hotly and mercilessly
back--and strange, grim men, swarthy, bearded, heavily armed, with
red-rimmed unshifting eyes, rode silently out of the mists of illusion
to look on you steadily, and then to ride silently back into the
desert haze. They might be only the herders of the gaunt cattle, or
again they might belong to the Lost Legion that peopled the country.
All you could know was that of the men who entered in, but few
Directly north of this unknown land you encountered parallel
fences running across the country. They enclosed nothing, but
offered a check to the cattle drifting toward the clutch of the
renegades, and an obstacle to swift, dashing forays.
Of cattle-rustling there are various forms. The boldest consists
quite simply of running off a bunch of stock, hustling it over the
Mexican line, and there selling it to some of the big Sonora ranch
owners. Generally this sort means war. Also are there subtler means,
grading in skill from the re-branding through a wet blanket, through
the crafty refashioning of a brand to the various methods of
separating the cow from her unbranded calf. In the course of his task
Senor Buck Johnson would have to do with them all, but at present he
existed in a state of warfare, fighting an enemy who stole as the
Indians used to steal.
Already be had fought two pitched battles and had won them both.
His cattle increased, and he became rich. Nevertheless he knew that
constantly his resources were being drained. Time and again he and
his new Texas foreman, Jed Parker, had followed the trail of a
stampeded bunch of twenty or thirty, followed them on down through the
Soda Springs Valley to the cut drift fences, there to abandon them.
For, as yet, an armed force would be needed to penetrate the
borderland. Once he and his men bad experienced the glory of a night
pursuit. Then, at the drift fences, he had fought one of his battles.
But it was impossible adequately to patrol all parts of a range
bigger than some Eastern States.
Buck Johnson did his best, but it was like stepping with sand the
innumerable little leaks of a dam. Did his riders watch toward the
Chiricahuas, then a score of beef steers disappeared from Grant's Pass
forty miles away. Pursuit here meant leaving cattle unguarded there.
It was useless, and the Senor soon perceived that sooner or later he
must strike in offence.
For this purpose he began slowly to strengthen the forces of his
riders. Men were coming in from Texas. They were good men, addicted
to the grass-rope, the double cinch, and the ox-bow stirrup. Senor
Johnson wanted men who could shoot, and he got them.
"Jed," said Senor Johnson to his foreman, "the next son of a gun
that rustles any of our cows is sure loading himself full of trouble.
We'll hit his trail and will stay with it, and we'll reach his
cattle-rustling conscience with a rope."
So it came about that a little army crossed the drift fences and
entered the border country. Two days later it came out, and mighty
pleased to be able to do so. The rope had not been used.
The reason for the defeat was quite simple. The thief had run his
cattle through the lava beds where the trail at once became difficult
to follow. This delayed the pursuing party; they ran out of water,
and, as there was among them not one man well enough acquainted with
the country to know where to find more, they had to return.
"No use, Buck," said Jed. "We'd any of us come in on a gun play,
but we can't buck the desert. We'll have to get someone who knows
"That's all right--but where?" queried Johnson.
"There's Pereza," suggested Parker. "It's the only town down near
"Might get someone there," agreed the Senor.
Next day he rode away in search of a guide. The third evening he
was back again, much discouraged.
"The country's no good," he explained. "The regular inhabitants
're a set of Mexican bums and old soaks. The cowmen's all from north
and don't know nothing more than we do. I found lots who claimed to
know that country, but when I told 'em what I wanted they shied like a
colt. I couldn't hire'em, for no money, to go down in that country.
They ain't got the nerve. I took two days to her, too, and rode out
to a ranch where they said a man lived who knew all about it down
there. Nary riffle. Man looked all right, but his tail went down
like the rest when I told him what we wanted. Seemed plumb scairt to
death. Says he lives too close to the gang. Says they'd wipe him out
sure if he done it. Seemed plumb SCAIRT." Buck Johnson grinned. "I
told him so and he got hosstyle right off. Didn't seem no ways scairt
of me. I don't know what's the matter with that outfit down there.
They're plumb terrorised."
That night a bunch of steers was stolen from the very corrals of
the home ranch. The home ranch was far north, near Fort Sherman
itself, and so had always been considered immune from attack.
Consequently these steers were very fine ones.
For the first time Buck Johnson lost his head and his dignity. He
ordered the horses.
"I'm going to follow that -- -- into Sonora," he shouted to Jed
Parker. "This thing's got to stop!"
"You can't make her, Buck," objected the foreman. "You'll get held
up by the desert, and, if that don't finish you, they'll tangle you up
in all those little mountains down there, and ambush you, and massacre
you. You know it damn well."
"I don't give a --" exploded Senor Johnson, "if they do. No man
can slap my face and not get a run for it."
Jed Parker communed with himself.
"Senor," said he, at last,"it's no good; you can't do it. You got
to have a guide. You wait three days and I'll get you one."
"You can't do it," insisted the Senor. "I tried every man in the
"Will you wait three days?" repeated the foreman.
Johnson pulled loose his latigo. His first anger had cooled.
"All right," he agreed, "and you can say for me that I'll pay five
thousand dollars in gold and give all the men and horses he needs to
the man who has the nerve to get back that bunch of cattle, and bring
in the man who rustled them. I'll sure make this a test case."
So Jed Parker set out to discover his man with nerve.
CHAPTER TWO. THE MAN WITH NERVE
At about ten o'clock of the Fourth of July a rider topped the
summit of the last swell of land, and loped his animal down into the
single street of Pereza. The buildings on either side were
flat-roofed and coated with plaster. Over the sidewalks extended
wooden awnings, beneath which opened very wide doors into the
coolness of saloons. Each of these places ran a bar, and also games
of roulette, faro, craps, and stud poker. Even this early in the
morning every game was patronised.
The day was already hot with the dry, breathless, but
exhilarating, beat of the desert. A throng of men idling at the edge
of the sidewalks, jostling up and down their centre, or eddying into
the places of amusement, acknowledged the power of summer by loosening
their collars, carrying their coats on their arms. They were as yet
busily engaged in recognising acquaintances. Later they would drink
freely and gamble, and perhaps fight. Toward all but those whom they
recognised they preserved an attitude of potential suspicion, for here
were gathered the "bad men" of the border countries. A certain
jealousy or touchy egotism lest the other man be considered quicker
on the trigger, bolder, more aggressive than himself, kept each strung
to tension. An occasional shot attracted little notice. Men in the
cow-countries shoot as casually as we strike matches, and some subtle
instinct told them that the reports were harmless.
As the rider entered the one street, however, a more definite
cause of excitement drew the loose population toward the centre of
the road. Immediately their mass blotted out what had interested
them. Curiosity attracted the saunterers; then in turn the
frequenters of the bars and gambling games. In a very few moments the
barkeepers, gamblers, and look-out men, held aloof only by the
necessities of their calling, alone of all the population of Pereza
were not included in the newly-formed ring.
The stranger pushed his horse resolutely to the outer edge of the
crowd where, from his point of vantage, he could easily overlook
their heads. He was a quiet-appearing young fellow, rather neatly
dressed in the border costume, rode a "centre fire," or single-cinch,
saddle, and wore no chaps. He was what is known as a "two-gun man":
that is to say, he wore a heavy Colt's revolver on either hip. The
fact that the lower ends of his holsters were tied down, in order to
facilitate the easy withdrawal of the revolvers, seemed to indicate
that he expected to use them. He had furthermore a quiet grey eye,
with the glint of steel that bore out the inference of the tied
The newcomer dropped his reins on his pony's neck, eased himself
to an attitude of attention, and looked down gravely on what was
taking place. He saw over the heads of the bystanders a tall,
muscular, wild-eyed man, hatless, his hair rumpled into staring
confusion, his right sleeve rolled to his shoulder, a wicked-looking
nine-inch knife in his hand, and a red bandana handkerchief hanging by
one corner from his teeth.
"What's biting the locoed stranger?" the young man inquired of his
The other frowned at him darkly.
"Dare's anyone to take the other end of that handkerchief in his
teeth, and fight it out without letting go."
"Nice joyful proposition," commented the young man.
He settled himself to closer attention. The wild-eyed man was
talking rapidly. What he said cannot be printed here. Mainly was it
derogatory of the southern countries. Shortly it became boastful of
the northern, and then of the man who uttered it.
He swaggered up and down, becoming always the more insolent as his
challenge remained untaken.
"Why don't you take him up?" inquired the young man, after a
"Not me!" negatived the other vigorously. "I'll go yore little
old gunfight to a finish, but I don't want any cold steel in mine.
Ugh! it gives me the shivers. It's a reg'lar Mexican trick! With a
gun it's down and out, but this knife work is too slow and searchin'."
The newcomer said nothing, but fixed his eye again on the raging
man with the knife.
"Don't you reckon he's bluffing? "be inquired.
"Not any!" denied the other with emphasis. "He's jest drunk enough
to be crazy mad."
The newcomer shrugged his shoulders and cast his glance
searchingly over the fringe of the crowd. It rested on a Mexican.
"Hi, Tony! come here," he called.
The Mexican approached, flashing his white teeth.
"Here," said the stranger, "lend me your knife a minute."
The Mexican, anticipating sport of his own peculiar kind, obeyed
"You fellows make me tired," observed the stranger, dismounting.
"He's got the whole townful of you bluffed to a standstill. Damn if
I don't try his little game."
He hung his coat on his saddle, shouldered his way through the
press, which parted for him readily, and picked up the other corner
of the handkerchief.
"Now, you mangy son of a gun," said he.
CHAPTER THREE. THE AGREEMENT
Jed Parker straightened his back, rolled up the bandana
handkerchief, and thrust it into his pocket, hit flat with his hand
the touselled mass of his hair, and thrust the long hunting knife into
"You're the man I want," said he.
Instantly the two-gun man had jerked loose his weapons and was
covering the foreman.
"AM I!" he snarled.
Not jest that way," explained Parker. "My gun is on my hoss, and
you can have this old toad-sticker if you want it. I been looking
for you, and took this way of finding you. Now, let's go talk."
The stranger looked him in the eye for nearly a half minute
without lowering his revolvers.
"I go you," said he briefly, at last.
But the crowd, missing the purport, and in fact the very
occurrence of this colloquy, did not understand. It thought the
bluff had been called, and naturally, finding harmless what had
intimidated it, gave way to an exasperated impulse to get even.
"You -- -- -- bluffer!" shouted a voice, "don't you think you can
run any such ranikaboo here!"
Jed Parker turned humorously to his companion.
"Do we get that talk?" he inquired gently.
For answer the two-gun man turned and walked steadily in the
direction of the man who had shouted. The latter's hand strayed
uncertainly toward his own weapon, but the movement paused when the
stranger's clear, steel eye rested on it.
"This gentleman," pointed out the two-gun man softly, "is an old
friend of mine. Don't you get to calling of him names."
His eye swept the bystanders calmly.
"Come on, Jack," said be, addressing Parker.
On the outskirts be encountered the Mexican from whom he bad
borrowed the knife.
"Here, Tony," said he with a slight laugh, "here's a peso. You'll
find your knife back there where I had to drop her."
He entered a saloon, nodded to the proprietor, and led the way
through it to a boxlike room containing a board table and two chairs.
"Make good,"he commanded briefly.
"I'm looking for a man with nerve," explained Parker, with equal
succinctness. "You're the man."
"Do you know the country south of here?"
The stranger's eyes narrowed.
"Proceed," said he.
