"FEED MY SHEEP"
The slow, monotonous days of Summer crept listlessly by like dreams
which, having neither beginning nor end, pass away into nothingness,
leaving only a dim memory of restlessness and mystery.
In the relentless heat of noon-day the earth seemed to shimmer and
swim in a radiance of its own; at evening the sun set in a glory
incomparable; and at dawn it returned to its own. Then in the long
breathless hours the cows sought out the scanty shadow of the canyon
wall, sprawling uneasily in the sand; the lizards crept far back into
the crevices of the rocks; the birds lingered about the water holes,
throttling their tongues, and all the world took on a silence that was
almost akin to death. As the Summer rose to its climax a hot wind
breathed in from the desert, clean and pure, but withering in its
intensity; the great bowlders, superheated in the glare of day,
irradiated the stored-up energy of the sun by night until even the
rattlesnakes, their tough hides scorched through by the burning sands,
sought out their winter dens to wait for a touch of frost. There was
only one creature in all that heat-smitten land that defied the sway
of the Sun-God and went his way unheeding--man, the indomitable, the
conqueror of mountains and desert and sea.
When the sun was hottest, then was the best time to pursue the black
stallion of Bronco Mesa, chasing him by circuitous ways to the river
where he and his band could drink. But though more than one fine mare
and suckling, heavy with water, fell victim, the black stallion,
having thought and intelligence like a man, plunged through the water,
leaving his thirst unquenched, refusing with a continency and
steadfastness rare even among men to sell his liberty at any price. In
the round corral at Hidden Water there was roping and riding as Creede
and Hardy gentled their prizes; in the cool evenings they rode forth
along the Alamo, counting the cows as they came down to water or
doctoring any that were sick; and at night they lay on their cots
beneath the _ramada_ telling long stories till they fell asleep.
At intervals of a month or more Hardy rode down to Moroni and
each time he brought back some book of poems, or a novel, or a
bundle of magazines; but if he received any letters he never
mentioned it. Sometimes he read in the shade, his face sobered to a
scholarly repose, and when the mood came and he was alone he
wrote verses--crude, feverish, unfinished--and destroyed them,
furtively.
He bore his full share of the rough work, whether riding or
horse-breaking or building brush corrals, but while he responded to
every mood of his changeable companion he hid the whirl of emotion
which possessed him, guarding the secret of his heart even when
writing to Lucy Ware; and slowly, as the months crept by, the wound
healed over and left him whole.
At last the days grew shorter, the chill came back into the morning
air, and the great thunder-caps which all Summer had mantled the
Peaks, scattering precarious and insufficient showers across the
parching lowlands, faded away before the fresh breeze from the coast.
Autumn had come, and, though the feed was scant, Creede started his
round-up early, to finish ahead of the sheep. Out on The Rolls the
wild and runty cows were hiding their newborn calves; the spring twos
were grown to the raw-boned dignity of steers; and all must be
gathered quickly, before the dust arose in the north and the sheep
mowed down the summer grass. Once more from their distant ranches the
mountain men trailed in behind their horses; the _rodeo_ hands dropped
in from nowhere, mysteriously, talking loudly of high adventures but
with the indisputable marks of Mormon hay-forks on their thumbs.
Before their restless energy The Rolls were swept bare of market
stock, and the upper end of the mesa as well, before the first sheep
dust showed against the hills. The _rodeo_ outfit left Carrizo and
came down to Hidden Water, driving their herd before them, and still
no sheep appeared. So long had they strained their eyes for nothing
that the cowmen from the north became uneasy, dropping out one by one
to return to their ranches for fear that the sheep had crept in and
laid waste their pastures and corrals. Yet the round-up ended without
a band in sight, where before The Rolls had been ploughed into
channels by their multitude of feet.
