_Bud's Conscience_
Those riders who had come from the northern part of the State to
Sterling were given transportation for themselves and their horses to
The Junction. From there they rode to their respective homes. Among them
were Bud Shoop, the giant sheepman, and Lorry, who seemed more anxious
than did Shoop to stop at Stacey on their way to the reserve.
"Your maw don't know you been to Sterling," Shoop said as they rode
toward Stacey.
"But she won't care, now we're back again. She'll find out some time."
"I'm willin' to wait," said Bud. "I got you into that hocus. But I had
no more idee than a cat that we'd bump into what we did. They was a time
when a outfit like ours could 'a' kep' peace in a town by just bein'
there. Things are changin'--fast. If the Gov'ment don't do somethin'
about allowin' the scum of this country to get hold of guns and
ca'tridges wholesale, they's goin' to be a whole lot of extra
book-keepin' for the recordin' angel. I tell you what, son, allowin'
that I seen enough killin' in my time so as just seein' it don't set too
hard on my chest, that mess down to Sterling made me plumb sick to my
stummick. I'm wonderin' what would 'a' happened if Sterling hadn't made
that fight and the I.W.W. had run loose. It ain't what we did. That had
to be did. But it's the idee that decent folks, livin' under the
American flag, has got to shoot their way back to the law, like we
done."
"Mebby the law ain't right," suggested Lorry.
"Don't you get that idee, son. The law is all right. Mebby it ain't
handled right sometimes."
"But what can anybody do about it?"
"Trouble is that folks who want to do the right thing ain't always got
the say. Or mebby if they have got the say they leave it to the other
fella.
"What did the folks in Arizona do long back in eighty, when the sheep
disease got bad. First off they doctored up the sick sheep, tryin' to
save 'em. That didn't work, so they took to killin' 'em to save the good
sheep. But the disease had got into the blood of some of the good sheep.
Then some of the big sheepmen got busy. Arizona made a law that no stock
was to be shipped into any of her territory without bein' inspected.
That helped some. But inspectors is human, and some sick sheep got by.
"Then one day a fella that had some brains got up in the State House and
spoke for the shuttin' out of all stock until the disease was stomped
out. You see, that disease didn't start in this here country. But who
downed that fella? Why, the sheepmen themselves. It would hurt their
business. And the funny part of it is them sheepmen was willin' enough
to ship sick sheep anywhere they could sell 'em. But some States was
wise. California, she put a inspection tax of twenty-five dollars on
every carload of stock enterin' her State--or on one animal; didn't make
no difference. That inspection tax had to be paid by the shipper of the
stock, as I said, whether he shipped one head or a hundred. And the
stock had to be inspected before loadin'."
"You mean immigrants?" queried Lorry.
"The same. The gate is open too wide. If I had the handlin' of them
gates I would shut 'em for ten years and kind of let what we got settle
down and get acquainted. But the man hirin' cheap labor wouldn't. He'll
take anything that will work cheap, and the country pays the difference,
like we done down to Sterling."
"You mean there can't be cheap labor?"
"The same. Somebody's got to pay."
"Well, Sterling paid," said Lorry, "if a man's life is worth anything."
"Yes, she paid. And the worst part of the whole business is that the men
what paid didn't owe anything to the smelter or to them others. They
just made a present of their lives to this here country. And the country
ain't goin' to even say 'thanks.'"
"You're pretty sore about it, aren't you, Bud?"
"I be. And if you had my years you'd be likewise. But what's worryin' me
right now is I'm wonderin' what your maw'll say to me when she finds
out."
"You can say we been south on business."
"Yes," grunted Bud, "and I got the receipt right here on my left wing."
"Hurtin' you much?"
"Just enough to let me know I'm livin' and ain't ridin' through hell
shootin' down a lot of pore, drunk fools that's tryin' to run the oven.
And them kind would kick if they was ridin' in hell on a free pass and
their hotel bills paid. But over there is the hills, and we can thank
God A'mighty for the high trails and the open country. I ain't got the
smell of that town out of my nose yet."
* * * * *
When they arrived at Stacey, Lorry learned that his father had recently
gone to the ranch. After supper that evening, Mrs. Adams mentioned the
strike. The papers printed columns of the awful details; outrages and
killings beyond the thought of possibility. And Mrs. Adams spoke of the
curious circumstance that the men who put down the lawlessness were
unnamed; that all that could be learned of them was that there were
ranchers and cowmen who were known by number alone.
"And I'm glad that you didn't go riding off down there," she said to
Lorry. "The paper says men from all over the State volunteered."
"So am I," said Shoop promptly. "I was readin' about that strike when
we was over to The Junction. Lorry and me been over that way on
business. I seen that that young fella, number thirty-eight, was one of
the men who went after that machine gun."
"How do you know that he was a young man?" queried Mrs. Adams.
"Why--er--only a young fella would act that foolish, I reckon. You say
Jim is feelin' spry ag'in?"
"Oh, much better! He's lame yet. But he can ride."
"That's good."
"And did you see that the paper says men are volunteering to go to
France? I wonder what will happen next?"
"I dunno," said Shoop gravely. "I been thinkin' about that."
"Well, I hope Lorry won't think that he has to go. Some of the boys in
town are talking about it."
"It's in the air," said Shoop.
"And his father will need him now. Could you spare him, if Jim finds he
can't get along alone?"
"I don't know," laughed Bud. "I reckon I need somebody to look after
them campers up to my old place."
"Oh, I forgot to tell you; the folks that were here last summer stopped
by on their way to Jason. Mrs. Weston and her girl. They said they were
going to visit Mr. Bronson."
"H'm! Then I reckon I got to keep Lorry. Don't know what three females
would do with just Bronson for comp'ny. He's a-tickin' at that writin'
machine of his most all day, and sometimes nights. It must be like
livin' in a cave."
"But Dorothy hasn't," said Lorry.
"That's right! My, but that little gal has built up wonderful since
she's been up there! Did you see my watch?"
"Why, no!"
"Some style to that!" And Shoop displayed the new watch with pride. "And
here's the name of the lady what give it to me."
Lorry's mother examined the watch, and handed it to Lorry, to whom the
news of the gift was a surprise.
"But she didn't give him a watch," said Shoop, chuckling.
* * * * *
Up in their room that night, Lorry helped Bud out of his coat. Shoop's
arm was stiff and sore.
"And your mother would think it was a mighty queer business, if she
knowed this," said Bud, "or who that number thirty-eight was down
there."
"You sure made a good bluff, Bud."
"Mebby. But I was scared to death. When I was talkin' about Sterling so
free and easy, and your maw mighty near ketched me that time, my arm was
itchin' like hell-fire, and I dassen scratch it. I never knowed a
fella's conscience could get to workin' around his system like that.
Now, if it was my laig, I could 'a' scratched it with my other foot
under the table. Say, but you sure showed red in your face when your maw
said them Weston folks was up to the camp."
"Oh, I don't know."
"Well, I do. Here, hook onto your Uncle Bud's boot. I'm set: go ahead
and pull. You can't do nothin' but shake the buildin'. Say, what does
Bronson call his gal 'Peter Pan' for?"
"Why, it's a kind of foreign name," flashed Lorry. "And it sounds all
right when you say it right. You said it like the 'pan' was settin' a
mile off."
"Well, you needn't to get mad."