"I'm foreman of the Lazy Y of Soda Springs Valley range,"
explained Parker. "I'm looking for a man with sand enough and sabe
of the country enough to lead a posse after cattle-rustlers into the
"I live in this country," admitted the stranger.
"So do plenty of others, but their eyes stick out like two raw
oysters when you mention the border country. Will you tackle it?"
"What's the proposition?"
"Come and see the old man. He'll put it to you."
They mounted their horses and rode the rest of the day. The
desert compassed them about, marvellously changing shape and colour,
and every character, with all the noiselessness of phantasmagoria. At
evening the desert stars shone steady and unwinking, like the flames
of candles. By moonrise they came to the home ranch.
The buildings and corrals lay dark and silent against the
moonlight that made of the plain a sea of mist. The two men
unsaddled their horses and turned them loose in the wire-fenced
"pasture," the necessary noises of their movements sounding sharp and
clear against the velvet hush of the night. After a moment they
walked stiffly past the sheds and cook shanty, past the men's bunk
houses, and the tall windmill silhouetted against the sky, to the main
building of the home ranch under its great cottonwoods. There a light
still burned, for this was the third day, and Buck Johnson awaited his
Jed Parker pushed in without ceremony.
"Here's your man, Buck," said he.
The stranger had stepped inside and carefully closed the door
behind him. The lamplight threw into relief the bold, free lines of
his face, the details of his costume powdered thick with alkali, the
shiny butts of the two guns in their open holsters tied at the bottom.
Equally it defined the resolute countenance of Buck Johnson turned up
in inquiry. The two men examined each other--and liked each other at
"How are you," greeted the cattleman.
"Good-evening," responded the stranger.
"Sit down,"invited Buck Johnson.
The stranger perched gingerly on the edge of a chair, with an
appearance less of embarrassment than of habitual alertness.
"You'll take the job?" inquired the Senor.
"I haven't heard what it is," replied the stranger.
"Said you'd explain."
"Very well," said Buck Johnson. He paused a moment, collecting
his thoughts. "There's too much cattle-rustling here. I'm going to
stop it. I've got good men here ready to take the job, but no one who
knows the country south. Three days ago I had a bunch of cattle
stolen right here from the home-ranch corrals, and by one man, at
that. It wasn't much of a bunch--about twenty head--but I'm going to
make a starter right here, and now. I'm going to get that bunch back,
and the man who stole them, if I have to go to hell to do it. And I'm
going to do the same with every case of rustling that comes up from
now on. I don't care if it's only one cow, I'm going to get it
back--every trip. Now, I want to know if you'll lead a posse down
into the south country and bring out that last bunch, and the man who
"I don't know--" hesitated the stranger.
"I offer you five thousand dollars in gold if you'll bring back
those cows and the man who stole 'em," repeated Buck Johnson.
"And I'll give you all the horses and men you think you need."
"I'll do it,"replied the two-gun man promptly.
"Good!" cried Buck Johnson, "and you better start to-morrow."
"I shall start to-night--right now."
"Better yet. How many men do you want, and grub for how long?"
"I'll play her a lone hand."
"Alone!" exclaimed Johnson, his confidence visibly cooling.
"Alone! Do you think you can make her?"
"I'll be back with those cattle in not more than ten days."
"And the man," supplemented the Senor.
"And the man. What's more, I want that money here when I come in.
I don't aim to stay in this country over night."
A grin overspread Buck Johnson's countenance. He understood.
"Climate not healthy for you?" he hazarded. "I guess you'd be
safe enough all right with us. But suit yourself. The money will be
"That's agreed?" insisted the two-gun man.
"I want a fresh horse--I'll leave mine--he's a good one. I want a
"All right. Parker'll fit you out."
The stranger rose.
"I'll see you in about ten days."
"Good luck," Senor Buck Johnson wished him.
CHAPTER FOUR. THE ACCOMPLISHMENT
The next morning Buck Johnson took a trip down into the "pasture"
of five hundred wire-fenced acres.
"He means business," he confided to Jed Parker, on his return.
"That cavallo of his is a heap sight better than the Shorty horse we
let him take. Jed, you found your man with nerve, all right. How did
you do it?"
The two settled down to wait, if not with confidence, at least
with interest. Sometimes, remembering the desperate character of the
outlaws, their fierce distrust of any intruder, the wildness of the
country, Buck Johnson and his foreman inclined to the belief that the
stranger had undertaken a task beyond the powers of any one man.
Again, remembering the stranger's cool grey eye, the poise of his
demeanour, the quickness of his movements, and the two guns with tied
holsters to permit of easy withdrawal, they were almost persuaded that
he might win.
"He's one of those long-chance fellows," surmised Jed. "He likes
excitement. I see that by the way he takes up with my knife play.
He'd rather leave his hide on the fence than stay in the corral."
"Well, he's all right," replied Senor Buck Johnson,"and if he ever
gets back, which same I'm some doubtful of, his dinero'll be here for
In pursuance of this he rode in to Willets, where shortly the
overland train brought him from Tucson the five thousand dollars in
In the meantime the regular life of the ranch went on. Each
morning Sang, the Chinese cook, rang the great bell, summoning the
men. They ate, and then caught up the saddle horses for the day,
turning those not wanted from the corral into the pasture. Shortly
they jingled away in different directions, two by two, on the slow
Spanish trot of the cow-puncher. All day long thus they would ride,
without food or water for man or beast, looking the range, identifying
the stock, branding the young calves, examining generally into the
state of affairs, gazing always with grave eyes on the magnificent,
flaming, changing, beautiful, dreadful desert of the Arizona plains.
At evening when the coloured atmosphere, catching the last glow,
threw across the Chiricahuas its veil of mystery, they jingled in
again, two by two, untired, unhasting, the glory of the desert in
their deep-set, steady eyes.
And all the day long, while they were absent, the cattle, too,
made their pilgrimage, straggling in singly, in pairs, in bunches, in
long files, leisurely, ruminantly, without haste. There, at the long
troughs filled by the windmill of the blindfolded pump mule, they
drank, then filed away again into the mists of the desert. And Senor
Buck Johnson, or his foreman, Parker, examined them for their
condition, noting the increase, remarking the strays from another
range. Later, perhaps, they, too, rode abroad. The same thing
happened at nine other ranches from five to ten miles apart, where
dwelt other fierce, silent men all under the authority of Buck
And when night fell, and the topaz and violet and saffron and
amethyst and mauve and lilac had faded suddenly from the Chiricahuas,
like a veil that has been rent, and the ramparts had become slate-grey
and then black--the soft-breathed night wandered here and there over
the desert, and the land fell under an enchantment even stranger than
So the days went by, wonderful, fashioning the ways and the
characters of men. Seven passed. Buck Johnson and his foreman
began to look for the stranger. Eight, they began to speculate.
Nine, they doubted. On the tenth they gave him up--and he came.
They knew him first by the soft lowing of cattle. Jed Parker,
dazzled by the lamp, peered out from the door, and made him out dimly
turning the animals into the corral. A moment later his pony's hoofs
impacted softly on the baked earth, he dropped from the saddle and
entered the room.
"I'm late," said he briefly, glancing at the clock, which
indicated ten; "but I'm here."
His manner was quick and sharp, almost breathless, as though he
had been running.
"Your cattle are in the corral: all of them. Have you the money?"
"I have the money here," replied Buck Johnson, laying his hand
against a drawer, "and it's ready for you when you've earned it. I
don't care so much for the cattle. What I wanted is the man who stole
them. Did you bring him?"
"Yes, I brought him," said the stranger. "Let's see that money."
Buck Johnson threw open the drawer, and drew from it the heavy
"It's here. Now bring in your prisoner."
The two-gun man seemed suddenly to loom large in the doorway. The
muzzles of his revolvers covered the two before him. His speech came
short and sharp.
"I told you I'd bring back the cows and the one who rustled them,"
he snapped. "I've never lied to a man yet. Your stock is in the
corral. I'll trouble you for that five thousand. I'm the man who
stole your cattle!"
PART III. THE RAWHIDE
CHAPTER ONE. THE PASSING OF THE COLT'S FORTY-FIVE
The man of whom I am now to tell you came to Arizona in the early
days of Chief Cochise. He settled in the Soda Springs Valley, and
there persisted in spite of the devastating forays of that Apache.
After a time he owned all the wells and springs in the valley, and
so, naturally, controlled the grazing on that extensive free range.
Once a day the cattle, in twos and threes, in bands, in strings,
could be seen winding leisurely down the deep-trodden and converging
trails to the water troughs at the home ranch, there leisurely to
drink, and then leisurely to drift away into the saffron and violet
and amethyst distances of the desert. At ten other outlying ranches
this daily scene was repeated. All these cattle belonged to the man,
great by reason of his priority in the country, the balance of his
even character, and the grim determination of his spirit.
When he had first entered Soda Springs Valley his companions had
called him Buck Johnson. Since then his form had squared, his eyes
had steadied to the serenity of a great authority, his mouth, shadowed
by the moustache and the beard, had closed straight in the line of
power and taciturnity. There was about him more than a trace of the
Spanish. So now he was known as Senor Johnson, although in reality he
was straight American enough.
Senor Johnson lived at the home ranch with a Chinese cook, and
Parker, his foreman. The home ranch was of adobe, built with
loopholes like a fort. In the obsolescence of this necessity, other
buildings had sprung up unfortified. An adobe bunkhouse for the
cow-punchers, an adobe blacksmith shop, a long, low stable, a shed, a
windmill and pond-like reservoir, a whole system of corrals of
different sizes, a walled-in vegetable garden--these gathered to
themselves cottonwoods from the moisture of their being, and so added
each a little to the green spot in the desert. In the smallest
corral, between the stable and the shed, stood a buckboard and a heavy
wagon, the only wheeled vehicles about the place. Under the shed were
rows of saddles, riatas, spurs mounted with silver, bits ornamented
with the same metal, curved short irons for the range branding, long,
heavy "stamps" for the corral branding. Behind the stable lay the
"pasture," a thousand acres of desert fenced in with wire. There the
hardy cow-ponies sought out the sparse, but nutritious, bunch grass,
sixty of them, beautiful as antelope, for they were the pick of Senor
And all about lay the desert, shimmering, changing, many-tinted,
wonderful, hemmed in by the mountains that seemed tenuous and thin,
like beautiful mists, and by the sky that seemed hard and polished
like a turquoise.
Each morning at six o'clock the ten cow-punchers of the home ranch
drove the horses to the corral, neatly roped the dozen to be "kept up"
for that day, and rewarded the rest with a feed of grain. Then they
rode away at a little fox trot, two by two. All day long they
travelled thus, conducting the business of the range, and at night,
having completed the circle, they jingled again into the corral. At
the ten other ranches this programme had been duplicated. The
half-hundred men of Senor Johnson's outfit had covered the area of a
European principality. And all of it, every acre, every spear of
grass, every cactus prickle, every creature on it, practically
belonged to Senor Johnson, because Senor Johnson owned the water, and
without water one cannot exist on the desert.
This result had not been gained without struggle. The fact could
be read in the settled lines of Senor Johnson's face, and the great
calm of his grey eye. Indian days drove him often to the shelter of
the loopholed adobe ranch house, there to await the soldiers from the
Fort, in plain sight thirty miles away on the slope that led to the
foot of the Chiricahuas. He lost cattle and some men, but the profits
were great, and in time Cochise, Geronimo, and the lesser lights had
flickered out in the winds of destiny. The sheep terror merely
threatened, for it was soon discovered that with the feed of Soda
Springs Valley grew a burr that annoyed the flocks beyond reason, so
the bleating scourge swept by forty miles away. Cattle rustling so
near the Mexican line was an easy matter. For a time Senor Johnson
commanded an armed band. He was lord of the high, the low, and the
middle justice. He violated international ethics, and for the laws of
nations he substituted his own. One by one he annihilated the
thieves of cattle, sometimes in open fight, but oftener by surprise
and deliberate massacre. The country was delivered. And then, with
indefatigable energy, Senor Johnson became a skilled detective.