In a slow fever of apprehension Hardy rode ceaselessly along the rim
of Bronco Mesa, without finding so much as a track. Throughout that
long month of watching and waiting the memory of his conversation with
Jim Swope had haunted him, and with a sinister boding of impending
evil he had ridden far afield, even to the lower crossing at Pablo
Moreno's, where a few Mexicans and Basques were fording the shallow
river. Not one of those veiled threats and intimations had he confided
to Creede, for the orders from Judge Ware had been for peace and Jeff
was hot-headed and hasty; but in his own mind Hardy pictured a solid
phalanx of sheep, led by Jasp Swope and his gun-fighting Chihuahuanos,
drifting relentlessly in over the unravaged mesa. Even that he could
endure, trusting to some appeal or protest to save him from the
ultimate disaster, but the strain of this ominous waiting was more
than Hardy's nerves could stand.
As the town herd was put on the long trail for Bender and the round-up
hands began to spit dry for their first drink, the premonition of evil
conquered him and he beckoned Creede back out of the rout.
"I've got a hunch," he said, "that these sheepmen are hanging back
until you boys are gone, in order to raid the upper range. I don't
_know_ anything, you understand, but I'm looking for trouble. How does
it look to you?"
"Well," answered Creede sombrely, "I don't mind tellin' you that this
is a new one on me. It's the first fall gather that I can remember
when I didn't have a round-up with a sheepman or two. They're willin'
enough to give us the go-by in the Spring, when there's grass
everywhere, but when they come back over The Rolls in the Fall and see
what they've done to the feed--well, it's like fightin' crows out of a
watermelon patch to protect that upper range.
"The only thing I can think of is they may be held back by this dry
weather. But, I tell you, Rufe," he added, "it's jest as well I'm
goin'--one man can tell 'em to he'p themselves as good as two, and I
might get excited. You know your orders--and I reckon the sheepmen do,
too, 's fer 's that goes. They're not so slow, if they do git lousy.
But my God, boy, it hurts my feelin's to think of you all alone up
here, tryin' to appeal to Jasp Swope's better nature." He twisted his
lips, and shrugged his huge shoulders contemptuously. Then without
enthusiasm he said: "Well, good luck," and rode away after his
cattle.
Creede's scorn for this new policy of peace had never been hidden,
although even in his worst cursing spells he had never quite named the
boss. But those same orders, if they ever became known, would call in
the rapacious sheepmen like vultures to a feast, and the bones of his
cattle--that last sorry remnant of his father's herds--would bleach on
Bronco Mesa with the rest, a mute tribute to the triumph of sheep.
All that day Hardy rode up the Alamo until he stood upon the summit of
the Juate and looked over the divide to the north, and still there
were no sheep. Not a smoke, not a dust streak, although the chill of
Autumn was in the air. In the distant Sierra Blancas the snow was
already on the peaks and the frosts lay heavy upon the black mesa of
the Mogollons. Where then could the sheep be, the tender, gently
nurtured sheep, which could stand neither heat in Summer nor cold in
Winter, but must always travel, travel, feeding upon the freshest of
green grass and leaving a desert in their wake? The slow-witted
Mexicans and Basques, who did not follow the lead of the Swopes, had
returned on their fall migration with the regularity of animals, but
all those cheery herders for whom he had cooked and slaved--Bazan,
McDonald, the Swopes and their kin, who used the upper ford--were lost
as if the earth had swallowed them up.
The stars were shining when Hardy came in sight of the ranch at the
end of that unprofitable day, and he was tired. The low roof of the
house rose up gloomily before him, but while he was riding in a hound
suddenly raised his challenge in the darkness. Instantly his yell was
answered by a chorus, and as Chapuli swerved from the rush of the pack
the door was thrown open and the tall, gaunt form of Bill Johnson
stood outlined against the light.
"Yea, Ribs; hey, Rock; down, Ring!" he hollered. "Hey, boys; hey,
Suke!" And in a mighty chorus of bayings the long-eared hounds circled
about and returned to the feet of their master, wagging their tails
but not abating their barking one whit. Standing bareheaded in the
doorway with his hair and beard bushed out like a lion's mane Johnson
strove by kicks and curses to quiet their uproar, shouting again and
again some words which Hardy could not catch.
At last, grabbing old Suke, the leader of the pack, by an ear, he
slapped her until her yelpings silenced the rest; then, stepping out
into the opening, he exclaimed:
"My God, Hardy, is that you?"
"Sure," replied Hardy impatiently. "Why, what's the matter?"
"Sheep!" shouted Johnson, throwing out his hands wildly, "thousands of
'em, millions of 'em!"
