THE STAKED PLAIN
Pecos Kane sat behind his old desk in the inner room and listened to
the reports of the night's activities, his anger steadily mounting
until ghostly flames seemed to be licking their thin tongues back
in his eyes. The jail guards had come and departed, speaking simply
and truthfully, suggesting various reasons to excuse the laxity of
their watch. The Mexican told with painful effort about the loss of
the horses, growing steadily more incoherent from the condition of
his jaw and from his own rising rage. Men came, and went out again on
various duties, one of them closely interrogating the owner of the
freight wagon, whose anger had died swiftly by the recovery of the
great tongue, which was none the worse for its usage except for certain
indentations of no moment. A friend of Quayle and hostile to Kane
and for what Kane stood for, the wagon owner allowed his replies to
be short, and yet express a proper indignation, which did not exist,
about the whole affair. When again alone in the sanctity of his home he
allowed himself the luxury of low-voiced laughter and determined to put
his crowbar where any needy individual of the future could readily find
it.
Bill Trask, because of his short-gun expertness temporarily relieved
of guarding the partition door, led three companions toward Quayle's
hotel, his face and the faces of the others tense and determined. Two
went around to the stable, via Red Frank's and the rear street and
one of them stopped near it while the other slipped along the kitchen
wall and crouched at the edge of the kitchen door. The third man went
silently into the hotel office as Trask sauntered carelessly into the
barroom and nodded at its inmates.
"Them fellers shore raised h--l," he announced to Ed Doane as he
motioned for a drink.
"They did," replied Doane, spinning a glass after the sliding bottle,
after which he flung the coin into the old cigar box and assiduously
polished the bar, wondering why Trask patronized him instead of Kane's.
"They shore had nerve," persisted the newcomer, looking at Johnny.
"They shore did," acquiesced the man at the table, who then returned to
his idle occupation of trying to decipher the pattern of the faded-out
wall paper. Wall paper was a rarity in the town and deserved some
attention.
"Them guards was plumb careless," said Kane's hired man. Not knowing to
whom he was speaking there was no reply, and he tried again, addressing
the bartender.
"They was careless," replied Doane, without interest.
Johnny was alert now, the persistent remarks awakening suspicion in his
mind, and a slight sound from the wall at his back caused him to push
his chair from the table and assume a more relaxed posture. His glance
at the lower and nearer corner of the window let him memorize its exact
position and he waited, expectant, for whatever might happen. The
surprise and capture of his two friends had worked, but that had been
the first time; there would be no second, he told himself, especially
as far as he was concerned.
"Is th' boss in?" asked the visitor.
"Th' boss ain't in," answered Ed Doane as Johnny glanced at the front
door, the front window and the door of the office, which the bartender
noticed. "Too dusty," said Doane, going around the bar to the front
wall and closing the window.
"When will he be in?"
"Dunno," grunted the bartender, once more in his accustomed place.
"I got to see him."
"I handle things when he ain't here," said Doane. "See me," he
suggested, looking through the door leading to the office, where he
fancied he had heard a creak.
"Got to see him, an' _pronto_," replied the visitor. "He made some
remarks this mornin' about gettin' them fellers out. We know it was
done by somebody on th' outside, an' we got a purty good idea of who
it was since Quayle shot off his mouth. He's been gettin' too swelled
up lately. If he don't come in purty quick I'm aimin' to dig him out,
myself."
Johnny was waiting for him to utter the cue word and knew that there
would be a slight change in facial expression, enunciation, or body
posture just before it came. He was not swallowing the suggestions that
it was Quayle who was wanted.
"You shore picked out a real job to handle all alone," said Doane, not
letting his attention wander from the hotel office. "Any dog can dig
out a badger, but that's only th' beginnin'," he said pleasantly, his
hand on the gun which always lay under the bar. He expected a retort
to his insult, and when none came it put a keener edge to his growing
suspicions.
"I'm diggin' him out, just th' same," said Trask. "There's law in this
town, an' everybody's on one side or th' other. Bein' a deputy it's my
job to see about them that's on th' other side. Gettin' arrested men
out of jail is serious an' I got to ask questions about it. Of course,
Quayle don't allus say what he means--we none of us do. We all like
to have our jokes; but I got to do my duty, even if it's only askin'
questions. Is he out, or layin' low?"
"He's out," grunted Doane, "but he'll be back any minute, I reckon."
"All right; I'll wait," said Trask, carelessly, but he tensed himself.