Alone, or with Parker, his foreman, he rode the country through,
gathering evidence. When the evidence was unassailable he brought
offenders to book. The rebranding through a wet blanket he knew and
could prove; the ear-marking of an unbranded calf until it could be
weaned he understood; the paring of hoofs to prevent travelling he
could tell as far as he could see; the crafty alteration of similar
brands--as when a Mexican changed Johnson's Lazy Y to a Dumb-bell
Bar--he saw through at a glance. In short, the hundred and one petty
tricks of the sneak-thief he ferreted out, in danger of his life.
Then he sent to Phoenix for a Ranger--and that was the last of the
Dumb-bell Bar brand, or the Three Link Bar brand, or the Hour Glass
Brand, or a half dozen others. The Soda Springs Valley acquired a
reputation for good order.
Senor Johnson at this stage of his career found himself dropping
into a routine. In March began the spring branding, then the
corralling and breaking of the wild horses, the summer range-riding,
the great fall round-up, the shipping of cattle, and the riding of the
winter range. This happened over and over again.
You and I would not have suffered from ennui. The roping and
throwing and branding, the wild swing and dash of handling stock, the
mad races to head the mustangs, the fierce combats to subdue these
raging wild beasts to the saddle, the spectacle of the round-up with
its brutish multitudes and its graceful riders, the dust and monotony
and excitement and glory of the Trail, and especially the hundreds of
incidental and gratuitous adventures of bears and antelope, of thirst
and heat, of the joy of taking care of one's self--all these would
have filled our days with the glittering, changing throng of the
But to Senor Johnson it had become an old story. After the days
of construction the days of accomplishment seemed to him lean. His
men did the work and reaped the excitement. Senor Johnson never
thought now of riding the wild horses, of swinging the rope coiled at
his saddle horn, or of rounding ahead of the flying herds. His
inspections were business inspections. The country was tame. The
leather chaps with the silver conchas hung behind the door. The
Colt's forty-five depended at the head of the bed. Senor Johnson rode
in mufti. Of his cowboy days persisted still the high-heeled boots
and spurs, the broad Stetson hat, and the fringed buckskin gauntlets.
The Colt's forty-five had been the last to go. Finally one
evening Senor Johnson received an express package. He opened it
before the undemonstrative Parker. It proved to contain a pocket
"gun"--a nickel-plated, thirty-eight calibre Smith Wesson
"five-shooter." Senor Johnson examined it a little doubtfully. In
comparison with the six-shooter it looked like a toy.
"How do you, like her?" he inquired, handing the weapon to Parker.
Parker turned it over and over, as a child a rattle. Then he
returned it to its owner.
"Senor," said he, "if ever you shoot me with that little old gun,
AND I find it out the same day, I'll just raise hell with you!"
"I don't reckon she'd INJURE a man much," agreed the Senor, "but
perhaps she'd call his attention."
However, the "little old gun" took its place, not in Senor
Johnson's hip pocket, but inside the front waistband of his trousers,
and the old shiny Colt's forty-five, with its worn leather "Texas
style" holster, became a bedroom ornament.
Thus, from a frontiersman dropped Senor Johnson to the status of a
property owner. In a general way he had to attend to his interests
before the cattlemen's association; he had to arrange for the buying
and shipping, and the rest was leisure. He could now have gone away
somewhere as far as time went. So can a fish live in trees--as far as
time goes. And in the daily riding, riding, riding over the range he
found the opportunity for abstract thought which the frontier life had
CHAPTER TWO. THE SHAPES OF ILLUSION
Every day, as always, Senor Johnson rode abroad over the land. His
surroundings had before been accepted casually as a more or less
pertinent setting of action and condition. Now he sensed some of the
fascination of the Arizona desert.
He noticed many things before unnoticed. As he jingled loosely
along on his cow-horse, he observed how the animal waded fetlock deep
in the gorgeous orange California poppies, and then he looked up and
about, and saw that the rich colour carpeted the landscape as far as
his eye could reach, so that it seemed as though he could ride on and
on through them to the distant Chiricahuas. Only, close under the
hills, lay, unobtrusive, a narrow streak of grey. And in a few hours
he had reached the streak of grey, and ridden out into it to find
himself the centre of a limitless alkali plain, so that again it
seemed the valley could contain nothing else of importance.
Looking back, Senor Johnson could discern a tenuous ribbon of
orange--the poppies. And perhaps ahead a little shadow blotted the
face of the alkali, which, being reached and entered, spread like fire
until it, too, filled the whole plain, until it, too, arrogated to
itself the right of typifying Soda Springs Valley as a shimmering
prairie of mesquite. Flowered upland, dead lowland, brush, cactus,
volcanic rock, sand, each of these for the time being occupied the
whole space, broad as the sea. In the circlet of the mountains was
room for many infinities.
Among the foothills Senor Johnson, for the first time, appreciated
colour. Hundreds of acres of flowers filled the velvet creases of the
little hills and washed over the smooth, rounded slopes so accurately
in the placing and manner of tinted shadows that the mind had
difficulty in believing the colour not to have been shaded in actually
by free sweeps of some gigantic brush. A dozen shades of pinks and
purples, a dozen of blues, and then the flame reds, the yellows, and
the vivid greens. Beyond were the mountains in their glory of volcanic
rocks, rich as the tapestry of a Florentine palace. And, modifying
all the others, the tinted atmosphere of the south-west, refracting
the sun through the infinitesimal earth motes thrown up constantly by
the wind devils of the desert, drew before the scene a delicate and
gauzy veil of lilac, of rose, of saffron, of amethyst, or of mauve,
according to the time of day. Senor Johnson discovered that looking
at the landscape upside down accentuated the colour effects. It
amused him vastly suddenly to bend over his saddle horn, the top of
his head nearly touching his horse's mane. The distant mountains at
once started out into redder prominence; their shadows of purple
deepened to the royal colour; the rose veil thickened.
"She's the prettiest country God ever made!" exclaimed Senor
Johnson with entire conviction.
And no matter where he went, nor into how familiar country he
rode, the shapes of illusion offered always variety. One day the
Chiricahuas were a tableland; next day a series of castellated peaks;
now an anvil; now a saw tooth; and rarely they threw a magnificent
suspension bridge across the heavens to their neighbours, the ranges
on the west. Lakes rippling in the wind and breaking on the shore,
cattle big as elephants or small as rabbits, distances that did not
exist and forests that never were, beds of lava along the hills
swearing to a cloud shadow, while the sky was polished like a precious
stone--these, and many other beautiful and marvellous but empty shows
the great desert displayed lavishly, with the glitter and
inconsequence of a dream. Senor Johnson sat on his horse in the hot
sun, his chin in his band, his elbow on the pommel, watching it all
with grave, unshifting eyes.
Occasionally, belated, he saw the stars, the wonderful desert
stars, blazing clear and unflickering, like the flames of candles.
Or the moon worked her necromancies, hemming him in by mountains ten
thousand feet high through which there was no pass. And then as he
rode, the mountains shifted like the scenes in a theatre, and he
crossed the little sand dunes out from the dream country to the adobe
corrals of the home ranch.
All these things, and many others, Senor Johnson now saw for the
first time, although he had lived among them for twenty years. It
struck him with the freshness of a surprise. Also it reacted
chemically on his mental processes to generate a new power within
him. The new power, being as yet unapplied, made him uneasy and
restless and a little irritable.
He tried to show some of his wonders to Parker.
"Jed," said he, one day, "this is a great country."
"You KNOW it," replied the foreman.
"Those tourists in their nickel-plated Pullmans call this a
desert. Desert, hell! Look at them flowers!"
The foreman cast an eye on a glorious silken mantle of purple, a
hundred yards broad.
"Sure," he agreed; "shows what we could do if we only had a little
And again: "Jed," began the Senor, "did you ever notice them
"Sure," agreed Jed.
"Ain't that a pretty colour?"
"You bet," agreed the foreman; "now you're talking! I always,
said they was mineralised enough to make a good prospect."
This was unsatisfactory. Senor Johnson grew more restless. His
critical eye began to take account of small details. At the ranch
house one evening he, on a sudden, bellowed loudly for Sang, the
"Look at these!" he roared, when Sang appeared.
Sang's eyes opened in bewilderment.
"There, and there!" shouted the cattleman. "Look at them old
newspapers and them gun rags! The place is like a cow-yard. Why in
the name of heaven don't you clean up here!"
"Allee light," babbled Sang; "I clean him."
The papers and gun rags had lain there unnoticed for nearly a
year. Senor Johnson kicked them savagely.
"It's time we took a brace here," he growled, "we're livin' like a
lot of Oilers."
 Oilers: Greasers--Mexicans
CHAPTER THREE. THE PAPER A YEAR OLD
Sang hurried out for a broom. Senor Johnson sat where he was, his
heavy, square brows knit. Suddenly he stooped, seized one of the
newspapers, drew near the lamp, and began to read.
It was a Kansas City paper and, by a strange coincidence, was
dated exactly a year before. The sheet Senor Johnson happened to
pick up was one usually passed over by the average newspaper reader.
It contained only columns of little two- and three-line
advertisements classified as Help Wanted, Situations Wanted, Lost and
Found, and Personal. The latter items Senor Johnson commenced to read
while awaiting Sang and the broom.
The notices were five in number. The first three were of the
mysterious newspaper-correspondence type, in which Birdie beseeches
Jack to meet her at the fountain; the fourth advertised a clairvoyant.
Over the fifth Senor Johnson paused long. It reads "WANTED.-By an
intelligent and refined lady of pleasing appearance, correspondence
with a gentleman of means. Object matrimony.
Just then Sang returned with the broom and began noisily to sweep
together the debris. The rustling of papers aroused Senor Johnson
from his reverie. At once he exploded.
"Get out of here, you debased Mongolian," he shouted; "can't you
see I'm reading?"
Sang fled, sorely puzzled, for the Senor was calm and unexcited
and aloof in his everyday habit.
Soon Jed Parker, tall, wiry, hawk-nosed, deliberate, came into the
room and flung his broad hat and spurs into the corner. Then he
proceeded to light his pipe and threw the burned match on the floor.
"Been over to look at the Grant Pass range," he announced
cheerfully. "She's no good. Drier than cork legs. Th' country
wouldn't support three horned toads."
"Jed," quoth the Senor solemnly, "I wisht you'd hang up your hat
like I have. It don't look good there on the floor."
"Why, sure," agreed Jed, with an astonished stare.
Sang brought in supper and slung it on the red and white squares
of oilcloth. Then he moved the lamp and retired.
Senor Johnson gazed with distaste into his cup.
"This coffee would float a wedge," he commented sourly.
"She's no puling infant," agreed the cheerful Jed.
"And this!" went on the Senor, picking up what purported to be
plum duff: "Bog down a few currants in dough and call her pudding!"
He ate in silence, then pushed back his chair and went to the
window, gazing through its grimy panes at the mountains, ethereal in
their evening saffron.
"Blamed Chink," he growled; "why don't he wash these windows?"