"Sheep--where?" demanded Hardy. "Where are they?"
"They're on your upper range, boy, and more comin'!"
"What?" cried Hardy incredulously. "Why, how did they get up there? I
just rode the whole rim to-day!"
"They come over the top of the Four Peaks," shouted the old man,
shaking with excitement. "Yes, sir, over the top of the Four Peaks! My
hounds took after a lion last night, and this mornin' I trailed 'em
clean over into the middle fork where they had 'im treed. He jumped
down and run when I come up and jist as we was hotfoot after him we
run spang into three thousand head of sheep, drifting down from the
pass, and six greasers and a white man in the rear with carbeens. The
whole dam' outfit is comin' in on us. But we can turn 'em yet! Whar's
Jeff and the boys?"
"They've gone to town with the cattle."
"Well, you're dished then," said the old man grimly. "Might as well
put up your horse and eat--I'm goin' home and see that they don't none
of 'em git in on me!"
"Whose sheep were they?" inquired Hardy, as he sat down to a hasty
meal.
"Don't ask me, boy," replied Johnson. "I never had time to find out.
One of them Mexicans took a shot at Rye and I pulled my gun on him,
and then the boss herder he jumped in, and there we had it, back and
forth. He claimed I was tryin' to stompede his sheep, but I _knowed_
his greaser had tried to shoot my dog, and I told him so! And I told
him furthermore that the first sheep or sheepman that p'inted his head
down the Pocket trail would stop lead; and every one tharafter, as
long as I could draw a bead. And by Gawd, I mean it!" He struck his
gnarled fist upon the table till every tin plate jumped, and his fiery
eyes burned savagely as he paced about the room.
At first peep of dawn Bill Johnson was in the saddle, his long-barrelled
revolver thrust pugnaciously into his boot, his 30-30 carbine across his
arm, and his hounds slouching dutifully along in the rear. Close
behind followed Hardy, bound for the Peaks, but though the morning was
cold he had stripped off his coat and shaps, and everything which
might conceal a weapon, leaving even his polished Colt's in his
blankets. If the sheep were to be turned now it could never be by
arms. The sheepmen had stolen a march, Creede and his cowboys were far
away, and his only hope was the olive branch of peace. Yet as he
spurred up the Carrizo trail he felt helpless and abused, like a
tried soldier who is sent out unarmed by a humanitarian commander. Only
one weapon was left to him--the one which even Jim Swope had
noticed--his head; and as he worked along up the hogback which led down
from the shoulder of the Four Peaks he schooled himself to a Spartan
patience and fortitude.
At last from a high cliff which overshadowed the broad canyon of the
middle fork, he looked down and saw the sheep, like a huge,
dirty-brown blot, pouring in a hundred diverging lines down the valley
and feeding as they came. Higher and higher up the sides the old ewes
fought their way, plucking at the long spears of grass which grew
among the rocks; and the advance guard, hurrying forward, nipped
eagerly at the browse and foliage as they passed, until, at last, some
tempting bush detained them too long and they were swallowed up in
the ruck. Little paths appeared in the leaders' wake, winding in and
out among the bowlders; and like soldiers the sheep fell into line,
moving forward with the orderly precision of an army. A herder with
his dogs trailed nonchalantly along the flank, the sun glinting from
his carbine as he clambered over rocks, and in the rear another silent
shepherd followed up the drag. So far it was a peaceful pastoral
scene, but behind the herd where the camp rustler and his burros
should have been there was a posse of men, and each man carried a
gun.
Hardly had Chapuli mounted the ridge before every head was raised; the
swarthy Mexicans unslung their guns with a flourish, and held them at
a ready. Yet for half an hour the lone horseman sat there like a
statue, and if he resented their coming or saw the dust of other bands
behind, he made no sign. Even when the guard of men passed beneath
him, craning their necks uneasily, he still remained silent and
immobile, like a man who has councils of his own or leads a force
behind.