"How's business?" and at the words he flashed into action.
A chair crashed and a figure leaped back from it, two guns belching
at its hips. The face and hand which popped up into the rear window
disappeared again as the smoking Colt swung past the opening and across
Johnny's body to send its second through the office doorway, and curses
answered both shots. Trask, bent over, held his right arm with his left
hand, his gun against the wall near the front door. The first shot of
Johnny's right-hand Colt had torn it from Trask's hand as it left the
holster and the second had rendered the arm useless for the moment. A
shot from the corner of the stable sang through the window and barely
missed its mark as Johnny leaned forward, but his instant reply ended
all danger from that point.
"Trask," he said, "I'm leavin' town. I ain't got a chance among
buildin's again' pot-shooters. I'm leavin'--but th' Lord help Kane an'
his gang when I come back. You can tell him I'm comin' a-shootin'. An'
you can tell him this: I'm goin' to get him, Pecos Kane, if I has to
pull him out of his hell-hole like I pulled Thorpe. Go ahead of me to
th' stable--I'll blow you apart if any pot-shooter tries at me. G'wan!"
Trask obeyed, the gun against his spine too eloquent a persuader to
be ignored. He knew that there were no pot-shooters yet, and he was
glad of it, for if there had been one, and his captor was killed, the
relaxation of the tense thumb holding back the hammer of a gun whose
trigger was tied back would fire the weapon. The man who held it would
fire one shot after his own death, however instantaneous it might be.
Passing through the kitchen Johnny picked up his saddle and ordered
his captive to carry the rifle and slicker roll. They disappeared into
the stable and when they came out again Johnny ordered Trask into the
saddle, mounted behind him and rode for the arroyo which lay not far
from the hotel. At last away from the buildings he made Trask dismount,
climbed over the cantle and settled himself in the vacated saddle.
"I'm goin' down to offer myself to McCullough," he said. "You can tell
Kane that, too. They'll need men down there, an' I'll be th' maddest
man they got. An' th' next time me an' you have any gun talk, I'm
shootin' to kill. _Adios!_"
He left the cursing deputy and went straight for the trail, where the
rising wind played with the dust, and along it until stopped by a voice
in a barranca.
"I'm puttin' 'em up," he called. "My name's Nelson an' I'm mad clean
through. Get a rustle on; I want to see Mac."
"Go ahead, Bar-20," drawled the voice. "I wasn't dead shore. There's a
good friend of yourn down there."
"Quayle?" asked Johnny.
"There's another: Waffles, of th' O-Bar-O," came the reply, and a verse
of a nearly forgotten song arose on the breeze.
_I've swum th' Colorado where she runs down clost to hell,_
_I've braced th' faro layouts in Cheyenne;_
_I've fought for muddy water with a howlin' bunch of Sioux,_
_An' swallered hot tamales, an' cayenne._
"There's more, but I've done forgot most of it," apologized the singer.
Johnny laughed with delight. "Why, that's Lefty Allen's old song.
Here's th' second verse:"
_I've rid a pitchin' broncho till th' sky was underneath,_
_I've tackled every desert in th' land;_
_I've sampled Four-X whisky till I couldn't hardly see,_
_An' dallied with th' quicksands of th' Grande._
"That's shore O-Bar-O. Lefty made it up hisself, an' that boy could
sing it. It all comes back to me now--he called it 'Th' Insult.'
Why--here, _you_!" he chuckled. "I said I was mad an' in a hurry. I
ain't mad no more, but I _am_ in a hurry. See you tonight, mebby.
So-long."
Riding on again he soon reached the Question-Mark bunkhouse and
dismounted as a puncher turned the corner of the house. They grinned at
each other, these good, old-time friends.
"You son-of-a-gun!" chuckled Johnny, holding out his hand.
"You son-of-a-gun!" echoed Waffles, gripping it, and so they stood,
silent, exchanging grins. It had been a long time since they last had
seen each other.
McCullough loomed up in the doorway and grinned at them both.
"Hear yo're married," said Waffles.
"Shore!" bragged Johnny.
"It ain't spoiled you, _yet_. How's Hoppy an' Red?"
"Fine, now they're out of jail."
Waffles threw his head back and laughed heartily. "I near laughed till
I busted when Quayle told us who they was. Hoppy an' Red in _jail_! It
was _funny_!"
"Hello, Nelson," said McCullough. "What are you doin' down here?"
