MORONI
The Mormon settlement of Moroni proved to belong to that large class
of Western "cities" known as "string-towns"--a long line of stores on
either side of a main street, brick where fires have swept away the
shacks, and wood with false fronts where dynamite or a change of wind
has checked the conflagration; a miscellaneous conglomeration of
saloons, restaurants, general stores, and livery stables, all very
satisfying to the material wants of man, but in the ensemble not
over-pleasing to the eye.
At first glance, Moroni might have been Reno, Nevada; or Gilroy,
California; or Deming, New Mexico; or even Bender--except for the
railroad. A second glance, however, disclosed a smaller number of
disconsolate cow ponies standing in front of the saloons and a larger
number of family rigs tied to the horse rack in front of Swope's
Store; there was also a tithing house with many doors, a brick church,
and women and children galore. And for twenty miles around there was
nothing but flowing canals and irrigated fields waving with wheat and
alfalfa, all so green and prosperous that a stranger from the back
country was likely to develop a strong leaning toward the faith before
he reached town and noticed the tithing house.
As for Hardy, his eyes, so long accustomed to the green lawns and
trees of Berkeley, turned almost wistful as he gazed away across the
rich fields, dotted with cocks of hay or resounding to the whirr of
the mower; but for the sweating Latter Day Saints who labored in the
fields, he had nothing but the pitying contempt of the cowboy. It was
a fine large country, to be sure, and produced a lot of very necessary
horse feed, but Chapuli shied when his feet struck the freshly
sprinkled street, and somehow his master felt equally ill at ease.
Having purchased his stamp and eaten supper, he was wandering
aimlessly up and down the street--that being the only pleasure and
recourse of an Arizona town outside the doors of a saloon--when in the
medley of heterogeneous sounds he heard a familiar voice boom out and
as abruptly stop. It was evening and the stores were closed, but
various citizens still sat along the edge of the sidewalk, smoking and
talking in the semi-darkness. Hardy paused and listened a moment. The
voice which he had heard was that of no ordinary man; it was deep and
resonant, with a rough, overbearing note almost military in its
brusqueness; but it had ceased and another voice, low and protesting,
had taken its place. In the gloom he could just make out the forms of
the two men, sitting on their heels against the wall and engaged in a
one-sided argument. The man with the Southern drawl was doing all the
talking, but as Hardy passed by, the other cut in on him again.
"Well," he demanded in masterful tones, "what ye goin' to do about
it?" Then, without waiting for an answer, he exclaimed:
"Hello, there, Mr. Hardy!"
"Hello," responded Hardy. "Who is this, anyway?"
"Jim Swope," replied the voice, with dignified directness. "What're
you doing in these parts?"
"Came down to buy a postage stamp," replied Hardy, following a habit
he had of telling the truth in details.
"Huh!" grunted Swope. "It's a wonder you wouldn't go to Bender for
it--that Jew over there might make you a rate!"
"Nope," responded Hardy, ignoring the too-evident desire of the Moroni
storekeeper to draw him into an argument. "He couldn't do it--they say
the Government loses money every time it sells one. Nice town you've
got down here," he remarked, by way of a parting compliment; but
Swope was not satisfied to let him escape so easily.
"Hold on, there!" he exclaimed, rousing up from his place. "What's
your bloody hurry? Come on back here and shake hands with Mr.
Thomas--Mr. Thomas is my boss herder up in Apache County. Thinking of
bringing him down here next Fall," he added laconically, and by the
subtle change in his voice Hardy realized intuitively that that move
had been the subject of their interrupted argument. More than that, he
felt vaguely that he himself was somehow involved in the discussion,
the more so as Mr. Thomas balked absolutely at shaking hands with
him.
"I hope Mr. Thomas will find it convenient to stop at the ranch," he
murmured pleasantly, "but don't let me interfere with your business."
"Well, I guess that's all to-night, Shep," remarked Swope, taking
charge of the situation. "I jest wanted you to meet Hardy while you
was together. This is the Mr. Hardy, of the Dos S outfit, you
understand," he continued, "and a white cowman! If you have to go
across his range, go quick--and tell your men the same. I want them
dam' tail-twisters up in that Four Peaks country to know that it pays
to be decent to a sheepman, and I'm goin' to show some of 'em, too,
before I git through! But any time my sheep happen to git on your
range, Mr. Hardy," he added reassuringly, "you jest order 'em off, and
Mr. Thomas here will see to it that they go!"