The leader of the vanguard of the sheep was a white man, and not
unversed in the principles of war, for after trailing safely through
the box of the canyon--where a single rock displaced would kill a score
of sheep, and where the lone horseman had he so willed could have
potted half of the invaders from the heights--he turned his herd up a
side canyon to the west and hastily pitched his camp on a ridge. As the
heat of the day came on, the other bands up the canyon stopped also,
and when the faint smoke showed Hardy that the camp rustlers were
cooking dinner, he turned and rode for the leader's camp.
Dinner was already served--beans, fried mutton, and bread, spread upon
a greasy canvas--and the hungry herders were shovelling it down with
knives in their own primitive way when Hardy rode up the slope. As he
came into camp the Chihuahuanos dropped their plates, reached for
their guns, and stood in awkward postures of defence, some wagging
their big heads in a braggartly defiance, others, their courage
waning, grinning in the natural shame of the peasant. In Hardy they
recognized a gentleman of _categoria_--and he never so much as glanced
at them as he reined in his spirited horse. His eyes were fixed upon
the lone white man, their commander, who stood by the fire regarding
him with cold suspicion, and to whom he bowed distantly.
"Good-morning," he said, by way of introduction, and the sheepman
blinked his eyes in reply.
"Whose sheep are those?" continued Hardy, coming to the point with
masterful directness, and once more the boss sheepman surveyed him
with suspicion.
[Illustration: "Put up them guns, you gawky fools! This man ain't going
to eat ye!"]
"Mine," he said, and Hardy returned his stare with a glance which,
while decorously veiled, indicated that he knew he lied. The man was a
stranger to him, rather tall and slender, with drawn lips and an eye
that never wavered. His voice was tense with excitement and he kept
his right thumb hooked carelessly into the corner of his pocket, not
far from the grip of a revolver. As soon as he spoke Hardy knew him.
"You are Mr. Thomas, aren't you?" he inquired, as if he had no thought
of trouble. "I believe I met you once, down in Moroni."
"Ump!" grunted Mr. Thomas unsociably, and at that moment one of the
Mexicans, out of awkwardness, dropped his gun. As he stooped to pick
it up a slow smile crept over the cowman's lips, a smile which
expressed polite amusement along with a measured contempt--and the
boss herder was stung with a nameless shame at the false play.
"Put up them guns, you dam' gawky fools!" he yelled in a frenzy of
rage. "Put 'em up, I say. This man ain't goin' to eat ye!" And though
the poor browbeaten Chihuahuanos understood not a word of English they
felt somehow that they had been overzealous and shuffled back to their
blankets, like watchdogs that had been rebuked.
"Now," said the sheepman, taking his hand from his gun, "what can I do
for you, Mr. Hardy?"
"Well," responded Hardy, "of course there are several things you
_might_ do to accommodate me, but maybe you wouldn't mind telling me
how you got in here, just for instance?"
"Always glad to 'commodate--where I can, of course," returned the
sheepman grimly. "I came in over the top of them Four Peaks yonder."
"Um," said Hardy, glancing up at the rocky walls. "Then you must've
had hooks on your eyebrows, for sure. I suppose the rest of the family
is coming, too! And, by the way, how is my friend, Mr. Swope?"
He appended this last with an artless smile, quite lacking in
bitterness, but somehow the boss herder felt himself discredited by
the inquiry, as if he were consorting with thieves. It was the old
shame of the sheepman, the shame which comes to the social outcast,
and burns upon the cheek of the dishonored bastard, but which is
seared deepest into the heart of the friendless herder, the
Ishmaelite of the cow-country, whose hand is against every man and
every man's against him. Hunger and thirst he can endure, and the
weariness of life, but to have all men turn away from him, to
answer him grudgingly, to feed him at their table, but refuse
themselves to eat, this it is which turns his heart to bitterness
and makes him a man to be feared. As Thomas had looked at this trim
young cowboy, smooth-shaven and erect, sitting astride a blooded
horse which snorted and pawed the ground delicately, and then had
glanced at the low and brutal Mexicans with whom his lot was cast, a
blind fury had swept over him, wreaking its force upon his own
retainers; and now, when by implication he was classed with Jim Swope,
he resented it still more bitterly.
"Dam'fino," he answered sullenly. "Haven't seen 'im for a month."
