Hidden Water

It was still early in the morning when Juan Alvarez rode down the pass and invaded the forbidden land. He had the name of a bad hombre, this boss herder of Jasper Swope, the kind that cuts notches on his rifle stock. Only one man had ever made Juan eat dirt, and that man now watched him from the high rocks with eyes that followed every move with the unblinking intentness of a mountain lion.

“Uhr-r! Laugh, you son of a goat,” growled Creede, as the big Mexican pulled up his horse and placed one hand complacently on his hip. “Sure, make yourself at home,” he muttered, smiling as his enemy drifted his sheep confidently down into the redondo, “you’re goin’ jest where I want ye. Come sundown and we’ll go through you like a house afire. If he beds in the redondo let’s shoot ’em into that box cañon, Jim,” proposed the big cowman, turning to his partner, “and when they come out the other end all hell wouldn’t stop ’em–they’ll go forty ways for Sunday.”

“Suits me,” replied Jim, “but say, what’s the matter with roundin’ up some of them horses and sendin’ ’em in ahead? That boss Mexican is goin’ to take a shot at some of us fellers if we do the work ourselves.”

“That’s right, Jim,” said Creede, squinting shrewdly at the three armed herders. “I’ll tell ye, let’s send them wild horses through ’em! Holy smoke! jest think of a hundred head of them outlaws comin’ down the cañon at sundown and hammerin’ through that bunch of sheep! And we don’t need to git within gunshot!”

“Fine and dandy,” commented Jim, “but how’re you goin’ to hold your horses to it? Them herders will shoot off their guns and turn ’em back.”

“Well, what’s the matter with usin’ our tame horses for a hold-up herd and then sendin’ the whole bunch through together? They’ll strike for the box cañon, you can bank on that, and if Mr. Juan will only–” But Mr. Juan was not so accommodating. Instead of holding his sheep in the redondo he drifted them up on the mountain side, where he could overlook the country.

“Well, I’ll fix you yet,” observed Creede, and leaving Jim to watch he scuttled down to his horse and rode madly back to camp.

That afternoon as Juan Alvarez stood guard upon a hill he saw, far off to the west, four horsemen, riding slowly across the mesa. Instantly he whistled to his herders, waving his arms and pointing, and in a panic of apprehension they circled around their sheep, crouching low and punching them along until the herd was out of sight. And still the four horsemen rode on, drawing nearer, but passing to the south. But the sheep, disturbed and separated by the change, now set up a plaintive bleating, and the boss herder, never suspecting the trap that was being laid for him, scrambled quickly down from his lookout and drove them into the only available hiding-place–the box cañon. Many years in the sheep business had taught him into what small compass a band of sheep can be pressed, and he knew that, once thrown together in the dark cañon, they would stop their telltale blatting and go to sleep. Leaving his herders to hold them there he climbed back up to his peak and beheld the cowboys in the near distance, but still riding east.

An hour passed and the sheep had bedded together in silence, each standing with his head under another’s belly, as is their wont, when the four horsemen, headed by Jeff Creede himself, appeared suddenly on the distant mountain side, riding hard along the slope. Galloping ahead of them in an avalanche of rocks was the band of loose horses that Alvarez had seen in the redondo that morning, and with the instinct of their kind they were making for their old stamping ground.

Once more the sheepman leaped up from his place and scampered down the hill to his herd, rounding up his pack animals as he ran. With mad haste he shooed them into the dark mouth of the cañon, and then hurried in after them like a badger that, hearing the sound of pursuers, backs into some neighboring hole until nothing is visible but teeth and claws. So far the boss herder had reasoned well. His sheep were safe behind him and his back was against a rock; a hundred men could not dislodge him from his position if it ever came to a fight; but he had not reckoned upon the devilish cunning of horse-taming Jeff Creede. Many a time in driving outlaws to the river he had employed that same ruse–showing himself casually in the distance and working closer as they edged away until he had gained his end.