He turned upon his boss herder with a menacing gesture, as if charging
him with silence, and Thomas, whose sole contribution to the
conversation had been a grunt at the end, swung about and ambled
sullenly off up the street.
"Feelin' kinder bad to-night," explained Swope, as his _mayordomo_
butted into the swinging doors of a saloon and disappeared, "but you
remember what I said about them sheep. How do things look up your
way?" he inquired. "Feed pretty good?"
"It's getting awfully dry," replied Hardy noncommittally. "I suppose
your sheep are up on the Black Mesa by this time."
"Ump!" responded the sheepman, and then there was a long pause. "Sit
down," he said at last, squatting upon the edge of the sidewalk, "I
want to talk business with you."
He lit a short black pipe and leaned back comfortably against a post.
"You seem to be a pretty smooth young feller," he remarked,
patronizingly. "How long have you been in these parts? Two months, eh?
How'd Judge Ware come to get a-hold of you?"
"Just picked me up down at Bender," replied Hardy.
"Oh, jest picked you up, hey? I thought mebby you was some kin to him.
Ain't interested in the cattle, are you? Well, I jest thought you
might be, being put in over Jeff that way, you know. Nice boy, that,
but hot-headed as a goat. He'll be making hair bridles down in Yuma
some day, I reckon. His old man was the same way. So you ain't no kin
to the judge and've got no int'rest in the cattle, either, eh? H'm,
how long do you figure on holding down that job?"
"Don't know," replied Hardy; "might quit to-day or get fired
to-morrow. It's a good place, though."
"Not the only one, though," suggested the sheepman shrewdly, "not by a
dam' sight! Ever investigate the sheep business? No? Then you've
overlooked something! I've lived in this country for nigh onto twenty
years, and followed most every line of business, but I didn't make my
pile punching cows, nor running a store, neither--I made it _raising
sheep_. Started in with nothing at the time of the big drought in '92,
herding on shares. Sheep did well in them good years that followed,
and first thing I knew I was a sheepman. Now I've got forty thousand
head, and I'm making a hundred per cent on my investment every year.
Of course, if there comes a drought I'll lose half of 'em, but did
you ever sit down and figure out a hundred per cent a year? Well, five
thousand this year is ten next year, and ten is twenty the next year,
and the twenty looks like forty thousand dollars at the end of three
years. That's quite a jag of money, eh? I won't say what it would be
in three years more, but here's the point. You're a young man and out
to make a stake, I suppose, like the rest of 'em. What's the use of
wasting your time and energy trying to hold that bunch of half-starved
cows together? What's the use of going into a _poor_ business, man,
when there's a _better_ business; and I'll tell you right now, the
sheep business is the coming industry of Arizona. The sheepmen are
going to own this country, from Flag to the Mexican line, and you
might as well git on the boat, boy, before it's too late."
He paused, as if waiting for his points to sink home; then he reached
out and tapped his listener confidentially on the knee.
"Hardy," he said, "I like your style. You've got a head, and you know
how to keep your mouth shut. More'n that, you don't drink. A man like
you could git to be a boss sheep-herder in six months; you could make
a small fortune in three years and never know you was workin'. You
don't need to work, boy; I kin git a hundred men to work--what I want
is a man that can _think_. Now, say, I'm goin' to need a man pretty
soon--come around and see me some time."
"All right," said Hardy, reluctantly, "but I might as well tell you
now that I'm satisfied where I am."
"Satisfied!" ripped out Swope, with an oath. "Satisfied! Why, man
alive, you're jest hanging on by your eyebrows up there at Hidden
Water! _You_ haven't got nothin'; you don't even own the house you
live in. I could go up there to-morrow and file on that land and you
couldn't do a dam' thing. Judge Ware thought he was pretty smooth when
he euchred me out of that place, but I want to tell you, boy--and you
can tell him, if you want to--that Old Man Winship never held no title
to that place, and it's public land to-day. That's all public land up
there; there ain't a foot of land in the Four Peaks country that I
can't run my sheep over if I want to, and keep within my legal rights.