Jed laid down his busy knife and idle fork to gaze on his chief
with amazement. Buck Johnson, the austere, the aloof, the grimly
taciturn, the dangerous, to be thus complaining like a querulous
"Senor," said he, "you're off your feed."
Senor Johnson strode savagely to the table and sat down with a
"I'm sick of it," he growled; "this thing will kill me off. I
might as well go be a buck nun and be done with it."
With one round-arm sweep he cleared aside the dishes.
"Give me that pen and paper behind you," he requested.
For an hour he wrote and destroyed. The floor became littered
with torn papers. Then he enveloped a meagre result. Parker had
watched him in silence. The Senor looked up to catch his speculative
eye. His own eye twinkled a little, but the twinkle was determined
and sinister, with only an alloy of humour.
"Senor," ventured Parker slowly, "this event sure knocks me
hell-west and crooked. If the loco you have culled hasn't paralysed
your speaking parts, would you mind telling me what in the name of
heaven, hell, and high-water is up?"
"I am going to get married," announced the Senor calmly.
"What!" shouted Parker; "who to?"
"To a lady," replied the Senor, "an intelligent and refined lady-
-of pleasing appearance."
CHAPTER FOUR. DREAMS
Although the paper was a year old, Senor Johnson in due time
received an answer from Kansas. A correspondence ensued. Senor
Johnson enshrined above the big fireplace the photograph of a woman.
Before this he used to stand for hours at a time slowly constructing
in his mind what he had hitherto lacked--an ideal of woman and of
home. This ideal he used sometimes to express to himself and to the
"It must sure be nice to have a little woman waitin' for you when
you come in off'n the desert."
Or: "Now, a woman would have them windows just blooming with
flowers and white curtains and such truck."
Or: "I bet that Sang would get a wiggle on him with his little old
cleaning duds if he had a woman ahold of his jerk line."
Slowly he reconstructed his life, the life of the ranch, in terms
of this hypothesised feminine influence. Then matters came to an
understanding, Senor Johnson had sent his own portrait. Estrella
Sands wrote back that she adored big black beards, but she was afraid
of him, he had such a fascinating bad eye: no woman could resist him.
Senor Johnson at once took things for granted, sent on to Kansas a
preposterous sum of "expense" money and a railroad ticket, and raided
Goodrich's store at Willets, a hundred miles away, for all manner of
gaudy carpets, silverware, fancy lamps, works of art, pianos, linen,
and gimcracks for the adornment of the ranch house. Furthermore, he
offered wages more than equal to a hundred miles of desert to a young
Irish girl, named Susie O'Toole, to come out as housekeeper,
decorator, boss of Sang and another Chinaman, and companion to Mrs.
Johnson when she should arrive.
Furthermore, he laid off from the range work Brent Palmer, the
most skilful man with horses, and set him to "gentling" a beautiful
little sorrel. A sidesaddle had arrived from El Paso. It was "centre
fire," which is to say it had but the single horsehair cinch, broad,
tasselled, very genteel in its suggestion of pleasure use only. Brent
could be seen at all times of day, cantering here and there on the
sorrel, a blanket tied around his waist to simulate the long riding
skirt. He carried also a sulky and evil gleam in his eye, warning
against undue levity.
Jed Parker watched these various proceedings sardonically.
Once, the baby light of innocence blue in his eye, he inquired if
he would be required to dress for dinner.
"If so," he went on, "I'll have my man brush up my low-necked
But Senor Johnson refused to be baited.
"Go on, Jed," said he; "you know you ain't got clothes enough to
dust a fiddle."
The Senor was happy these days. He showed it by an unwonted
joviality of spirit, by a slight but evident unbending of his Spanish
dignity. No longer did the splendour of the desert fill him with a
vague yearning and uneasiness. He looked upon it confidently, noting
its various phases with care, rejoicing in each new development of
colour and light, of form and illusion, storing them away in his
memory so that their recurrence should find him prepared to recognise
and explain them. For soon he would have someone by his side with
whom to appreciate them. In that sharing be could see the reason for
them, the reason for their strange bitter-sweet effects on the human
One evening he leaned on the corral fence, looking toward the
Dragoons. The sun had set behind them. Gigantic they loomed against
the western light. From their summits, like an aureola, radiated the
splendour of the dust-moted air, this evening a deep umber. A faint
reflection of it fell across the desert, glorifying the reaches of its
"I'll take her out on an evening like this," quoth Senor Johnson
to himself,"and I'll make her keep her eyes on the ground till we get
right up by Running Bear Knob, and then I'll let her look up all to
once. And she'll surely enjoy this life. I bet she never saw a steer
roped in her life. She can ride with me every day out over the range
and I'll show her the busting and the branding and that band of
antelope over by the Tall Windmill. I'll teach her to shoot, too.
And we can make little pack trips off in the hills when she gets too
hot--up there by Deerskin Meadows 'mongst the high peaks."
He mused, turning over in his mind a new picture of his own life,
aims, and pursuits as modified by the sympathetic and understanding
companionship of a woman. He pictured himself as he must seem to her
in his different pursuits. The picturesqueness pleased him. The
simple, direct vanity of the man--the wholesome vanity of a
straightforward nature--awakened to preen its feathers before the idea
of the mate.
The shadows fell. Over the Chiricahuas flared the evening star.
The plain, self-luminous with the weird lucence of the arid lands,
showed ghostly. Jed Parker, coming out from the lamp-lit adobe,
leaned his elbows on the rail in silent company with his chief. He,
too, looked abroad. His mind's eye saw what his body's eye had always
told him were the insistent notes--the alkali, the cactus, the sage,
the mesquite, the lava, the choking dust, the blinding beat, the
burning thirst. He sighed in the dim half recollection of past days.
"I wonder if she'll like the country?" he hazarded.
But Senor Johnson turned on him his steady eyes, filled with the
great glory of the desert.
"Like the country!" he marvelled slowly. "Of course! Why
CHAPTER FIVE. THE ARRIVAL
The Overland drew into Willets, coated from engine to observation
with white dust. A porter, in strange contrast of neatness, flung
open the vestibule, dropped his little carpeted step, and turned to
assist someone. A few idle passengers gazed out on the uninteresting,
flat frontier town.
Senor Johnson caught his breath in amazement. "God! Ain't she
just like her picture!" he exclaimed. He seemed to find this
For a moment he did not step forward to claim her, so she stood
looking about her uncertainly, her leather suit-case at her feet.
She was indeed like the photograph. The same full-curved, compact
little figure, the same round face, the same cupid's bow mouth, the
same appealing, large eyes, the same haze of doll's hair. In a moment
she caught sight of Senor Johnson and took two steps toward him, then
stopped. The Senor at once came forward.
"You're Mr. Johnson, ain't you?" she inquired, thrusting her
little pointed chin forward, and so elevating her baby-blue eyes to
"Yes, ma'am," he acknowledged formally. Then, after a moment's
pause: "I hope you're well."
"Yes, thank you."
The station loungers, augmented by all the ranchmen and cowboys in
town, were examining her closely. She looked at them in a swift side
glance that seemed to gather all their eyes to hers. Then, satisfied
that she possessed the universal admiration, she returned the full
force of her attention to the man before her.
"Now you give me your trunk checks," he was saying, "and then
we'll go right over and get married."
"Oh!" she gasped.
"That's right, ain't it?" he demanded.
"Yes, I suppose so," she agreed faintly.
A little subdued, she followed him to the clergyman's house,
where, in the presence of Goodrich, the storekeeper, and the
preacher's wife, the two were united. Then they mounted the
buckboard and drove from town.
Senor Johnson said nothing, because he knew of nothing to say. He
drove skilfully and fast through the gathering dusk. It was a hundred
miles to the home ranch, and that hundred miles, by means of five
relays of horses already arranged for, they would cover by morning.
Thus they would avoid the dust and heat and high winds of the day.
The sweet night fell. The little desert winds laid soft fingers
on their checks. Overhead burned the stars, clear, unflickering,
like candles. Dimly could be seen the horses, their flanks swinging
steadily in the square trot. Ghostly bushes passed them; ghostly rock
elevations. Far, in indeterminate distance, lay the outlines of the
mountains. Always, they seemed to recede. The plain, all but
invisible, the wagon trail quite so, the depths of space--these flung
heavy on the soul their weight of mysticism. The woman, until now
bolt upright in the buckboard seat, shrank nearer to the man. He felt
against his sleeve the delicate contact of her garment and thrilled to
the touch. A coyote barked sharply from a neighbouring eminence, then
trailed off into the long-drawn, shrill howl of his species.
"What was that?" she asked quickly, in a subdued voice.
"A coyote--one of them little wolves," he explained.
The horses' hoofs rang clear on a hardened bit of the alkali
crust, then dully as they encountered again the dust of the plain.
Vast, vague, mysterious in the silence of night, filled with strange
influences breathing through space like damp winds, the desert took
them to the heart of her great spaces.
"Buck," she whispered, a little tremblingly. It was the first
time she had spoken his name.
"What is it?" he asked, a new note in his voice.
But for a time she did not reply. Only the contact against his
sleeve increased by ever so little.
"Buck," she repeated, then all in a rush and with a sob, "Oh, I'm
Tenderly the man drew her to him. Her head fell against his
shoulder and she hid her eyes.
"There, little girl," he reassured her, his big voice rich and
musical. "There's nothing to get scairt of, I'll take care of you.
What frightens you, honey?"
She nestled close in his arm with a sigh of half relief.
"I don't know," she laughed, but still with a tremble in her
tones. "It's all so big and lonesome and strange--and I'm so
"There, little girl," he repeated.
They drove on and on. At the end of two hours they stopped. Men
with lanterns dazzled their eyes. The horses were changed, and so
out again into the night where the desert seemed to breathe in deep,
mysterious exhalations like a sleeping beast.
Senor Johnson drove his horses masterfully with his one free hand.
The road did not exist, except to his trained eves. They seemed to
be swimming out, out, into a vapour of night with the wind of their
going steady against their faces.
"Buck," she murmured, "I'm so tired."
He tightened his arm around her and she went to sleep, half-waking
at the ranches where the relays waited, dozing again as soon as the
lanterns dropped behind. And Senor Johnson, alone with his horses and
the solemn stars, drove on, ever on, into the desert.
By grey of the early summer dawn they arrived. The girl wakened,
descended, smiling uncertainly at Susie O'Toole, blinking somnolently
at her surroundings. Susie put her to bed in the little southwest
room where hung the shiny Colt's forty-five in its worn leather
"Texas-style" holster. She murmured incoherent thanks and sank again
to sleep, overcome by the fatigue of unaccustomed travelling, by the
potency of the desert air, by the excitement of anticipation to which
her nerves had long been strung.
Senor Johnson did not sleep. He was tough, and used to it. He
lit a cigar and rambled about, now reading the newspapers he had
brought with him, now prowling softly about the building, now
visiting the corrals and outbuildings, once even the thousand-acre
pasture where his saddle-horse knew him and came to him to have its
forehead rubbed. The dawn broke in good earnest, throwing aside its
gauzy draperies of mauve. Sang, the Chinese cook, built his fire.
Senor Johnson forbade him to clang the rising bell, and himself
roused the cow-punchers. The girl slept on. Senor Johnson tip-toed a
dozen times to the bedroom door. Once he ventured to push it open. He
looked long within, then shut it softly and tiptoed out into the open,
his eyes shining.
"Jed," he said to his foreman, "you don't know how it made me
feel. To see her lying there so pink and soft and pretty, with her
yaller hair all tumbled about and a little smile on her-- there in my
old bed, with my old gun hanging over her that way--By Heaven, Jed, it
made me feel almost HOLY!"