"Had to leave town; too many corners, an' too much cover. I'm lookin'
for a job, if it don't cut me out of th' rewards."
"She's yourn."
"Wait a minute," said Johnny. "I can't take it. I got to be free to do
what I want; but I'll hang out here for awhile."
"You've got th' job instanter," said the appreciative trail-boss
smiling broadly. "It's steady work of bossin' yoreself. I've heard of
yore work, up Gunsight way. Feed yet? Then come on."
"Shore will. Where's Quayle?"
"Rode back, roundabout; him not courtin' bein' seen; but I reckon
everybody in town knows he's been here. He swears by you."
* * * * *
Despite Idaho's boasts to the contrary his ranch again had nocturnal
visitors, and there was no lead-flying welcome accorded them. Having
spied out the distribution of Lukins' riders the visitors chose a
locality free from guards and with the coming of night drifted a
sizable herd of Diamond L cattle across an outlying section of the
range and with practiced art and uncanny instinct drove the compacted
herd onto and over the rocky plateau, where the chief of the raiders
obtained a speed with the cattle which always bordered upon a panicky
flight, but never quite reached it. All that night they rumbled over
the rocky stretch and as dawn brightened the eastern sky the running
herd passed down a gentle slope, picked up the waiting caviya and not
long thereafter moved over the hard bottom of a steep-walled ravine
which could have been called a canyon without unduly stretching the
meaning of the word.
The chief of the raiding party cared nothing for the fatness of
the animals, or other conditions which might operate against the
possibilities of a lucrative sale. There later would be time for
improving their condition, plenty of time in a valley rich with grass.
All he cared for now was to put miles speedily behind him, and this
he was accomplishing like the master cattleman he was. After a mid-day
breathing space they went on again, alternately walking and running,
and well into the second night, stopping at a water-hole known only to
a few men other than these. Some miles north of this water-hole was
another, and very much smaller one, being only a few feet across, and
there also was a difference between the waters of the two. The larger
was of a nature to be expected in such a locality, but much better
than most such holes, for the water was only slightly alkaline and the
cattle drank it eagerly. The other was sweet and pure and cold, but
rather than to cover the distance to it and back again, it was ignored
by all but one man, for the other stayed with the herd. There was grass
around both; not enough to feed a herd thoroughly, but enough to keep
it busy hunting over the scanty growth. With more than characteristic
thought these holes had been named in a manner to couple and yet to
keep them separate, and to Kane's drive crew they were known as "Sweet"
and "Bitter."
Again on the trail before the sun had risen above the horizon, the herd
was sent forth on another day's hard drive, which carried it, with the
constantly growing tail herd of stragglers, far into the following
night, despite all dumb remonstrances. No mercy was shown to it, but
only a canny urging, and if no mercy was shown the cattle none was
accepted by the drivers, who rode and worked, swore and panted on wiry
ponies which, despite frequent changing, began to show the marks of
their efforts under the pitiless sun and through the yielding sands.
Both cattle and horses had about reached their limits when the late
afternoon of the next day brought them to a rocky ledge sticking up out
of the desert's floor, which now was hard and stony; and upon turning
the south end of the ridge an emerald valley suddenly lay before their
eyes, from whence the scent of water had put a new spirit into cattle
and horses for the last few miles; and now it nearly caused a fatal
stampede at the entrance to the narrow ledge which slanted down the
steep, rock walls.
To a stranger such a sight would have awakened amazed incredulity,
and strong suspicion that his sanity had been undermined by the
heat-cursed, horror-laden desert miles; or he might have sneered wisely
at so palpable a mirage, scorned to be tricked by it in any attempt
to prove it otherwise and staggered on with contemptuous curses. But
Miguel and the men he so autocratically bossed knew it to be no vision,
no trick of air or mind, and sighed with relief when it finally lay
before them. While they all knew it was there and had visited it
before, none of them, except Miguel, had ever learned the way, try
as they might, for until the high ledge of rock, hidden on the west
by a great, upslanting billow of sand, came into sight there were no
landmarks to show them the way. Each new journey across the simmering,
shimmering plateau found fears in every heart but the guide's that he
would lose his way. That their fears may be justified and to show them
blameless in everything but their lack of confidence in him, it may be
well to have a better understanding of this desert and what it meant;
and to show why men should hold as preposterous any claim that a cattle
herd could safely cross it. Some went even further and said no man,
mounted or not, could make that journey, and confessed to themselves a
superstitious fear and horror for it and everything pertaining to it.