"Oh, isn't he with you this trip?" asked Hardy, in surprise. "I had
hoped that I might find him up here." There was a suggestion of irony
in his words which was not lost upon the _mayordomo_, but Thomas let
the remark pass in silence.
"Perhaps his brother Jasper is along," ventured Hardy. "No? Well,
that's Jim's earmark on those sheep, and I know it. What's the
matter?"
"Matter with what?" growled Thomas morosely.
"Why, with Jim, of course. I thought after the pleasant times we had
together last Spring he'd be sure to come around. In fact," he added
meaningly, "I've been looking for him."
At this naive statement, the sheepman could not restrain a smile.
"You don't know Jim as well as I do," he said, and there was a
suggestion of bitterness in his voice which Hardy was not slow to
note.
"Well, perhaps not," he allowed; "but you know, and I know, that this
is no pleasure trip you're on--in fact, it's dangerous, and I never
thought that Jim Swope would send a man where he was afraid to go
himself. Now I've got nothing against you, Mr. Thomas, and of course
you're working for him; but I ask you, as a man, don't you think,
after what I've done for him, that Jim Swope ought to come along
himself if he wants to sheep me out?
"I've fed him, and I've fed all his herders and all his friends; I've
grained his horses when they were ga'nted down to a shadow because his
own sheep had cleaned up the feed; I've made him welcome to my house
and done everything I could for him; and all I asked in return was
that he would respect this upper range. He knows very well that if his
sheep go through here this Fall our cattle will die in the Winter, and
he knows that there is plenty of feed out on The Rolls where our cows
can't go, and yet he sends you in where he's scared to go himself,
just to hog our last piece of good feed and to put us out of business.
I asked him down in Moroni if he thought a cowman had a right to live,
and he dodged the question as if he was afraid he'd say something."
He stopped abruptly and looked out over the country toward Hidden
Water, while the Mexicans watched him furtively from beneath their
slouched hats.
"Expecting some friends?" inquired Thomas, with a saturnine grin.
Hardy shook his head. "No. I came out here alone, and I left my gun in
camp. I haven't got a friend within forty miles, if that's what you
mean. I suppose you've got your orders, Mr. Thomas, but I just want to
talk this matter over with you."
"All right," said the sheepman, suddenly thawing out at the good news.
"I don't have so much company as to make me refuse, even if it is a
warm subject. But mebby you'd like a bite to eat before we git down to
business?" He waved a deprecating hand at the greasy canvas, and Hardy
swung quickly down from his saddle.
"Thanks. But don't let me keep you from your dinner. Here's where I
break even with Jim Swope for all that grub I cooked last Spring," he
remarked, as he filled his plate. "But if it was him that asked me,"
he added, "I'd starve to death before I'd eat it."
He sat on his heels by the canvas, with the boss sheepman on the other
side, and the Mexicans who had been so cocky took their plates and
retired like Apaches to the edge of the brush, where they would not
obtrude upon their betters.
"They say it's bad for the digestion," observed Hardy, after the first
silence, "to talk about things that make you mad; so if you don't
mind, Mr. Thomas, we'll forget about Jim Swope. What kind of a country
is it up there in Apache County, where you keep your sheep all
Summer?"
"A fine country," rejoined Thomas, "and I wish to God I was back to
it," he added.
"Why, what's the matter with this country? It looks pretty good to
me."
"Ye-es," admitted the sheepman grudgingly, "it looks good enough,
but--well, I lived up there a long time and I got to like it. I had
one of the nicest little ranches in the White Mountains; there was
good huntin' and fishin' and--well, I felt like a white man up
there--never had no trouble, you understand--and I was makin' good
money, too."