So that's where you're at, Mr. Hardy, if you want to know!"
He stopped and rammed a cut of tobacco into his pipe, while Hardy
tapped his boot meditatively. "Well," he said at last, "if that's the
way things are, I'm much obliged to you for not sheeping us out this
Spring. Of course, I haven't been in the country long, and I don't
know much about these matters, but I tried to accommodate you all I
could, thinking--"
"That ain't the point," broke in Swope, smoking fiercely, "I ain't
threatening ye, and I appreciate your hospitality--but here's the
point. What's the use of your monkeying along up there on a job that
is sure to play out, when you can go into a better business? Answer me
that, now!"
But Hardy only meditated in silence. It was beyond contemplation that
he should hire himself out as a sheep-herder, but if he said so
frankly it might call down the wrath of Jim Swope upon both him and
the Dos S. So he stood pat and began to fish for information.
"Maybe you just think my job is going to play out," he suggested,
diplomatically. "If I'd go to a cowman, now, or ask Judge Ware, they
might tell me I had it cinched for life."
Swope puffed smoke for a minute in a fulminating, dangerous silence.
"Huh!" he said. "I can dead easy answer for that. Your job, Mr. Hardy,
lasts jest as long as I want it to--and no longer. Now, you can figure
that out for yourself. But I'd jest like to ask you a question, since
you're so smart; how come all us sheepmen kept off your upper range
this year?"
"Why," said Hardy innocently, "I tried to be friendly and treated you
as white as I could, and I suppose--"
"Yes, you suppose," sneered Swope grimly, "but I'll jest tell you; we
wanted you to hold your job."
"That's very kind of you, I'm sure," murmured Hardy.
"Yes," replied the sheepman sardonically, "it is--dam' kind of us. But
now the question is: What ye goin' to do about it?"
"Why, in what way?"
"Well, now," began Swope, patiently feeling his way, "suppose, jest
for instance, that some fool Mexican herder should accidentally get in
on your upper range--would you feel it your duty to put him off?"
"Well," said Hardy, hedging, "I really hadn't considered the matter
seriously. Of course, if Judge Ware--"
"The judge is in San Francisco," put in Swope curtly. "Now, suppose
that _all_ of us sheepmen should decide that we wanted some of that
good feed up on Bronco Mesa, and, suppose, furthermore, that we should
all go up there, as we have a perfect legal right to do, what would
you do?"
"I don't know," replied Hardy politely.
"Well, supposen I dropped a stick of dynamite under you," burst out
Swope hoarsely, "would you jump? Speak up, man, you know what I'm
talking about. You don't think you can stand off the whole Sheepmen's
Protective Association, do you? Well, then, will ye abide by the law
and give us our legal rights or will ye fight like a dam' fool and git
sent to Yuma for your pains? That's what I want to know, and when you
talk to me you talk to the whole Sheepmen's Association, with money
enough in its treasury to send up every cowman in the Four Peaks
country! What I want to know is this--will you fight?"
"I might," answered Hardy quietly.
"Oh, you might, hey?" jeered the sheepman, tapping his pipe ominously
on the sidewalk. "You might, he-ey? Well, look at Jeff Creede--_he_
fought--and what's he got to show for it? Look at his old man--_he_
fought--and where is he now? Tell me that!
"But, say, now," he exclaimed, changing his tone abruptly, "this ain't
what I started to talk about. I want to speak with you, Mr. Hardy, on
a matter of business. You jest think them things over until I see you
again--and, of course, all this is on the q. t. But now let's talk
business. When you want to buy a postage stamp you come down here to
Moroni, don't you? And why? Why, because it's near, sure! But when you
want a wagon-load of grub--and there ain't no one sells provisions
cheaper than I do, beans four-fifty, bacon sixteen cents, flour a
dollar-ninety, everything as reasonable--you haul it clean across the
desert from Bender. That easy adds a cent a pound on every ton you
pull, to say nothin' of the time. Well, what I want to know is this:
Does Einstein sell you grub that much cheaper? Take flour, for
instance--what does that cost you?"
"I don't know," answered Hardy, whose anger was rising under
this unwarranted commercial badgering. "Same as with you, I
suppose--dollar-ninety."