CHAPTER SIX. THE WAGON TIRE
About noon she emerged from the room, fully refreshed and wide
awake. She and Susie O'Toole had unpacked at least one of the
trunks, and now she stood arrayed in shirtwaist and blue skirt.
At once she stepped into the open air and looked about her with
"So this is a real cattle ranch," was her comment.
Senor Johnson was at her side pressing on her with boyish
eagerness the sights of the place. She patted the stag hounds and
inspected the garden. Then, confessing herself hungry, she obeyed
with alacrity Sang's call to an early meal. At the table she ate
coquettishly, throwing her birdlike side glances at the man opposite.
"I want to see a real cowboy," she announced, as she pushed her
"Why, sure!" cried Senor Johnson joyously. "Sang! hi, Sang! Tell
Brent Palmer to step in here a minute."
After an interval the cowboy appeared, mincing in on his
high-heeled boots, his silver spurs jingling, the fringe of his chaps
impacting softly on the leather. He stood at ease, his broad hat in
both hands, his dark, level brows fixed on his chief.
"Shake hands with Mrs. Johnson, Brent. I called you in because
she said she wanted to see a real cow-puncher."
"Oh, BUCK!" cried the woman.
For an instant the cow-puncher's level brows drew together. Then
he caught the woman's glance fair. He smiled.
"Well, I ain't much to look at," he proffered.
"That's not for you to say, sir," said Estrella, recovering.
"Brent, here, gentled your pony for you," exclaimed Senor Johnson.
"Oh," cried Estrella, "have I a pony? How nice. And it was so
good of you, Mr. Brent. Can't I see him? I want to see him. I want
to give him a piece of sugar." She fumbled in the bowl.
"Sure you can see him. I don't know as he'll eat sugar. He ain't
that educated. Think you could teach him to eat sugar, Brent?"
"I reckon," replied the cowboy.
They went out toward the corral, the cowboy joining them as a
matter of course. Estrella demanded explanations as she went along.
Their progress was leisurely. The blindfolded pump mule interested
"And he goes round and round that way all day without stopping,
thinking he's really getting somewhere!" she marvelled. "I think
that's a shame! Poor old fellow, to get fooled that way!"
"It is some foolish," said Brent Palmer, "but he ain't any worse
off than a cow-pony that hikes out twenty mile and then twenty back."
"No, I suppose not," admitted Estrella.
"And we got to have water, you know," added Senor Johnson.
Brent rode up the sorrel bareback. The pretty animal, gentle as a
kitten, nevertheless planted his forefeet strongly and snorted at
"I reckon he ain't used to the sight of a woman," proffered the
Senor, disappointed. "He'll get used to you. Go up to him soft-like
and rub him between the eyes."'
Estrella approached, but the pony jerked back his head with every
symptom of distrust. She forgot the sugar she had intended to offer
"He's a perfect beauty," she said at last, "but, my! I'd never
dare ride him. I'm awful scairt of horses."
"Oh, he'll come around all right," assured Brent easily. "I'll fix
"Oh, Mr. Brent," she exclaimed, "don't think I don't appreciate
what you've done. I'm sure he's really just as gentle as he can be.
It's only that I'm foolish."
"I'll fix him," repeated Brent.
The two men conducted her here and there, showing her the various
institutions of the place. A man bent near the shed nailing a shoe
to a horse's hoof.
"So you even have a blacksmith!" said Estrella. Her guides
"Tommy, come here!" called the Senor.
The horseshoer straightened up and approached. He was a lithe,
curly-haired young boy, with a reckless, humorous eye and a smooth
face, now red from bending over.
"Tommy, shake hands with Mrs. Johnson," said the Senor. "Mrs.
Johnson wants to know if you're the blacksmith." He exploded in
"Oh, BUCK!" cried Estrella again.
"No, ma'am," answered the boy directly; "I'm just tacking a shoe
on Danger, here. We all does our own blacksmithing."
His roving eye examined her countenance respectfully, but with
admiration. She caught the admiration and returned it, covertly but
unmistakably, pleased that her charms were appreciated.
They continued their rounds. The sun was very hot and the dust
deep. A woman would have known that these things distressed
Estrella. She picked her way through the debris; she dropped her
head from the burning; she felt her delicate garments moistening with
perspiration, her hair dampening; the dust sifted up through the air.
Over in the large corral a bronco buster, assisted by two of the
cowboys, was engaged in roping and throwing some wild mustangs. The
sight was wonderful, but here the dust billowed in clouds.
"I'm getting a little hot and tired," she confessed at last. "I
think I'll go to the house."
But near the shed she stopped again, interested in spite of
herself by a bit of repairing Tommy had under way. The tire of a
wagon wheel had been destroyed. Tommy was mending it. On the ground
lay a fresh cowhide. From this Tommy was cutting a wide strip. As
she watched lie measured the strip around the circumference of the
"He isn't going to make a tire of that!" she exclaimed,
"Sure," replied Senor Johnson.
"Will it wear?"
"It'll wear for a month or so, till we can get another from town."
Estrella advanced and felt curiously of the rawhide. Tommy was
fastening it to the wheel at the ends only.
"But how can it stay on that way?" she objected. "It'll come right
off as soon as you use it."
"It'll harden on tight enough."
"Why?" she persisted. "Does it shrink much when it dries?"
Senor Johnson stared to see if she might be joking. "Does it
shrink?" he repeated slowly. "There ain't nothing shrinks more, nor
harder. It'll mighty nigh break that wood."
Estrella, incredulous, interested, she could not have told why,
stooped again to feel the soft, yielding hide. She shook her head.
"You're joking me because I'm a tenderfoot," she accused brightly.
"I know it dries hard, and I'll believe it shrinks a lot, but to
break wood--that's piling it on a little thick."
"No, that's right, ma'am," broke in Brent Palmer. "It's awful
strong. It pulls like a horse when the desert sun gets on it. You
wrap anything up in a piece of that hide and see what happens. Some
time you take and wrap a piece around a potato and put her out in the
sun and see how it'll squeeze the water out of her."
"Is that so?" she appealed to Tommy. "I can't tell when they are
making fun of me."
"Yes, ma'am, that's right," he assured her.
Estrella passed a strip of the flexible hide playfully about her
"And if I let that dry that way I'd be handcuffed hard and fast,"
"It would cut you down to the bone," supplemented Brent Palmer.
She untwisted the strip, and stood looking at it, her eyes wide.
"I--I don't know why--" she faltered. "The thought makes me a
little sick. Why, isn't it queer? Ugh! it's like a snake!" She
flung it from her energetically and turned toward the ranch house.
CHAPTER SEVEN. ESTRELLA
The honeymoon developed and the necessary adjustments took place. The
latter Senor Johnson had not foreseen; and yet, when the necessity for
them arose, he acknowledged them right and proper.
"Course she don't want to ride over to Circle I with us," he
informed his confidant, Jed Parker. "It's a long ride, and she ain't
used to riding yet. Trouble is I've been thinking of doing things
with her just as if she was a man. Women are different. They likes
This second idea gradually overlaid the first in Senor Johnson's
mind. Estrella showed little aptitude or interest in the rougher
side of life. Her husband's statement as to her being still unused
to riding was distinctly a euphemism. Estrella never arrived at the
point of feeling safe on a horse. In time she gave up trying, and the
sorrel drifted back to cow-punching. The range work she never
As a spectacle it imposed itself on her interest for a week; but
since she could discover no real and vital concern in the welfare of
cows, soon the mere outward show became an old story. Estrella's sleek
nature avoided instinctively all that interfered with bodily
well-being. When she was cool and well-fed and not thirsty, and
surrounded by a proper degree of feminine daintiness, then she was
ready to amuse herself. But she could not understand the desirability
of those pleasures for which a certain price in discomfort must be
paid. As for firearms, she confessed herself frankly afraid of them.
That was the point at which her intimacy with them stopped.
The natural level to which these waters fell is easily seen. Quite
simply, the Senor found that a wife does not enter fully into her
husband's workaday life. The dreams he had dreamed did not come true.
This was at first a disappointment to him, of course, but the
disappointment did not last. Senor Johnson was a man of sense, and
he easily modified his first scheme of married life.
"She'd get sick of it, and I'd get sick of it," he formulated his
new philosophy. "Now I got something to come back to, somebody to
look forward to. And it's a WOMAN; it ain't one of these darn
gangle-leg cowgirls. The great thing is to feel you BELONG to
someone; and that someone nice and cool and fresh and purty is
waitin' for you when you come in tired. It beats that other little
old idee of mine slick as a gun barrel."
So, during this, the busy season of the range riding, immediately
before the great fall round-ups, Senor Johnson rode abroad all day,
and returned to his own hearth as many evenings of the week as he
could. Estrella always saw him coming and stood in the doorway to
greet him. He kicked off his spurs, washed and dusted himself, and
spent the evening with his wife. He liked the sound of exactly that
phrase, and was fond of repeating it to himself in a variety of
"When I get in I'll spend the evening with my wife." "If I don't
ride over to Circle I, I'll spend the evening with my wife," and so
on. He had a good deal to tell her of the day's discoveries, the
state of the range, and the condition of the cattle. To all of this
she listened at least with patience. Senor Johnson, like most men who
have long delayed marriage, was self-centred without knowing it. His
interest in his mate had to do with her personality rather than with
"What you do with yourself all day to-day?" he occasionally
"Oh, there's lots to do," she would answer, a trifle listlessly;
and this reply always seemed quite to satisfy his interest in the
Senor Johnson, with a curiously instant transformation often to be
observed among the adventurous, settled luxuriously into the state of
being a married man. Its smallest details gave him distinct and
separate sensations of pleasure.
"I plumb likes it all," he said. "I likes havin' interest in some
fool geranium plant, and I likes worryin' about the screen doors and
all the rest of the plumb foolishness. It does me good. It feels
like stretchin' your legs in front of a good warm fire."
The centre, the compelling influence of this new state of affairs,
was undoubtedly Estrella, and yet it is equally to be doubted whether
she stood for more than the suggestion. Senor Johnson conducted his
entire life with reference to his wife. His waking hours were
concerned only with the thought of her, his every act revolved in its
orbit controlled by her influence. Nevertheless she, as an individual
human being, had little to do with it. Senor Johnson referred his
life to a state of affairs he had himself invented and which he called
the married state, and to a woman whose attitude he had himself
determined upon and whom be designated as his wife. The actual state
of affairs-- whatever it might be--he did not see; and the actual
woman supplied merely the material medium necessary to the reality of
his idea. Whether Estrella's eyes were interested or bored, bright
or dull, alert or abstracted, contented or afraid, Senor Johnson could
not have told you. He might have replied promptly enough--that they
were happy and loving. That is the way Senor Johnson conceived a
The routine of life, then, soon settled. After breakfast the
Senor insisted that his wife accompany him on a short tour of
inspection. "A little pasear," he called it, "just to get set for
the day." Then his horse was brought, and he rode away on whatever
business called him. Like a true son of the alkali, he took no lunch
with him, nor expected his horse to feed until his return. This was
an hour before sunset. The evening passed as has been described. It
was all very simple.
When the business hung close to the ranch house was in the bronco
busting, the rebranding of bought cattle, and the like--he was able
to share his wife's day. Estrella conducted herself dreamily, with a
slow smile for him when his actual presence insisted on her attention.