Before the deep ruts had been cut in the old Santa Fe Trail in that
year of excessive rains; before the first wheel had rolled over the
prairie soil to prove that wagons could safely make the long and
tiresome trip; before even the first pack trains of heavily laden
mules plodded to or from the Missouri frontier, and even before the
pelt-loaded mules of the great fur companies crossed Kansas soil to the
trading posts of the East, Mexican hunters rode from the valley of Taos
and Santa Fe to procure their winter meat from the vast brown herds of
buffalo migrating over their curious, crescent-shaped course to and
from the regions of the Arkansas, Canadian, and Cimarron. They dried
the strips of succulent meat in the sun or over fires, the fuel for
the latter having been supplied by the buffalo themselves on previous
migrations; they stripped the hides from the prostrate bodies and cured
them, and trafficked with the bands of Indians which followed the herds
as persistently as did the great, gray wolves. Of these _ciboleros_,
swarthy-skinned hunters of Mexico, some more hardy and courageous than
their fellows, or by avarice turned trader, ventured further afield and
were not balked by the high, beetling cliffs which bordered a great,
forbidding plateau lying along and below the capricious Cimarron, in
places a river of hide-and-seek in the sands, wet one day and dry the
next.
From the mesa-like northern edge, along the warning arroyos of the
Cimarron, where erosion, Nature's patient sculptor, carved miracles of
artistry in the towering clays, shales, and sandstones, to the great
sand hills billowing along its far-flung other edges, this barren
waste of dreary sand and grisly alkali was a vast, simmering playground
for dancing heat waves and fantastic mirage, and its treacherous pools
of nauseous, alkaline waters shrunk daily from their encrusted edges
and gleamed malignantly under a glowering, molten sun. Arroyos, level
plain, shifting sand, and imponderable dust, with a scrawny, scanty,
hopeless vegetation which the whimsical winds buried and then dug up
again, this high desert plateau lay like a thing of death, cursing and
accursed. It sloped imperceptibly southward, its dusty soil gradually
breaking into billowy ridges constantly more marked and with deeper
troughs, by insensible gradations becoming low sand hills, ever growing
more separate and higher until at last they were beaten down and
strewn broadcast by more persistent winds, and limited by the firmer
soils which were blessed with more frequent rains to coax forth a thin
cover of protecting, anchoring vegetation. To the west they intruded
nearly to the Rio Pecos, a stream which in almost any other part of the
country would have been regarded as insignificant, but here was given
greatness because its liquid treasure was beyond price and because it
was permanent, though timid.
Of the first of the Mexicans to push out over this great desolation
perhaps none returned, except by happy chance, to tell of its tortures
and of the few serviceable water-holes leagues apart, the permanency
of which none could foretell. But return some eventually did, and
perhaps deprecated the miseries suffered, in view of the saving in
miles; but their experience had been such as to impel them to drive a
line of stakes along the happily chosen course to mark in this manner
the way from each more trustworthy water-hole to the next, be they
reservoirs or furtive streams which bubbled up and crept along to die
not far from their hopeful springs, sucked up by palpitant air and
swallowed by greedy sands, their burial places marked by a shroud of
encrusted salts. In the winter and spring an occasional rain filled
hollows, ofttimes coming as a cloudburst and making a brave showing
as it tumultuously deepened some arroyo and roared valiantly down it
toward swift effacement. The trail was staked, if not by the swarthy
traders, then by their red-skinned brothers, and from this line of
stakes the tableland derived its name, and became known to men as the
Lano Estacada, or Staked Plain.
Of this accursed desert no one man had full knowledge, nor thirsted for
it if it were to be had only through his own efforts. There were great
stretches unknown to any man, and there were other regions known to
men who had not brought their knowledge out again; and what knowledge
there was of its south-central portions was not to be found in men with
white skins, but in certain marauding redmen fitted by survival to cope
with problems such as it presented, and to live despite them. One other
class knew something of its mysteries, for among the Mexicans there
were some who had learned by bitter pilgrimages, but mostly from the
mouths of men long dead who had passed the knowledge down successive
generations, each increment a little larger when it left than when it
came, who had a more comprehensive, embracing knowledge of the baking
tableland; and these few, because what they knew could best be used in
furtive, secretive pursuits bearing a swift penalty for those caught
in them, hugged that knowledge closely and kept it to themselves. A
man who has that which another badly needs can drive shrewd bargains.