The sun was setting when Creede and his cowboys came clattering down the mountain from the east and spurred across the redondo, whooping and yelling as they rounded up their stock. For half an hour they rode and hollered and swore, apparently oblivious of the filigree of sheep tracks with which the ground was stamped; then as the remuda quieted down they circled slowly around their captives, swinging their wide-looped ropes and waiting for the grand stampede.

The dusk was beginning to gather in the low valley and the weird evensong of the coyotes was at its height when suddenly from the north there came a rumble, as if a storm gathered above the mountain; then with a roar and the thunder of distant hoofs, the crashing of brush and the nearer click of feet against the rocks a torrent of wild horses poured over the summit of the pass and swept down into the upper valley like an avalanche. Instantly Creede and his cowboys scattered, spurring out on either wing to turn them fair for the box cañon, and the tame horses, left suddenly to their own devices, stood huddled together in the middle of the redondo, fascinated by the swift approach of the outlaws. Down the middle of the broad valley they came, flying like the wind before their pursuers; at sight of Creede and his cowboys and the familiar hold-up herd they swerved and slackened their pace; then as the half-circle of yelling cowmen closed in from behind they turned and rushed straight for the box cañon, their flint-like feet striking like whetted knives as they poured into the rocky pass. Catching the contagion of the flight the tame horses joined in of their own accord, and a howl of exultation went up from the Four Peaks cowmen as they rushed in to complete the overthrow. In one mad whirl they mingled–wild horses and tame, and wilder riders behind; and before that irresistible onslaught Juan Alvarez and his herders could only leap up and cling to the rocky cliffs like bats. And the sheep! A minute after, there were no sheep. Those that were not down were gone–scattered to the winds, lost, annihilated!

Seized by the mad contagion, the cowboys themselves joined in the awful rout, spurring through the dark cañon like devils let loose from hell. There was only one who kept his head and waited, and that was Jefferson Creede. Just as the last wild rider flashed around the corner he jumped his horse into the cañon and, looking around, caught sight of Juan Alvarez, half-distraught, crouching like a monkey upon a narrow ledge.

“Well, what–the–hell!” he cried, with well-feigned amazement. “I didn’t know you was here!”

The sheepman swallowed and blinked his eyes, that stood out big and round like an owl’s.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said.

“But it wouldn’t ’a’ made a dam’ bit of difference if I had!” added Creede, and then, flashing his teeth in a hectoring laugh, he put spurs to his horse and went thundering after his fellows.

Not till that moment did the evil-eyed Juan Alvarez sense the trick that had been played upon him.

“Cabrone!” he screamed, and whipping out his pistol he emptied it after Creede, but the bullets spattered harmlessly against the rocks.

Early the next morning Jefferson Creede rode soberly along the western rim of Bronco Mesa, his huge form silhouetted against the sky, gazing down upon the sheep camps that lay along the Alamo; and the simple-minded Mexicans looked up at him in awe. But when the recreant herders of Juan Alvarez came skulking across the mesa and told the story of the stampede, a sudden panic broke out that spread like wildfire from camp to camp. Orders or no orders, the timid Mexicans threw the sawhorses onto their burros, packed up their blankets and moved, driving their bawling sheep far out over The Rolls, where before the chollas had seemed so bad. It was as if they had passed every day beneath some rock lying above the trail, until, looking up, they saw that it was a lion, crouching to make his spring. For years they had gazed in wonder at the rage and violence of Grande Creede, marvelling that the padron could stand against it; but now suddenly the big man had struck, and bravo Juan Alvarez had lost his sheep. Hunt as long as he would he could not bring in a tenth of them. Ay, que malo! The boss would fire Juan and make him walk to town; but they who by some miracle had escaped, would flee while there was yet time.

For two days Creede rode along the rim of Bronco Mesa–that dead line which at last the sheepmen had come to respect,–and when at last he sighted Jim Swope coming up from Hidden Water with two men who might be officers of the law he laughed and went to meet them. Year in and year out Jim Swope had been talking law–law; now at last they would see this law, and find out what it could do. One of the men with Swope was a deputy sheriff, Creede could tell that by his star; but the other man might be almost anything–a little fat man with a pointed beard and congress shoes; a lawyer, perhaps, or maybe some town detective.

