“Well,” he observed philosophically, “they’re movin’, anyhow.”
They rode down the long slope and, mounting a low roll, paused again apathetically to watch a band of sheep below.
“Say,” exclaimed Creede, his eyes beginning to burn, “d’ye notice how them sheep are travellin’? And look at them other bands back yonder! By Joe!” he cried, rising in his stirrups, “we’ve got ’em goin’! Look at the dust out through the pass, and clean to Hell’s Hip Pocket. They’re hikin’, boy, they’re hittin’ it up for The Rolls! But what in the world has struck ’em?”
He stood up straight in his saddle, swinging his head from east to west, but no band of horsemen met his eye. He looked again at the flock below him –– the goats, forever in the lead, heading straight for the western pass; the herders swinging their carbines upon the drag –– and seemed to study upon the miracle.
“Have you got any money to spare, Rufe?” he inquired quietly.
“Sure,” responded Hardy.
“Well, then,” said Creede deliberately, “I’d like to make you a sporting proposition. I’ll bet you forty dollars to the price of a drink that old Bill Johnson has been shootin’ up their camps. Will you go me? All right, and I’ll make you a little side bet: I’ll bet you any money that Jim Swope has lost some sheep!”
He spurred his horse recklessly down the hill, grinning, and at the clatter of rocks the fearful herders jumped forward and raised a great clamor behind their sheep, whistling and clubbing their guns, but the heart of the monster Grande was no longer turned to wrath. He laughed and called out to them, leaping his horse playfully over washouts and waving his black hat.
“Cuidado, hombres,” he shouted, “be careful –– do not hurry –– look at the nice grass!” But despite this friendly admonition the herders still yelled and whistled at their sheep, jabbing them spitefully with the sharp muzzles of their rifles until at last, all riot and confusion, they fled away bleating into the west.
CHAPTER XVIII
BAD BLOOD
The sheep were on the run, drifting across Bronco Mesa as if the devil was after them, and Creede could hardly stay on his horse from laughing –– but when he drew near to Hidden Water his face changed. There was a fresh sheep trail in the cañon and it led away from the ranch. He spurred forward like the wind, his eyes upon the tracks, and when he came in sight of the house he threw down his hat and swore. Of all the God-forsaken places in Arizona, the Dos S Ranch was the worst. The earth lay bare and desolate before it; the woodpile had disappeared; the bucket was thrown down the well. Never had the flat, mud buildings seemed so deserted or Tommy so tragic in his welcome. The pasture gate was down and even that holy of holies, the branding corral, stunk of sheep. Only the padlocked house had been respected, and that perforce, since nothing short of a sledgehammer could break its welded chain.
Unfastening the battered door they entered the living-room which once had been all light and laughter. There lay the dishes all clean and orderly on the table, the floors swept, the beds made, some withered flowers on Hardy’s desk.
“Huh,” grunted Creede, looking it over coldly, “we’re on the bum, all right, all right, now. How long since they went away?”
“’Bout a year,” replied Hardy, and his partner did not contradict him.
They cooked a hasty meal and ate it, putting the scraps in the frying-pan for Tommy.
“Go to it, Tom,” said Creede, smiling wistfully as the cat lapped away at the grease. “He never could git used to them skirts rustlin’ round here, could he?” And then there was a long silence.
Tommy sat up and washed his face contentedly, peering about with intent yellow eyes and sniffing at the countless odors with which his world was filled –– then suddenly with a low whining growl he lashed across the room like a tiger and leapt up into his cat hole. This was a narrow tunnel, punched through the adobe wall near the door and boxed in with a projecting cribbing to keep out the snakes and skunks. Through it when his protectors were away he could escape the rush of pursuing coyotes, or sally forth with equal ferocity when sheep dogs were about. He peered out of his porthole for a moment, warily, then his stump tail began to twitch, he worked his hind claws into the wood, and leapt. A yelp of terror from the ramada heralded his success and Creede ran like a boy to look.
“He’s jumped one, by Joe!” he exclaimed. “What did I tell ye –– that cat is a holy terror on dogs!”
The dog in question –– a slinking, dispirited cur –– wagged its tail apologetically from a distance, shaking its bloody ears, while Tommy swelled and hissed viciously at him from his stronghold. It was a sheep dog, part collie, part shepherd, and the rest plain yellow –– a friendly little dog, too, and hungry. But the heart of Creede, ordinarily so tender, was hardened by his disasters.
“Git out of here!” he commanded roughly. “Git, you yap, or I’ll burn you up with a bullet!
“This is what comes of leavin’ your gun off,” he grumbled, as he unbound his bed and grabbed up his pistol. But as he stepped out into the open to shoot, his barbarity was checked by a clatter of hoofs and, looking up, he saw Jasper Swope on his big black mule, ambling truculently in across the open.
“Hyar!” he shouted, shaking his fist angrily, “don’t you shoot my dog, you –– or I’ll be the death of ye!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” responded Creede, bristling back at him. “Keep the blame pup away, then –– and keep that other dog away, too, or my cat’ll eat ’im up! Well, I notice you took the occasion to come down and sheep me out,” he observed, as Swope pulled up before the door.
“I did not,” retorted the sheepman promptly, but grinning nevertheless at the damage, “but I see some other feller has though, and saved me the trouble.” He ran his eye approvingly over the devastated homestead; and then, rising in his stirrups, he plunged suddenly into his set speech.
“I’ve took a lot off’n you, Jeff Creede,” he shouted, swinging his arms wildly, “but I’ve got a bellyful of this night work! And I come down to tell you that next time you shoot up one of my camps there’ll be trouble!”
“I never shot up your old camp,” growled Creede, “nor any other camp. I’m dam’ glad to hear that somebody else did though,” he added vindictively, “and I hope to God he fixed you good and proper. Now what can I do for you, Mr. Swope?” he inquired, thrusting out his chin. “I suppose you must be hurryin’ on, of course.”
“No!” cried Swope, slapping his saddle horn vehemently. “I come down here to git some satisfaction out of you! My sheep has been killed and my men has been intimidated on this here public range, and I want to tell you right now, Mr. Creede, that this funny business has got to stop!”
“Well, don’t choke!” said the cowman, fingering his gun coldly. “Go ahead and stop it, why don’t you?”
He paused, a set smile on his lips, and for a moment their eyes met in the baleful glare which rival wolves, the leaders of their packs, confer upon each other. Then Hardy stepped out into the open, holding up his hand for peace.
“You are mistaken, Mr. Swope,” he said quietly. “Jeff hasn’t shot up any camps –– he hasn’t even packed a gun for the last three days.”
“Oh,