CHAPTER XII
MOUNTAIN LAW
As the sheriff's posse spurred their tired horses up the long slope of the rocky mountain and down into the rough country beyond, the trail grew fresher with every hour, until the blood from mutilated ears showed wet in the trampled dirt. But as the herd made its way into the broken ground the heavy trail split up and divided; at each fork of the cañon a bunch was cut off from the drag of the herd and drifted by a hand or two down onto the lower range, and when at last the trail broke out into the open country again the posse was following the tracks of only three men and twenty or thirty cows. Then they picked up a stray, burned clean into a Circle-Double-cross and freshly ear-marked, and after that the remnant of the band, standing wearily by a water-hole. Every one of them had been freshly branded with a hot iron—no hair-brand or attempt at burning through a sack—and half of their ears were bloody from being torn in the brush; but there were no cowboys loitering near, waiting to be caught with the goods. The horse-tracks still led on until at last they scattered out and mounted the neighboring ridges. But if the trail was lost there were other signs to lead Morgan on his way. The sun was hanging low now, and their horses were jaded from hard riding, but at the familiar bellowing of a cow-herd they pricked up their ears and forged ahead. The valley opened out suddenly before them and there on their regular parada grounds was the entire U outfit, holding a big herd and cutting, roping, and branding by days' works. Innocence and industry were the twin watchwords in that aggregation—they were too busy even to look up—and when Boone Morgan saw the game he rode past them without speaking and tackled the cook for supper.
"Boys are workin' kinder late to-night, ain't they?" he observed, filling his plate from the Dutch ovens.
"Sure are," answered the cook, sententiously. He had caught a glimpse of a star on a deputy's vest, and his orders were not to talk.
"Can't even stop to eat, hey?" continued the sheriff, nodding at an ovenful of cold biscuits that had been wastefully thrown in the dirt. "Well, that's a pity, too, because you sure do make good bread. But a sour-dough biscuit ain't never no good unless it's eaten fresh."
"No," grumbled the cook, taken off his guard, "and ef they's anything I do despise it is to cook up a good oven of bread and then have it spile thataway."
"Well, we're certainly appreciatin' this batch," remarked Morgan, glancing genially around at his busy men. "The boys bein' away yesterday kind of threw you out, I reckon."
"Thet's right," agreed the cook, oblivious of his intent, "I hed a big kittle of beans spile on me, too."
"They'll sure be hungry when they do hit camp," said the sheriff, continuing his lead, "livin' on cold grub that way. Hello," he exclaimed, looking up as John Upton came hurrying in, "here comes Mr. Upton now—ganted down to a shadow."
"Oh, I don't know!" replied Upton, guardedly, "b'lieve I could eat a little, though."
"Well, I reckon you ought to," said Morgan, "after goin' two days on cold grub."
"Cold grub!" repeated the cowman, glancing at the cook.
"Why, sure. And that's a long, hard ride over to Carrizo, too." The sheriff took a big mouthful and waited.
"What in hell you talkin' about?" demanded the cowman, sullenly.
"Why, wasn't you over to Carrizo yesterday?"
"Nope."
"And never eat no cold grub?" inquired the sheriff, gazing quizzically toward Joe, the cook.
"Dam' yore heart, Joe!" burst out Upton, looking daggers at the startled pot-tender, "have you been blabbin' already?"
"That'll be all, Mr. Upton," said Boone Morgan, quietly, "I'm up here lookin' for the owner of this new Circle Double-cross brand. Is that your iron? It is? Well, I'll have to ask you to go back with me to-morrow and explain where them cows come from."
"Well, by the holy—jumpin'—" The cowman paused in his wrath and fixed his fiery eyes on Boone Morgan. "Did Ike Crittenden put you up to this?" he demanded, and taking silence for consent he went off into a frenzy of indignation. "Well, what you chasin' me for?" he yelled, choking with exasperation. "Old Crit goes over into Lost Dog and runs off every dam' one of them Monkey-wrench cows, and you come right through his camp and jump me! They wasn't a critter in Lost Dog that hadn't been burnt over my U, and you know it; but ump-um—Crit's a friend of mine—never make him any trouble—go over and tackle Upton—he's a Tonto County man!"
The sheriff listened to this tirade with a tolerant smile, feeding himself liberally the while. He had long ago learned that the world's supply of self-righteousness is not held in monopoly by the truly good—also that every horse must go to the length of his picket rope before he will stop and eat. But when the fireworks were over he remarked by way of conversation, "Crit's got one of your JIC cows down there in his corral—a red three, bald-faced and kind of spotted on the shoulders. Looks like it had been branded lately."
"Yes, an' I've got one of his ICU2's down in my corral," retorted Upton, "and it sure has been branded lately—you could smell the burnt hair when I picked it up five days ago. They ain't a man in my outfit that don't know that old cow for an ICU, too."
"Um," commented Morgan, "you think he stole it, hey?"
"I know it!" replied Upton, with decision. "You can see her yoreself, down in my headquarters corral, and I picked her up in the track of Crit's round-up."
"Well, you better swear out a warrant, then, and we'll take the cow down for evidence. You were hintin' that I'm standin' in with Crittenden, but jest swear to a complaint and see how quick I'll serve the papers."
For a moment the cowman cocked his head and regarded him shrewdly—then he shook his head. "I've got too much loose stock runnin' on his range," he said.
"I'll protect your property," urged the sheriff. "Come on, now—quit your kickin' and make a complaint."
"Nope—too dangerous! I can take care of myself in the hills, but if them Geronimo lawyers ever git holt of me I'm done for. You can take me down to-morrer, if you want to, but I'd rather stick to my own game."
"All right," said the sheriff, "we'll see what Crit will do."
There was a big crowd around the store at Verde Crossing when Boone Morgan and his posse rode in, and at sight of John Upton by his side there was a general craning of necks on the part of Crittenden's cowboys. This was the first time that a sheriff had attempted to stop the lawless raids and counter-raids of these two cattle kings and the gun-men looked upon him with disfavor, for even a professional bad man is jealous of his job. An appeal to the courts would divert their extra wages into the pockets of the lawyers—it would dock their pay and double their work, and to a man they were against it. Yet here came Upton with the sheriff, and Bill Todhunter had already spotted some Spectacle cows that had drifted back to the corrals. As for Crit, his nerve was good, for he felt the fighting courage of his men behind him, and he went out to meet his ancient enemy with a taunting sneer.
"Well, I'm glad to see one man git what's comin' to him," he observed, taking note of Upton's guard.
"Yes," retorted Upton, caustically, "and if I'd jest tell a half of what I know, you'd be mixin' 'dobes down at the Pen."
"Uhr!" grunted Crittenden, turning away in scorn; but at the same time he took his cue from the words.
"Well, Mr. Crittenden," began Morgan, "here's the man you wanted so bad. Now if you'll jest step into the store and fill