She seemed much given to staring out over the desert. Senor Johnson,
appreciatively, thought he could understand this. Again, she gave
much leisure to rocking back and forth on the low, wide veranda, her
hands idle, her eyes vacant, her lips dumb. Susie O'Toole had early
proved incompatible and had gone.
"A nice, contented, home sort of a woman," said Senor Johnson.
One thing alone besides the deserts on which she never seemed
tired of looking, fascinated her. Whenever a beef was killed for the
uses of the ranch, she commanded strips of the green skin. Then, like
a child, she bound them and sewed them and nailed them to substances
particularly susceptible to their constricting power. She choked the
necks of green gourds, she indented the tender bark of cottonwood
shoots, she expended an apparently exhaustless ingenuity on the
fabrication of mechanical devices whose principle answered to the
pulling of the drying rawhide. And always along the adobe fence could
be seen a long row of potatoes bound in skin, some of them fresh and
smooth and round; some sweating in the agony of squeezing; some
wrinkled and dry and little, the last drops of life tortured out of
them. Senor Johnson laughed good-humouredly at these toys, puzzled to
explain their fascination for his wife.
"They're sure an amusing enough contraption honey," said he, "but
what makes you stand out there in the hot sun staring at them that
way? It's cooler on the porch."
"I don't know," said Estrella, helplessly, turning her slow,
vacant gaze on him. Suddenly she shivered in a strong physical
revulsion. "I don't know!" she cried with passion.
After they had been married about a month Senor Johnson found it
necessary to drive into Willets.
"How would you like to go, too, and buy some duds?" he asked
"Oh!" she cried strangely. "When?"
"Day after tomorrow."
The trip decided, her entire attitude changed. The vacancy of her
gaze lifted; her movements quickened; she left off staring at the
desert, and her rawhide toys were neglected. Before starting, Senor
Johnson gave her a check book. He explained that there were no banks
in Willets, but that Goodrich, the storekeeper, would honour her
"Buy what you want to, honey," said he. "Tear her wide open. I'm
good for it."
"How much can I draw?" she asked, smiling.
"As much as you want to," he replied with emphasis.
"Take care"--she poised before him with the check book extended--
"I may draw--I might draw fifty thousand dollars."
"Not out of Goodrich," he grinned; "you'd bust the game. But hold
him up for the limit, anyway."
He chuckled aloud, pleased at the rare, bird-like coquetry of the
woman. They drove to Willets. It took them two days to go and two
days to return. Estrella went through the town in a cyclone burst of
enthusiasm, saw everything, bought everything, exhausted everything in
two hours. Willets was not a large place. On her return to the ranch
she sat down at once in the rocking-chair on the veranda. Her hands
fell into her lap. She stared out over the desert.
Senor Johnson stole up behind her, clumsy as a playful bear. His
eyes followed the direction of hers to where a cloud shadow lay
across the slope, heavy, palpable, untransparent, like a blotch of
"Pretty, isn't it, honey?" said he. "Glad to get back?"
She smiled at him her vacant, slow smile.
"Here's my check book," she said; "put it away for me. I'm
through with it."
"I'll put it in my desk," said he. "It's in the left-hand
cubbyhole," he called from inside.
"Very well," she replied.
He stood in the doorway, looking fondly at her unconscious
shoulders and the pose of her blonde head thrown back against the
"That's the sort of a woman, after all," said Senor Johnson. "No
blame fuss about her."
CHAPTER EIGHT. THE ROUND-UP
This, as you well may gather, was in the summer routine. Now the
time of the great fall round-up drew near. The home ranch began to
bustle in preparation.
All through Cochise County were short mountain ranges set down,
apparently at random, like a child's blocks. In and out between them
flowed the broad, plain-like valleys. On the valleys were the various
ranges, great or small, controlled by the different individuals of the
Cattlemen's Association. During the year an unimportant, but certain,
shifting of stock took place. A few cattle of Senor Johnson's Lazy Y
eluded the vigilance of his riders to drift over through the Grant
Pass and into the ranges of his neighbour; equally, many of the
neighbour's steers watered daily at Senor Johnson's troughs. It was a
matter of courtesy to permit this, but one of the reasons for the fall
round-up was a redistribution to the proper ranges. Each cattle-owner
sent an outfit to the scene of labour. The combined outfits moved
slowly from one valley to another, cutting out the strays, branding
the late calves, collecting for the owner of that particular range
all his stock, that he might select his marketable beef. In turn
each cattleman was host to his neighbours and their men.
This year it had been decided to begin the circle of the round-up
at the C 0 Bar, near the banks of the San Pedro. Thence it would
work eastward, wandering slowly in north and south deviation, to
include all the country, until the final break-up would occur at the
The Lazy Y crew was to consist of four men, thirty riding horses,
a "chuck wagon," and cook. These, helping others, and receiving help
in turn, would suffice, for in the round-up labour was pooled to a
common end. With them would ride Jed Parker, to safeguard his
For a week the punchers, in their daily rides, gathered in the
range ponies. Senor Johnson owned fifty horses which he maintained
at the home ranch for every-day riding, two hundred broken saddle
animals, allowed the freedom of the range, except when special
occasion demanded their use, and perhaps half a thousand quite
unbroken--brood mares, stallions, young horses, broncos, and the like.
At this time of year it was his habit to corral all those saddlewise
in order to select horses for the round-ups and to replace the ranch
animals. The latter he turned loose for their turn at the freedom of
The horses chosen, next the men turned their attention to outfit.
Each had, of course, his saddle, spurs, and "rope." Of the latter
the chuck wagon carried many extra. That vehicle, furthermore,
transported such articles as the blankets, the tarpaulins under which
to sleep, the running irons for branding, the cooking layout, and the
men's personal effects. All was in readiness to move for the six
weeks' circle, when a complication arose. Jed Parker, while nimbly
escaping an irritated steer, twisted the high heel of his boot on the
corral fence. He insisted the injury amounted to nothing. Senor
Johnson however, disagreed.
"It don't amount to nothing, Jed," he pronounced, after
manipulation, "but she might make a good able-bodied injury with a
little coaxing. Rest her a week and then you'll be all right."
"Rest her, the devil!" growled Jed; "who's going to San Pedro?"
"I will, of course," replied the Senor promptly. "Didje think we'd
send the Chink?"
"I was first cousin to a Yaqui jackass for sendin' young Billy
Ellis out. He'll be back in a week. He'd do."
"So'd the President," the Senor pointed out; "I hear he's had some
"I hate to have you to go," objected Jed. "There's the missis."
He shot a glance sideways at his chief.
"I guess she and I can stand it for a week," scoffed the latter.
"Why, we are old married folks by now. Besides, you can take care of
"I'll try," said Jed Parker, a little grimly.
CHAPTER NINE. THE LONG TRAIL
The round-up crew started early the next morning, just about
sun-up. Senor Johnson rode first, merely to keep out of the dust.
Then followed Torn Rich, jogging along easily in the cow-puncher's
"Spanish trot" whistling soothingly to quiet the horses, giving a lead
to the band of saddle animals strung out loosely behind him. These
moved on gracefully and lightly in the manner of the unburdened plains
horse, half decided to follow Tom's guidance, half inclined to break
to right or left. Homer and Jim Lester flanked them, also riding in a
slouch of apparent laziness, but every once in a while darting forward
like bullets to turn back into the main herd certain individuals whom
the early morning of the unwearied day had inspired to make a dash
for liberty. The rear was brought up by Jerky Jones, the fourth
cow-puncher, and the four-mule chuck wagon, lost in its own dust.
The sun mounted; the desert went silently through its changes.
Wind devils raised straight, true columns of dust six, eight hundred,
even a thousand feet into the air. The billows of dust from the
horses and men crept and crawled with them like a living creature.
Glorious colour, magnificent distance, astonishing illusion, filled
Senor Johnson rode ahead, looking at these things. The separation
from his wife, brief as it would be, left room in his soul for the
heart-hunger which beauty arouses in men. He loved the charm of the
desert, yet it hurt him.
Behind him the punchers relieved the tedium of the march, each
after his own manner. In an hour the bunch of loose horses lost its
early-morning good spirits and settled down to a steady plodding, that
needed no supervision. Tom Rich led them, now, in silence, his time
fully occupied in rolling Mexican cigarettes with one hand. The other
three dropped back together and exchanged desultory remarks.
Occasionally Jim Lester sang. It was always the same song of
uncounted verses, but Jim had a strange fashion of singing a single
verse at a time. After a long interval he would sing another.
"My Love is a rider And broncos he breaks, But he's given up
riding And all for my sake, For he found him a horse And it suited
him so That he vowed he'd ne'er ride Any other bronco!"
he warbled, and then in the same breath:
"Say, boys, did you get onto the pisano-looking shorthorn at
Willets last week?
"He sifted in wearin' one of these hardboiled hats, and carryin' a
brogue thick enough to skate on. Says he wants a job drivin'
team--that he drives a truck plenty back to St. Louis, where he comes
from. Goodrich sets him behind them little pinto cavallos he has.
Say! that son of a gun a driver! He couldn't drive nails in a snow
bank." An expressive free-hand gesture told all there was to tell of
the runaway. "Th' shorthorn landed headfirst in Goldfish Charlie's
horse trough. Charlie fishes him out. 'How the devil, stranger,'
says Charlie, 'did you come to fall in here?' 'You blamed fool,' says
the shorthorn, just cryin' mad, 'I didn't come to fall in here, I come
to drive horses.'"
And then, without a transitory pause:
"Oh, my love has a gun
And that gun he can use,
But he's quit his gun fighting
As well as his booze.
And he's sold him his saddle,
His spurs, and his rope,
And there's no more cow-punching
And that's what I hope."
The alkali dust, swirled back by a little breeze, billowed up and
choked him. Behind, the mules coughed, their coats whitening with
the powder. Far ahead in the distance lay the westerly mountains.
They looked an hour away, and yet every man and beast in the outfit
knew that hour after hour they were doomed, by the enchantment of the
land, to plod ahead without apparently getting an inch nearer. The
only salvation was to forget the mountains and to fill the present
moment full of little things.
But Senor Johnson, to-day, found himself unable to do this. In
spite of his best efforts he caught himself straining toward the
distant goal, becoming impatient, trying to measure progress by
landmarks--in short acting like a tenderfoot on the desert, who wears
himself down and dies, not from the hardship, but from the nervous
strain which he does not know how to avoid. Senor Johnson knew this
as well as you and I. He cursed himself vigorously, and began with
great resolution to think of something else.
He was aroused from this by Tom Rich, riding alongside. "Somebody
coming, Senor," said he.
Senor Johnson raised his eyes to the approaching cloud of dust.
Silently the two watched it until it resolved into a rider loping
easily along. In fifteen minutes he drew rein, his pony dropped
immediately from a gallop to immobility, he swung into a graceful
at-ease attitude across his saddle, grinned amiably, and began to
roll a cigarette.
"Billy Ellis," cried Rich.
"That's me," replied the newcomer.
"Thought you were down to Tucson?"
"Thought you wasn't comin' back for a week yet?"
"Tommy," proffered Billy Ellis dreamily, "when you go to Tucson
next you watch out until you sees a little, squint-eyed Britisher.
Take a look at him. Then come away. He says he don't know nothin'
about poker. Mebbe he don't, but he'll outhold a warehouse."
But here Senor Johnson broke in: "Billy, you're just in time. Jed
has hurt his foot and can't get on for a week yet. I want you to take
charge. I've got a lot to do at the ranch."
"Ain't got my war-bag," objected Billy.
"Take my stuff. I'll send yours on when Parker goes."