"Ah!" exclaimed Swope triumphantly, "and the extra freight on a sack
would be fifty cents, wouldn't it--a cent a pound, and a fifty-pound
sack! Well, now say, Hardy, we're good friends, you know, and all
that--and Jasp and me steered all them sheep around you, you
recollect--what's the matter with your buying your summer supplies off
of me? I'll guarantee to meet any price that Bender Sheeny can
make--and, of course, I'll do what's right by you--but, by Joe, I
think you owe it to me!"
He paused and waited impatiently for his answer, but once more Hardy
balked him.
"I don't doubt there's a good deal in what you say, Mr. Swope," he
said, not without a certain weariness, "but you'll have to take that
matter up with Judge Ware."
"Don't you have the ordering of the supplies?" demanded Swope
sharply.
"Yes, but he pays for them. All I do is to order what I want and O. K.
the bills. My credit is good with Einstein, and the rate lies between
him and Judge Ware."
"Well, your credit is good here, too," replied Swope acidly, "but I
see you'd rather trade with a Jew than stand in with your friends, any
day."
"I tell you I haven't got a thing to do with it," replied Hardy
warmly. "I take my orders from Judge Ware, and if he tells me to trade
here I'll be glad to do so--it'll save me two days' freighting--but
I'm not the boss by any means."
"No, nor you ain't much of a supe, neither," growled Swope morosely.
"In fact, I consider you a dam' bum supe. Some people, now, after they
had been accommodated, would take a little trouble, but I notice you
ain't breaking your back for me. Hell, no, you don't care if I _never_
make a deal. But that's all right, Mr. Hardy, I'll try and do as much
for you about that job of yourn."
"Well, you must think I'm stuck on that job," cried Hardy hotly, "the
way you talk about it! You seem to have an idea that if I get let out
it'll make some difference to me, but I might as well tell you right
now, Mr. Swope, that it won't. I've got a good horse and I've got
money to travel on, and I'm just holding this job to accommodate Judge
Ware. So if you have any idea of taking it out on him you can just say
the word and I'll quit!"
"Um-m!" muttered the sheepman, taken aback by this sudden burst of
temper, "you're a hot-headed boy, ain't you?" He surveyed him
critically in the half light, as if appraising his value as a fighter,
and then proceeded in a more conciliatory manner. "But you mustn't let
your temper git away with you like that," he said. "You're likely to
say something you'll be sorry for later."
"Oh, I don't know," retorted Hardy. "It might relieve my mind some.
I've only been in this country a few months, but if a sheepman is the
only man that has any legal or moral rights I'd like to know about it.
You talk about coming in on our upper range, having a right to the
whole country, and all that. Now I'd like to ask you whether in your
opinion a cowman has got a right to live?"
"Oh, tut, tut, now," protested Swope, "you're gettin' excited."
"Well, of course I'm getting excited," replied Hardy, with feeling.
"You start in by telling me the sheepmen are going to take the whole
country, from Flag to the line; then you ask me what I'd do if a
Mexican came in on us; then you say you can sheep us out any time you
want to, and what am I going to do about it! Is that the way you talk
to a man who has done his best to be your friend?"
"I never said we was going to sheep you out," retorted the sheepman
sullenly. "And if I'd 'a' thought for a minute you would take on like
this about it I'd've let you go bust for your postage stamps."
"I know you didn't _say_ it," said Hardy, "but you hinted it good and
strong, all right. And when a man comes as near to it as you have I
think I've got a right to ask him straight out what his intentions
are. Now how about it--are you going to sheep us out next Fall or are
you going to give us a chance?"
"Oh hell!" burst out Swope, in a mock fury, "I'm never going to talk
to _you_ any more! You're crazy, man! _I_ never said I was going to
sheep you out!"
"No," retorted Hardy dryly, "and you never said you wasn't, either."
"Yes, I did, too," spat back Swope, seizing at a straw. "Didn't I
introduce you to my boss herder and tell him to keep off your range?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Hardy coldly. "Did you?"
For a moment the sheepman sat rigid in the darkness. Then he rose to
his feet, cursing.
"Well, you can jest politely go to hell," he said, with venomous
deliberation, and racked off down the street.