His voice, which before had been harsh and strident, softened down as
he dwelt upon the natural beauty of the mountains which had been his
home, but there was a tone of sadness in his talk which told Hardy
that ultimately he had suffered some great misfortune there. His
occupation alone suggested that--for there are few white men working
as sheep-herders who lack a hard luck story, if any one will listen to
it. But this Shep Thomas was still young and unbroken, with none of
the black marks of dissipation upon his face, and his eyes were as
keen and steady as any hunter's. He was indeed the very type of
fighter that Swope had sought, hardy and fearless, and at the same
time careful. As they sat together Hardy looked him over and was glad
that he had come out unarmed, yet though his host seemed a man of just
and reasonable mind there was a set, dogged look in his eyes which
warned the cowman not to interfere, but let him talk his fill. And the
boss herder, poor lonely man, was carried away in spite of himself by
the temptation of a listener; after many days of strife and turmoil,
cutting trails, standing off cowmen, cursing Mexicans, at last to meet
a white man who would just sit silent and let him talk! His stories
were of hunting and fishing, of prospecting, and restless adventures
among the Indians, and every time the conversation worked around
towards sheep he led it resolutely away. And for his part, never for a
moment did Hardy try to crowd him, but let the talk lead where it
would, until of his own volition the sheepman told his story.
"I suppose you wonder what I'm doing down here," he said at last, "if
I was so stuck on the Concho country? Well, I bet you wouldn't guess
in a thousand years--and you ought to be a pretty good guesser, too,"
he added, with a gruff laugh. "Now, what do you think it was that put
me on the bum?"
"Poker game?" queried Hardy politely.
"Nope," replied the sheepman, showing his teeth, "I'm winners on
poker."
"You don't look like a drinking man."
"Naw--nor it wasn't women, either. It's something unusual, I tell you.
I stood and looked at it for ten years, and never turned a hair. But
here, I've been holdin' out on you a little--I never told you what it
was I raised on my ranch. Well, it was sheep."
"Sheep?" echoed Hardy, "did you keep 'em there all Winter?"
"W'y sure, man. There's lots of sheep in Apache County that was never
ten miles from home."
"Then why does Jim Swope bring his bands south every Fall? I hear he
loses five per cent of them, at the least, coming and going."
"Ah, you don't understand Jim as well as I do. I was tryin' to make a
livin'; he's tryin' to git rich. He's doin' it, too."
Once more the note of bitterness came into his voice, and Hardy saw
that the time had come.
"How's that?" he inquired quietly, and the sheepman plunged into his
story.
"Well, it was this way. I kept a few thousand sheep up there in my
valley. In the Summer we went up the mountain, followin' the grass,
and in the Winter we fed down below, where the ground was bare. It
never got very cold, and my sheep was used to it, anyhow. The Navajos
don't move their sheep south, do they? Well, they're away north of
where I was. We jest give 'em a little shelter, and looked after 'em,
and, as I says, I was doin' fine--up to last year."
He paused again, with his secret on his lips, and once more Hardy
supplied the helping word.
"And what happened then?" he asked.
"What happened then?" cried Thomas, his eyes burning. "Well, _you_
ought to know--I was sheeped out."
"Sheeped out? Why, how could that happen? You were a sheepman
yourself!"
The boss herder contemplated him with an amused and cynical smile.
"You ask Jim Swope," he suggested.
For a minute Hardy sat staring at him, bewildered. "Well," he said,
"_I_ can't figure it out--maybe you wouldn't mind telling me how it
happened."
"Why hell, man," burst out the sheepman, "it's as plain as the nose on
your face--I didn't belong to the Association. All these big sheepmen
that drive north and south belong to the Sheepmen's Protective
Association, and they stand in with each other, but we little fellows
up in 'Pache County was nobody. It's about ten years ago now that the
Swope outfit first came in through our country; and, bein' in the
sheep business ourselves, we was always friendly, and never made no
trouble, and naturally supposed that they'd respect our range. And so
they did, until I found one of Jim's herders in on my ranch last
Summer.
"Well, I thought there was some misunderstandin', but when I told him
and his _compadres_ to move it was a bad case of 'No savvy' from the
start; and while I was monkeyin' around with them a couple of more
bands sneaked in behind, and first thing I knew my whole lower range
was skinned clean. Well, sir, I worked over one of them _paisanos_
until he was a total wreck, and I took a shot at another _hombre_,
too--the one that couldn't savvy; but there was no use cavin' round
about it--I was jest naturally sheeped out.
"It looked like I was busted, but I wouldn't admit it, and while I was
studyin' on the matter along comes Jim himself and offers me five
thousand dollars for my sheep. They was worth ten if they was worth a
cent, all fine and fat; but my winter feed was gone and of course I
was up against it. I see somethin' would have to be done, and dam'
quick, too; so I chased down to St. John and tried to git a higher
bid. But these sheepmen stand in with each other on a proposition like
that, and I couldn't git nawthin'.