And of the few Mexicans who were enriched by the possession of this
knowledge, those who knew most about it had mixed blood flowing through
their veins, for the vast grisly plateau had been a short cut and place
of refuge for marauding bands of Apaches, Utes, and Comanches while
civilization crawled wonderingly in swaddling clothes.
Of the knowing few Pecos Kane owned two, owned them body and soul, and
to make his title firmer than even proof of murder could assure, he
threw golden sops to the wise ones' avarice and allowed them seats in
the sun and privileges denied to their fellows. One of them, by name
Miguel, a small part Spaniard and the rest Mescalero Apache, was a
privileged man, for he knew not only the main trails across the plain
but certain devious ways twisting in from the edges, one of which
wandered for accursed miles, first across rock, then over sand and
again over rock and unexpectedly turned a high, sharp ridge to look
upon his Valle de Sorprendido, deep and green, whose crystal spring
wandered musically along its gravelly bed from the graying western end
of the canyon-like ravine to sink silently into the thirsty sands to
the east and be seen no more. Manuel, also, knew this way.
Surprise Valley was no terminal, but a place for tongue-lolling,
wild-eyed cattle to pause and rest, drink and eat before the fearful
journey called anew. No need for corral, fence, or herders here to keep
them from straying, but an urgent need for pressing riders to throw the
herd back on the trail again, to start the dumbly protesting animals
on the thirty-six-hour drive to the next unfailing water, against the
instinct which bade them stay. A valley of delight it was, a jewel,
verdant and peaceful, forced by man to serve a vicious purpose; but as
if in punishment for its perversion the glistening sand hills crept
slowly nearer, each receding tide of their slow advance encroaching
more and more each year until now the valley had shrunk by half and a
stealthy grayness crept insidiously into its velvety freshness like the
mark of sin across a harlot's cheek.
Near the fenced-in spring was an adobe building, deserted except
when a drive crew sought its shelter, and it served principally as a
storehouse should a place of refuge suddenly be needed. It lay not far
from the sloping banks of detritus which now ran halfway up the sheer,
smooth stone walls enclosing the valley. Across from it on the southern
side of the depressed pasture a broad trail slanted up the rock cliffs
to the desert above. The cabin, the trail, and the valley itself long
ago would have been obliterated by sand but for the miles of rocks,
large and small, which lay around it like a great, flat collar. Should
some terrific sand storm sweep over it with a momentum great enough to
bridge the rocky floor the valley would cease to be; and smaller storms
raging far out on the encircling desert carried their sands farther and
farther across the stubborn rock, until now its outer edge was closer
by miles. Already each rushing wind retained sand enough to drop it
into the valley and powder everything.
The pock-marked guide, disdaining the precarious labors of getting the
herd down the ledge with no fatalities among the maddened beasts,
lolled in his saddle on the brink of the precipice and watched the
struggle on the plain behind him, where hard-riding, loudly yelling
herders were dashing across the front of the weaving, shifting,
stubborn mass of tortured animals, letting them through the frantic
restraining barrier in small groups, which constantly grew larger. Here
and there a more determined animal slipped through and galloped to the
descending ledge, head down and tail up. The cracking of revolvers
fired across the noses of the front rank grew steadily and Miguel
deemed it safer to leave the brim of the cliff. It was possible that
the maddened herd might break through the desperate riders and plunge
to its destruction. Had the trail been a few hours longer nothing could
have held them.
"Give a hand here!" shouted the trail-boss as the guide rode
complacently out of danger. "Ride in there an' help split 'em!"
"I weel be needed w'en we leeve again," replied Miguel. "To run a reesk
eet ees foolish. I tol' you to stop 'em a mile away an' spleet 'em
there. Eet ees no beesness of Miguel's, theese. You deed not wan' to
tak' the time? Then tak' w'at you call the consequence."
Eventually the last of the herd which mercifully was composed of
stragglers whose lack of strength made them more tractable, were
successfully led to the ledge and stumbled down it to join their
brothers standing or lying in the little brook as if to appease their
thirst by absorption before drinking deeply. The frantic, angry bawling
of an hour ago was heard no more, for now a contented lowing sounded
along the stream, where the quiet animals often waited half an hour
before attempting to drink. They stood thus for hours, reluctant to
leave even to graze and after leaving, left the grass and returned time
after time to drink. There were a few half-blinded animals among the
weaklings, but water, grass, and rest would restore their sight. Here
they would stay until fit for the second and lesser ordeal, and the
others in turn.