“Is this Mr. Creede?” inquired the deputy, casually flashing his star as they met beside the trail.

“That’s my name,” replied Creede. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, Mr. Creede,” responded the officer, eying his man carefully, “I come up here to look into the killing of Juan Alvarez, a Mexican sheep-herder.”

“The killin’?” echoed Creede, astounded.

“That’s right,” snapped the deputy sheriff, trying to get the jump on him. “What do you know about it?”

“Who–me?” answered the cowman, his eyes growing big and earnest as he grasped the news. “Not a thing. The last time I saw Juan Alvarez he was standin’ on a ledge of rocks way over yonder in the middle fork–and he certainly was all right then.”

“Yes? And when was this, Mr. Creede?”

“Day before yesterday, about sundown.”

“Day before yesterday, eh? And just what was you doin’ over there at the time?”

“Well, I’ll tell ye,” began Creede circumstantially. “Me and Ben Reavis and a couple of the boys had gone over toward the Pocket to catch up our horses. They turned back on us and finally we run ’em into that big redondo up in the middle fork. I reckon we was ridin’ back and forth half an hour out there gittin’ ’em stopped, and we never heard a peep out of this Mexican, but jest as we got our remuda quieted down and was edgin’ in to rope out the ones we wanted, here comes a big band of wild horses that the other boys had scared up over behind the Peaks, roaring down the cañon and into us. Of course, there was nothin’ for it then but to git out of the way and let ’em pass, and we did it, dam’ quick. Well, sir, that bunch of wild horses went by us like the mill tails of hell, and of course our remuda stompeded after ’em and the whole outfit went bilin’ through the box cañon, where it turned out Juan Alvarez had been hidin’ his sheep. That’s all I know about it.”

“Well, did you have any trouble of any kind with this deceased Mexican, Mr. Creede? Of course you don’t need to answer that if it will incriminate you, but I just wanted to know, you understand.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” responded the cowman, waving the suggestion aside with airy unconcern. “This is the first I’ve heard of any killin’, but bein’ as you’re an officer I might as well come through with what I know. I don’t deny for a minute that I’ve had trouble with Juan. I had a fist fight with him a couple of years ago, and I licked him, too–but seein’ him up on that ledge of rocks when I rode through after my horses was certainly one of the big surprises of my life.”

“Uh, you was surprised, was ye?” snarled Swope, who had been glowering at him malignantly through his long recital. “Mebbe–”

“Yes, I was surprised!” retorted Creede angrily. “And I was like the man that received the gold-headed cane–I was pleased, too, if that’s what you’re drivin’ at. I don’t doubt you and Jasp sent that dam’ Greaser in there to sheep us out, and if he got killed you’ve got yourself to thank for it. He had no business in there, in the first place, and in the second place, I gave you fair warnin’ to keep ’im out.”

“You hear that, Mr. Officer?” cried the sheepman. “He admits making threats against the deceased; he–”

“Just a moment, just a moment, Mr. Swope,” interposed the deputy sheriff pacifically. “Did you have any words with this Juan Alvarez, Mr. Creede, when you saw him in the cañon? Any trouble of any kind?”

“No, we didn’t have what you might call trouble–that is, nothin’ serious.”

“Well, just what words passed between you? This gentleman here is the coroner; we’ve got the body down at the ranch house, and we may want to suppeenie you for the inquest.”

“Glad to meet you, sir,” said Creede politely. “Well, all they was to it was this: when I rode in there and see that dam’ Mexican standin’ up on a ledge with his eyes bulgin’ out, I says, ‘What in hell–I didn’t know you was here!’ And he says, ‘Oh, that’s all right.’”

“Jest listen to the son-of-a-gun lie!” yelled Jim Swope, beside himself with rage. “Listen to him! He said that was all right, did he? Three thousand head of sheep stompeded–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A forty-five.”

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXII

PORTENTS OF WAR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a word, Jeff.”

The big cowboy sighed and grinned cynically.

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