"Well, so long."
"So long, Senor." They moved. The erratic Arizona breezes
twisted the dust of their going. Senor Johnson watched them dwindle.
With them seemed to go the joy in the old life. No longer did the
long trail possess for him its ancient fascination. He had become a
"And I'm glad of it," commented Senor Johnson.
The dust eddied aside. Plainly could be seen the swaying wagon,
the loose-riding cowboys, the gleaming, naked backs of the herd. Then
the veil closed over them again. But down the wind, faintly, in
snatches, came the words of Jim Lester's song:
"Oh, Sam has a gun
That has gone to the bad,
Which makes poor old Sammy
Feel pretty, damn sad,
For that gain it shoots high,
And that gun it shoots low,
And it wabbles about
Like a bucking bronco!"
Senor Johnson turned and struck spurs to his willing pony.
CHAPTER TEN. THE DISCOVERY
Senor Buck Johnson loped quickly back toward the home ranch, his
heart glad at this fortunate solution of his annoyance. The home
ranch lay in plain sight not ten miles away. As Senor Johnson idly
watched it shimmering in the heat, a tiny figure detached itself from
the mass and launched itself in his direction.
"Wonder what's eating HIM!" marvelled Senor Johnson, "--and who is
The figure drew steadily nearer. In half an hour it had
approached near enough to be recognised.
"Why, it's Jed!" cried the Senor, and spurred his horse. "What do
you mean, riding out with that foot?" he demanded sternly, when within
"Foot, hell!" gasped Parker, whirling his horse alongside. "Your
wife's run away with Brent Palmer."
For fully ten seconds not the faintest indication proved that the
husband had heard, except that he lifted his bridle-hand, and the
well-trained pony stopped.
"What did you say?" he asked finally.
"Your wife's run away with Brent Palmer," repeated Jed, almost
Again the long pause.
"How do you know?" asked Senor Johnson, then.
"Know, hell! It's been going on for a month. Sang saw them drive
off. They took the buckboard. He heard 'em planning it. He was too
scairt to tell till they'd gone. I just found it out. They've been
gone two hours. Must be going to make the Limited." Parker fidgeted,
impatient to be off. "You're wasting time," he snapped at the
Suddenly Johnson's face flamed. He reached from his saddle to
clutch Jed's shoulder, nearly pulling the foreman from his pony.
"You lie!" he cried. "You're lying to me! It ain't SO!"
Parker made no effort to extricate himself from the painful grasp.
His cool eyes met the blazing eyes of his chief.
"I wisht I did lie, Buck," he said sadly. "I wisht it wasn't so.
But it is."
Johnson's head snapped back to the front with a groan. The pony
snorted as the steel bit his flanks, leaped forward, and with head
outstretched, nostrils wide, the wicked white of the bronco flickering
in the corner of his eye, struck the bee line for the home ranch. Jed
followed as fast as he was able.
On his arrival he found his chief raging about the house like a
wild beast. Sang trembled from a quick and stormy interrogatory in
the kitchen. Chairs had been upset and let lie. Estrella's
belongings had been tumbled over. Senor Johnson there found only too
sure proof, in the various lacks, of a premeditated and permanent
flight. Still he hoped; and as long as he hoped, he doubted, and the
demons of doubt tore him to a frenzy. Jed stood near the door, his
arms folded, his weight shifted to his sound foot, waiting and
wondering what the next move was to be.
Finally, Senor Johnson, struck with a new idea, ran to his desk to
rummage in a pigeon-hole. But he found no need to do so, for lying on
the desk was what he sought--the check book from which Estrella was to
draw on Goodrich for the money she might need. He fairly snatched it
open. Two of the checks had been torn out, stub and all. And then
his eye caught a crumpled bit of blue paper under the edge of the
He smoothed it out. The check was made out to bearer and signed
Estrella Johnson. It called for fifteen thousand dollars. Across the
middle was a great ink blot, reason for its rejection.
At once Senor Johnson became singularly and dangerously cool.
"I reckon you're right, Jed," he cried in his natural voice.
"she's gone with him. She's got all her traps with her, and she's
drawn on Goodrich for fifteen thousand. And SHE never thought of
going just this time of month when the miners are in with their dust,
and Goodrich would be sure to have that much. That's friend Palmer.
Been going on a month, you say?"
"I couldn't say anything, Buck," said Parker anxiously. "A man's
never sure enough about them things till afterwards."
"I know," agreed Buck Johnson; "give me a light for my cigarette."
He puffed for a moment, then rose, stretching his legs. In a
moment he returned from the other room, the old shiny Colt's
forty-five strapped loosely on his hip. Jed looked him in the face
with some anxiety. The foreman was not deceived by the man's easy
manner; in fact, he knew it to be symptomatic of one of the dangerous
phases of Senor Johnson's character.
"What's up, Buck?" he inquired.
"Just going out for a pasear with the little horse, Jed."
"I suppose I better come along?"
"Not with your lame foot, Jed."
The tone of voice was conclusive. Jed cleared his throat.
"She left this for you," said he, proffering an envelope. "Them
kind always writes."
"Sure," agreed Senor Johnson, stuffing the letter carelessly into
his side pocket. He half drew the Colt's from its holster and
slipped it back again. "Makes you feel plumb like a man to have one
of these things rubbin' against you again," he observed irrelevantly.
Then he went out, leaving the foreman leaning, chair tilted, against
CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE CAPTURE
Although he had left the room so suddenly, Senor Johnson did not
at once open the gate of the adobe wall. His demeanour was gay, for
he was a Westerner, but his heart was black. Hardly did he see beyond
the convexity of his eyeballs.
The pony, warmed up by its little run, pawed the ground, impatient
to be off. It was a fine animal, clean-built, deep-chested, one of
the mustang stock descended from the Arabs brought over by Pizarro.
Sang watched fearfully from the slant of the kitchen window. Jed
Parker, even, listened for the beat of the horse's hoofs.
But Senor Johnson stood stock-still, his brain absolutely numb and
empty. His hand brushed against something which fell, to the ground.
He brought his dull gaze to bear on it. The object proved to be a
black, wrinkled spheroid, baked hard as iron in the sunshine of
Estrella's toys, a potato squeezed to dryness by the constricting
power of the rawhide. In a row along the fence were others. To Senor
Johnson it seemed that thus his heart was being squeezed in the fire
But the slight movement of the falling object roused him. He
swung open the gate. The pony bowed his head delightedly. He was
not tired, but his reins depended straight to the ground, and it was a
point of honour with him to stand. At the saddle born, in its sling,
hung the riata, the "rope" without which no cowman ever stirs abroad,
but which Senor Johnson had rarely used of late. Senor Johnson threw
the reins over, seized the pony's mane in his left hand, held the
pommel with his right, and so swung easily aboard, the pony's jump
helping him to the saddle. Wheel tracks led down the trail. He
Truth to tell, Senor Johnson had very little idea of what he was
going to do. His action was entirely instinctive. The wheel tracks
held to the southwest so he held to the southwest, too.
The pony hit his stride. The miles slipped by. After seven of
them the animal slowed to a walk. Senor Johnson allowed him to get
his wind, then spurred him on again. He did not even take the
ordinary precautions of a pursuer. He did not even glance to the
horizon in search.
About supper-time he came to the first ranch house. There he took
a bite to eat and exchanged his horse for another, a favourite of his,
named Button. The two men asked no questions.
"See Mrs. Johnson go through?" asked the Senor from the saddle.
"Yes, about three o'clock. Brent Palmer driving her. Bound for
Willets to visit the preacher's wife, she said. Ought to catch up at
the Circle I. That's where they'd all spend the night, of course. So
Senor Johnson knew now the couple would follow the straight road.
They would fear no pursuit. He himself was supposed not to return
for a week, and the story of visiting the minister's wife was not only
plausible, it was natural. Jed had upset calculations, because Jed
was shrewd, and had eyes in his head. Buck Johnson's first mental
numbness was wearing away; he was beginning to think.
The night was very still and very dark, the stars very bright in
their candle-like glow. The man, loping steadily on through the
darkness, recalled that other night, equally still, equally dark,
equally starry, when he had driven out from his accustomed life into
the unknown with a woman by his side, the sight of whom asleep had
made him feel "almost holy." He uttered a short laugh.
The pony was a good one, well equal to twice the distance he would
be called upon to cover this night. Senor Johnson managed him well.
By long experience and a natural instinct he knew just how hard to
push his mount, just how to keep inside the point where too rapid
exhaustion of vitality begins.
Toward the hour of sunrise he drew rein to look about him. The
desert, till now wrapped in the thousand little noises that make
night silence, drew breath in preparation for the awe of the daily
wonder. It lay across the world heavy as a sea of lead, and as
lifeless; deeply unconscious, like an exhausted sleeper. The sky bent
above, the stars paling. Far away the mountains seemed to wait. And
then, imperceptibly, those in the east became blacker and sharper,
while those in the west became faintly lucent and lost the
distinctness of their outline. The change was nothing, yet
everything. And suddenly a desert bird sprang into the air and began
Senor Johnson caught the wonder of it. The wonder of it seemed to
him wasted, useless, cruel in its effect. He sighed impatiently, and
drew his hand across his eyes.
The desert became grey with the first light before the glory. In
the illusory revealment of it Senor Johnson's sharp frontiersman's
eyes made out an object moving away from him in the middle distance.
In a moment the object rose for a second against the sky line, then
disappeared. He knew it to be the buckboard, and that the vehicle had
just plunged into the dry bed of an arroyo.
Immediately life surged through him like an electric shock. He
unfastened the riata from its sling, shook loose the noose, and moved
forward in the direction in which he had last seen the buckboard.
At the top of the steep little bank he stopped behind the
mesquite, straining his eyes; luck had been good to him. The
buckboard had pulled up, and Brent Palmer was at the moment beginning
a little fire, evidently to make the morning coffee.
Senor Johnson struck spurs to his horse and half slid, half fell,
clattering, down the steep clay bank almost on top of the couple
Estrella screamed. Brent Palmer jerked out an oath, and reached
for his gun. The loop of the riata fell wide over him, immediately
to be jerked tight, binding his arms tight to his side.
The bronco-buster, swept from his feet by the pony's rapid turn,
nevertheless struggled desperately to wrench himself loose. Button,
intelligent at all rope work, walked steadily backward, step by step,
taking up the slack, keeping the rope tight as he had done hundreds of
times before when a steer had struggled as this man was struggling
now. His master leaped from the saddle and ran forward. Button
continued to walk slowly back. The riata remained taut. The noose
Brent Palmer fought savagely, even then. He kicked, he rolled
over and over, he wrenched violently at his pinioned arms, he twisted
his powerful young body from Senor Johnson's grasp again and again.
But it was no use. In less than a minute he was bound hard and fast.
Button promptly slackened the rope. The dust settled. The noise of
the combat died. Again could be heard the single desert bird singing
against the dawn.
CHAPTER TWELVE. IN THE ARROYO
Senor Johnson quietly approached Estrella. The girl had, during
the struggle, gone through an aimless but frantic exhibition of
terror. Now she shrank back, her eyes staring wildly, her hands
behind her, ready to flop again over the brink of hysteria.
"What are you going to do?" she demanded, her voice unnatural.
She received no reply. The man reached out and took her by the
And then at once, as though the personal contact of the touch had
broken through the last crumb of numbness with which shock had
overlaid Buck Johnson's passions, the insanity of his rage broke out.