The weary riders, turning their mounts loose to join the rest of the
horse herd, piled their saddles against the wall of the hut and waited
for the cook to call them to fill their tin plates and cups. One of
them, more energetic and perhaps hungrier than the rest, unpacked the
load of firewood from a spiritless horse and carried it to the hut.
The perspiring Thorpe looked his thanks and went on with his labors
and in due time a well-fed, lazy group sprawled near the hut, swapping
tales or smoking in satisfied silence. At the other side of the
building Miguel sat with those of his own kind, boasting of his desert
achievements and in reply to a sneering remark from the other group
he showed his teeth in a mocking smile, raised his eyebrows until the
crescent scar reached his sombrero and shrugged his shoulders.
"Eet ees not good to say sooch theengs to Miguel," he complacently
observed. "Eef he should get ver' angree an' leeve een the night eet
would be ver' onluckie for Greengos. _Quien sabe?_"
"He got you there, Jud," growled a low voice. "He shore hurts me
worse'n a blister, but I'm totin' my grudge silent."
"Huh," muttered another thoughtfully. "A man can travel fast without no
cattle to set th' pace. He shore can 'leeve' an' be d--d, for all _I_
care. An' I'm sayin' that if he does there'll be a d--d dead Greaser in
Mesquite right soon after I get back. Th' place for him to 'leeve' us
is at Three Ponds--for then we shore would be in one bad fix."
"I ain't shore I'd try to get away," said Sandy Woods slowly. "There's
good grass an' water here, no herdin', no strayin', nobody to bother a
feller. A man can live a long time on one steer out here, jerkin' th'
meat. Th' herd would grow, an' when it came time to turn 'em into money
he'd only have to drive plumb west. It wouldn't be like tryin' to find
a little place like this. Just aim at th' sunset an' keep goin'."
"How long would this valley feed a herd like th' one here now?"
ironically demanded the trail-boss. "You can tell th' difference in th'
grass plain at th' end of a week. Yo're full of loco weed."
"Eef you say sooch things to me I may leeve in the night," chuckled the
other. "Wish they'd stampeded an' knocked him over th' eege! One of
these days some of us may be quittin' Kane, an' then there'll be one
struttin' half-breed less in Mesquite. Tell you one thing: I won't make
this drive many more times before I know th' way as well as he does;
an' from here on we could stake it out."
Soft, derisive laughter replied to him and the trail-boss thoughtfully
repacked his pipe. "It ain't in you," he said. "You got to be born with
it."
"You holdin' that a white man ain't got as much brains as a mongrel
with nobody knows how many different kinds of blood in him?"
indignantly demanded Sandy.
"He's got generations behind him, like a setter or a pointer, an' it
ain't a question of brains. It's instinct, an' th' lower down yore
stock runs th' better it'll be. There ain't no human brains can equal
an animal's in things like that. I doubt if you could leave here an'
get off this desert, plumb west or not. You got a big target, for it's
all around you behind th' horizon; but I don't think you'd live till
you hit it at th' right place. Don't forget that th' horizon moves with
you. If there wasn't no tracks showin' you th' way you'd die out on
this fryin' pan."
"An' th' wind'll wipe them out before mornin'," said one of the others.
The doubter laughed outright. "Wait till we come back. I'll give you a
chance to back up yore convictions. Don't forget that I ain't sayin'
that I'd try it afoot. I'd ride an' give th' horse it's head. There
ain't nothin' to be gained arguin' about it now. An' I'm free to admit
that I'm cussed glad to be settin' here lookin' out instead of out
there some'ers tryin' to get here to look in. Gimme a match, Jud."
The trail-boss snorted. "Now yo're takin' _my_ end," he asserted. "If
you ride a cayuse an' give it its head it ain't a white man's brains
that yo're dependin' on. That ain't yore argument, a-tall. I'll bet
you, cayuse or no cayuse, you can't leave Three Ponds an' make it. A
cayuse has to drink once in awhile or he'll drop under you an' you'll
lose yore instinct-compass."
"I'll take that when we start back," retorted Sandy, "if you'll give me
a fair number of canteens. I'm figgerin' on outfittin' right."
"Take all you want at Cimarron corrals," rejoined the trail-boss.
"After we leave there I'm bettin' nobody will part with any of theirs."
He looked keenly at the boaster and took no further part in the
conversation, his mind busy with a new problem; the grudge he already
had.