"'All right,' I says to Jim, 'take 'em, and be dam'ed to you.'
"'The price has gone down,' says Jim. 'I'll give you four thousand.'
"'_What!_' I says.
"'Three thousand,' says Jim.
"'You'll give me _five_ thousand,' says I, crowdin' my gun against his
short ribs, 'or I'll let the light in on you,' and after that Jim and
me understood each other perfectly. In fact, we got stuck on each
other. Yes, sir, after I got over bein' excited and could listen to
reason, he put it to me straight--and he was right.
"'What's the use of bein' the yaller dog?' he says. 'You can't buck
the whole Association. But we've got room for you,' he says, 'so git
on and ride.' And here I am, by Joe, leadin' the procession."
The sheepman paused and gazed at the band of sheep as they stood in a
solid mass, their heads tucked under each other's bellies to escape
the sun.
"Some of them sheep used to be mine," he observed, and laughed slyly.
"That's the only thing between me and the boss. He's begged and
implored, and cursed and said his prayers, tryin' to git me interested
in the sheep business again; but like the pore, dam' fool I am I keep
that five thousand dollars in the bank." His shoulders heaved for a
moment with silent laughter, and then his face turned grave.
"Well, Mr. Hardy," he said, "business is business, and I've got to be
movin' along pretty soon. I believe you said you'd like to talk
matters over for a minute."
"Yes," answered Hardy promptly, "I'd like to make arrangements to have
you turn out through that pass yonder and leave us a little feed for
next Winter."
The sheepman cocked his head to one side and shut one eye knowingly.
"Oh, you would, would you? And what word shall I take back to the
boss, then?"
"I expect I'll see him before you do," said Hardy, "but if you get
ahead of me you can just say that I asked you to move, and so you
followed out your orders."
"Yes," responded Thomas, smiling satirically, "that'd be lovely. But
how long since I've been takin' orders off of you?"
"Oh, I'm not trying to give you any orders," protested Hardy. "Those
come straight from Jim Swope."
"How's that?" inquired the sheepman, with sudden interest.
"Why, don't you remember what he said when he introduced me to you,
down in Moroni? 'This is Mr. Hardy,' he said, 'a white cowman. If you
have to go across his range, go quick, and tell your men the same.'
You may have forgotten, but it made a great impression on me. And
then, to show there was no mistake about it, he told me if I found any
of his sheep on my range to order them off, and you would see that
they went. Isn't that straight?"
He leaned over and looked the sheepman in the eye but Thomas met his
glance with a sardonic smile. "Sure, it's right. But I've received
other orders since then. You know Jim claims to be religious--he's one
of the elders in the church down there--and he likes to keep his word
good. After you was gone he come around to me and said: 'That's all
right, Shep, about what I said to that cowman, but there's one thing I
want you always to remember--feed my sheep!' Well, them's my orders."
"Well," commented Hardy, "that may be good Scripture, but what about
my cows? There's plenty of feed out on The Rolls for Jim's sheep, but
my cows have got to drink. We cowmen have been sheeped out of all the
lower country down there, and here we are, crowded clear up against
the rocks. You've stolen a march on us and of course you're entitled
to some feed, but give us a chance. You've been sheeped out yourself,
and you know what it feels like. Now all I ask of you is that you turn
out through this pass and go down onto The Rolls. If you'll do that I
can turn all the rest of the sheep and keep my cows from starving, but
if you go through me they'll all go through me, and I'm done for. I
don't make any threats and I can't offer any inducements, but I just
ask you, as a white man, to go around."
As he ended his appeal he stood with his hands thrown out, and the
sheepman looked at him, smiling curiously.
"Well," he said, at last, "you're a new kind of cowman on me, pardner,
but I'll go you, if Jim throws a fit."
He advanced, and held out his hand, and Hardy took it.
"If all sheepmen were like you," he said, "life would be worth living
in these parts." And so, in a friendship unparalleled in the history
of the Four Peaks country, a sheepman and a cowman parted in
amity--and the sheep went around.