He twisted her violently on her face, knelt on her back, and, with
the short piece of hard rope the cowboy always carries to "hog-tie"
cattle, he lashed her wrists together. Then he arose panting, his
square black beard rising and falling with the rise and fall of his
Estrella had screamed again and again until her face had been
fairly ground into the alkali. There she had choked and strangled
and gasped and sobbed, her mind nearly unhinged with terror. She kept
appealing to him in a hoarse voice, but could get no reply, no
indication that he had even heard. This terrified her still more.
Brent Palmer cursed steadily and accurately, but the man did not seem
to hear him either.
The tempest bad broken in Buck Johnson's soul. When he had
touched Estrella he had, for the first time, realised what he had
lost. It was not the woman--her he despised. But the dreams! All at
once he knew what they had been to him--he understood how completely
the very substance of his life had changed in response to their slow
soul-action. The new world had been blasted--the old no longer
existed to which to return.
Buck Johnson stared at this catastrophe until his sight blurred.
Why, it was atrocious! He had done nothing to deserve it! Why had
they not left him peaceful in his own life of cattle and the trail?
He had been happy. His dull eyes fell on the causes of the ruin.
And then, finally, in the understanding of how he had been tricked
of his life, his happiness, his right to well-being, the whole force
of the man's anger flared. Brent Palmer lay there cursing him
artistically. That man had done it; that man was in his power. He
would get even. How?
Estrella, too, lay huddled, helpless and defenseless, at his feet.
She had done it. He would get even. How?
He had spoken no word. He spoke none now, either in answer to
Estrella's appeals, becoming piteous in their craving for relief from
suspense, or in response to Brent Palmer's steady stream of insults
and vituperations. Such things were far below. The bitterness and
anger and desolation were squeezing his heart. He remembered the silly
little row of potatoes sewn in the green hide lying along the top of
the adobe fence, some fresh and round, some dripping as the rawhide
contracted, some black and withered and very small. A fierce and
savage light sprang into his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN. THE RAWHIDE
First of all he unhitched the horses from the buckboard and turned
them loose. Then, since he was early trained in Indian warfare, he
dragged Palmer to the wagon wheel, and tied him so closely to it that
he could not roll over. For, though the bronco-buster was already so
fettered that his only possible movement was of the jack-knife
variety, nevertheless he might be able to hitch himself along the
ground to a sharp stone, there to saw through the rope about his
wrists. Estrella, her husband held in contempt. He merely
supplemented her wrist bands by one about the ankles.
Leisurely he mounted Button and turned up the wagon trail, leaving
the two. Estrella had exhausted herself. She was capable of nothing
more in the way of emotion. Her eyes tight closed, she inhaled in
deep, trembling, long-drawn breaths, and exhaled with the name of her
Maker. Brent Palmer, on the contrary, was by no means subdued. He had
expected to be shot in cold blood. Now he did not know what to
anticipate. His black, level brows drawn straight in defiance, he
threw his curses after Johnson's retreating figure.
The latter, however, paid no attention. He had his purposes. Once
at the top of the arroyo he took a careful survey of the landscape,
now rich with dawn. Each excrescence on the plain his half-squinted
eyes noticed, and with instant skill relegated to its proper category
of soap-weed, mesquite, cactus. At length he swung Button in an easy
lope toward what looked to be a bunch of soap-weed in the middle
But in a moment the cattle could be seen plainly. Button pricked
up his ears. He knew cattle. Now he proceeded tentatively, lifting
high his little hoofs to avoid the half-seen inequalities of the
ground and the ground's growths, wondering whether he were to be
called on to rope or to drive. When the rider had approached to
within a hundred feet, the cattle started. Immediately Button
understood that he was to pursue. No rope swung above his head, so he
sheered off and ran as fast as he could to cut ahead of the bunch.
But his rider with knee and rein forced him in. After a moment, to
his astonishment, he found himself running alongside a big steer.
Button had never hunted buffalo--Buck Johnson had.
The Colt's forty-five barked once, and then again. The steer
staggered, fell to his knees, recovered, and finally stopped, the
blood streaming from his nostrils. In a moment he fell heavily on
Senor Johnson at once dismounted and began methodically to skin
the animal. This was not easy for he had no way of suspending the
carcass nor of rolling it from side to side. However, he was
practised at it and did a neat job. Two or three times he even
caught himself taking extra pains that the thin flesh strips should
not adhere to the inside of the pelt. Then he smiled grimly, and
ripped it loose.
After the hide had been removed he cut from the edge, around and
around, a long, narrow strip. With this he bound the whole into a
compact bundle, strapped it on behind his saddle, and remounted. He
returned to the arroyo.
Estrella still lay with her eyes closed. Brent Palmer looked up
keenly. The bronco-buster saw the green hide. A puzzled expression
crept across his face.
Roughly Johnson loosed his enemy from the wheel and dragged him to
the woman. He passed the free end of the riata about them both, tying
them close together. The girl continued to moan, out of her wits with
"What are you going to do now, you devil?" demanded Palmer, but
received no reply.
Buck Johnson spread out the rawhide. Putting forth his huge
strength, he carried to it the pair, bound together like a bale of
goods, and laid them on its cool surface. He threw across them the
edges, and then deliberately began to wind around and around the huge
and unwieldy rawhide package the strip he had cut from the edge of the
Nor was this altogether easy. At last Brent Palmer understood. He
writhed in the struggle of desperation, foaming blasphemies. The
uncouth bundle rolled here and there. But inexorably the other, from
the advantage of his position, drew the thongs tighter.
And then, all at once, from vituperation the bronco-buster fell to
pleading, not for life, but for death.
"For God's sake, shoot me!" he cried from within the smothering
folds of the rawhide. "If you ever had a heart in you, shoot me!
Don't leave me here to be crushed in this vise. You wouldn't do that
to a yellow dog. An Injin wouldn't do that, Buck. It's a joke, isn't
it? Don't go away and leave me, Buck. I've done you dirt. Cut my
heart out, if you want to; I won't say a word, but don't leave me here
for the sun--"
His voice was drowned in a piercing scream, as Estrella came to
herself and understood. Always the rawhide had possessed for her an
occult fascination and repulsion. She had never been able to touch it
without a shudder, and yet she had always been drawn to experiment
with it. The terror of her doom had now added to it for her all the
vague and premonitory terrors which heretofore she had not understood.
The richness of the dawn had flowed to the west. Day was at hand.
Breezes had begun to play across the desert; the wind devils to raise
their straight columns. A first long shaft of sunlight shot through a
pass in the Chiricahuas, trembled in the dust-moted air, and laid its
warmth on the rawhide. Senor Johnson roused himself from his gloom to
speak his first words of the episode.
"There, damn you!" said he. "I guess you'll be close enough
He turned away to look for his horse.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE DESERT
Button was a trusty of Senor Johnson's private animals. He was never
known to leave his master in the lurch, and so was habitually allowed
certain privileges. Now, instead of remaining exactly on the spot
where he was "tied to the ground," he had wandered out of the dry
arroyo bed to the upper level of the plains, where he knew certain
bunch grasses might be found. Buck Johnson climbed the steep wooded
bank in search of him.
The pony stood not ten feet distant. At his master's abrupt
appearance he merely raised his head, a wisp of grass in the corner
of his mouth, without attempting to move away. Buck Johnson walked
confidently to him, fumbling in his side pocket for the piece of sugar
with which he habitually soothed Button's sophisticated palate. His
hand encountered Estrella's letter. He drew it out and opened it.
"Dear Buck," it read, "I am going away. I tried to be good, but I
can't. It's too lonesome for me. I'm afraid of the horses and the
cattle and the men and the desert. I hate it all. I tried to make
you see how I felt about it, but you couldn't seem to see. I know
you'll never forgive me, but I'd go crazy here. I'm almost crazy now.
I suppose you think I'm a bad woman, but I am not. You won't believe
that. Its' true though. The desert would make anyone bad. I don't
see how you stand it. You've been good to me, and I've really tried,
but it's no use. The country is awful. I never ought to have come.
I'm sorry you are going to think me a bad woman, for I like you and
admire you, but nothing, NOTHING could make me stay here any longer."
She signed herself simply Estrella Sands, her maiden name.
Buck Johnson stood staring at the paper for a much longer time
than was necessary merely to absorb the meaning of the words. His
senses, sharpened by the stress of the last sixteen hours, were trying
mightily to cut to the mystery of a change going on within himself.
The phrases of the letter were bald enough, yet they conveyed
something vital to his inner being. He could not understand what it
Then abruptly he raised his eyes.
Before him lay the desert, but a desert suddenly and miraculously
changed, a desert he had never seen before. Mile after mile it swept
away before him, hot, dry, suffocating, lifeless. The sparse
vegetation was grey with the alkali dust. The heat hung choking in
the air like a curtain. Lizards sprawled in the sun, repulsive. A
rattlesnake dragged its loathsome length from under a mesquite. The
dried carcass of a steer, whose parchment skin drew tight across its
bones, rattled in the breeze. Here and there rock ridges showed with
the obscenity of so many skeletons, exposing to the hard, cruel sky
the earth's nakedness. Thirst, delirium, death, hovered palpable in
the wind; dreadful, unconquerable, ghastly.
The desert showed her teeth and lay in wait like a fierce beast.
The little soul of man shrank in terror before it.
Buck Johnson stared, recalling the phrases of the letter,
recalling the words of his foreman, Jed Parker. "It's too lonesome
for me," "I'm afraid," "I hate it all," "I'd go crazy here," "The
desert would make anyone bad," "The country is awful." And the
musing voice of the old cattleman, "I wonder if she'll like the
country!" They reiterated themselves over and over; and always as
refrain his own confident reply, "Like the country? Sure! Why
And then he recalled the summer just passing, and the woman who
had made no fuss. Chance remarks of hers came back to him, remarks
whose meaning he had not at the time grasped, but which now he saw
were desperate appeals to his understanding. He had known his desert.
He had never known hers.
With an exclamation Buck Johnson turned abruptly back to the
arroyo. Button followed him, mildly curious, certain that his
master's reappearance meant a summons for himself.
Down the miniature cliff the man slid, confidently, without
hesitation, sure of himself. His shoulders held squarely, his step
elastic, his eye bright, he walked to the fearful, shapeless bundle
now lying motionless on the flat surface of the alkali.
Brent Palmer had fallen into a grim silence, but Estrella still
moaned. The cattleman drew his knife and ripped loose the bonds.
Immediately the flaps of the wet rawhide fell apart, exposing to the
new daylight the two bound together. Buck Johnson leaned over to
touch the woman's shoulder.
"Estrella," said he gently.
Her eyes came open with a snap, and stared into his, wild with the
surprise of his return.
"Estrella," he repeated, "how old are you?"
She gulped down a sob, unable to comprehend the purport of his
"How old are you, Estrella?" he repeated again.
"Twenty-one," she gasped finally.
"Ah!" said he.
He stood for a moment in deep thought, then began methodically,
without haste, to cut loose the thongs that bound the two together.
When the man and the woman were quite freed, he stood for a
moment, the knife in his hand, looking down on them. Then he swung
himself into the saddle and rode away, straight down the narrow
arroyo, out beyond its lower widening, into the vast plains the hither
side of the Chiricahuas. The alkali dust was snatched by the wind
from beneath his horse's feet. Smaller and smaller he dwindled,
rising and falling, rising and falling in the monotonous cow-pony's
lope. The heat shimmer veiled him for a moment, but he reappeared. A
mirage concealed him, but he emerged on the other side of it. Then
suddenly he was gone. The desert had swallowed him up.