THE FLOOD
The rain came to Hidden Water in great drops, warmed by the sultry
air. At the first flurry the dust rose up like smoke, and the earth
hissed; then as the storm burst in tropic fury the ground was struck
flat, the dust-holes caught the rush of water and held it in sudden
puddles that merged into pools and rivulets and glided swiftly away.
Like a famine-stricken creature, the parched earth could not drink;
its bone-dry dust set like cement beneath the too generous flood and
refused to take it in--and still the rain came down in sluicing
torrents that never stayed or slackened. The cracked dirt of the
_ramada_ roof dissolved and fell away, and the stick frame leaked like
a sieve. The rain wind, howling and rumbling through the framework,
hurled the water to the very door where Hardy stood, and as it touched
his face, a wild, animal exultation overcame him and he dashed out
into the midst of it. God, it was good to feel the splash of rain
again, to lean against the wind, and to smell the wet and mud! He
wandered about through it recklessly, now bringing in his saddle and
bedding, now going out to talk with his horse, at last simply standing
with his hands outstretched while his whole being gloried in the
storm.
As the night wore on and the swash of water became constant, Hardy lay
in his blankets listening to the infinite harmonies that lurk in the
echoes of rain, listening and laughing when, out of the rumble of the
storm, there rose the deeper thunder of running waters. Already the
rocky slides were shedding the downpour; the draws and gulches were
leading it into the creek. But above their gurgling murmur there came
a hoarser roar that shook the ground, reverberating through the damp
air like the diapason of some mighty storm-piece. At daybreak he
hurried up the canyon to find its source, plunging along through the
rain until, on the edge of the bluff that looked out up the Alamo, he
halted, astounded at the spectacle. From its cleft gate Hidden Water,
once so quiet and peaceful, was now vomiting forth mud, rocks, and
foaming waters in one mad torrent; it overleapt the creek, piling up
its debris in a solid dam that stretched from bank to bank, while from
its lower side a great sluiceway of yellow water spilled down into the
broad bed of the Alamo.
Above the dam, where the canyon boxed in between perpendicular walls,
there lay a great lagoon, a lake that rose minute by minute as if
seeking to override its dam, yet held back by the torrent of sand and
water that Hidden Water threw across its path. For an hour they fought
each other, the Alamo striving vainly to claim its ancient bed, Hidden
Water piling higher its hurtling barrier; then a louder roar
reverberated through the valley and a great wall of dancing water
swept down the canyon and surged into the placid lake. On its breast it
bore brush and sticks, and trees that waved their trunks in the air
like the arms of some devouring monster as they swooped down upon the
dam. At last the belated waters from above had come, the outpourings
of a hundred mountain creeks that had belched forth into the Alamo
like summer cloudbursts. The forefront of the mighty storm-crest
lapped over the presumptuous barrier in one hissing, high-flung
waterfall; then with a final roar the dam went out and, as the
bowlders groaned and rumbled beneath the flood, the Alamo overleapt
them and thundered on.
A sudden sea of yellow water spread out over the lower valley, trees
bent and crashed beneath the weight of drift, the pasture fence ducked
under and was gone. Still irked by its narrow bed the Alamo swung away
from the rock-bound bench where the ranch house stood and, uprooting
everything before it, ploughed a new channel to the river. As it
swirled past, Hardy beheld a tangled wreckage of cottonwoods and
sycamores, their tops killed by the drought, hurried away on this
overplus of waters; the bare limbs of _palo verdes_, felled by his own
axe; and sun-dried skeletons of cattle, light as cork, dancing and
bobbing as they drifted past the ranch.
The drought was broken, and as the rain poured down it washed away all
token of the past. Henceforward there would be no sign to move the
uneasy spirit; no ghastly relic, hinting that God had once forgotten
them; only the water-scarred gulches and canyons, and the ricks of
driftwood, piled high along the valleys in memory of the flood. All
day the rain sluiced down, and the Alamo went wild in its might,
throwing a huge dam across the broad bed of the river itself. But when
at last in the dead of night the storm-crest of the Salagua burst
forth, raging from its long jostling against chasm walls, a boom like
a thunder of cannon echoed from all the high cliffs by Hidden Water;
and the warring waters, bellowing and tumbling in their titanic fury,
joined together in a long, mad race to the sea.
So ended the great flood; and in the morning the sun rose up clean and
smiling, making a diamond of every dew-drop. Then once more the cattle
gathered about the house, waiting to be fed, and Hardy went out as
before to cut _sahuaros_. On the second day the creek went down and
the cattle from the other bank came across, lowing for their share.
But on the third day, when the sprouts began to show on the twining
stick-cactus, the great herd that had dogged his steps for months left
the bitter _sahuaros_ and scattered across the mesa like children on a
picnic, nipping eagerly at every shoot.
In a week the flowers were up and every bush was radiant with new
growth. The grass crept out in level places, and the flats in the
valley turned green, but the broad expanse of Bronco Mesa still lay
half-barren from paucity of seeds. Where the earth had been torn up
and trampled by the sheep the flood had seized upon both soil and seed
and carried them away, leaving nothing but gravel and broken rocks;
the sheep-trails had turned to trenches, the washes to gulches, the
gulches to ravines; the whole mesa was criss-crossed with tiny gullies
where the water had hurried away--but every tree and bush was in its
glory, clothed from top to bottom in flaunting green. Within a week
the cattle were back on their old ranges, all that were left from
famine and drought. Some there were that died in the midst of plenty,
too weak to regain their strength; others fell sick from overeating
and lost their hard-earned lives; mothers remembered calves that were
lost and bellowed mournfully among the hills. But as rain followed
rain and the grass matured a great peace settled down upon the land;
the cows grew round-bellied and sleepy-eyed, the bulls began to roar
along the ridges, and the Four Peaks cattlemen rode forth from their
mountain valleys to see how their neighbors had fared.
They were a hard-looking bunch of men when they gathered at the Dos S
Ranch to plan for the fall _rodeo_. Heat and the long drought had
lined their faces deep, their hands were worn and crabbed from months
of cutting brush, and upon them all was the sense of bitter defeat.
There would be no branding in the pens that Fall--the spring calves
were all dead; nor was there any use in gathering beef steers that
were sure to run short weight; there was nothing to do, in fact, but
count up their losses and organize against the sheep. It had been a
hard Summer, but it had taught them that they must stand together or
they were lost. There was no one now who talked of waiting for Forest
Reserves, or of diplomacy and peace--every man was for war, and war
from the jump--and Jefferson Creede took the lead.
"Fellers," he said, after each man had had his say, "there's only one
way to stop them sheep, and that is to stop the first band. Never mind
the man--dam' a herder, you can buy one for twenty dollars a
month--_git the sheep_! Now suppose we stompede the first bunch that
comes on our range and scatter 'em to hell--that's _fif-teen thousand
dol-lars gone_! God A'mighty, boys, think of losin' that much real
money when you're on the make like Jim Swope! W'y, Jim would go crazy,
he'd throw a fit--and, more than that, fellers," he added, sinking his
voice to a confidential whisper, "he'd go round.
"Well, now, what ye goin' to do?" he continued, a crafty gleam coming
into his eye. "Are we goin' to foller some cow's tail around until
they jump us again? Are we goin' to leave Rufe here, to patrol a
hundred miles of range lone-handed? Not on your life--not me! We're
goin' to ride this range by day's works, fellers, and the first bunch
of sheep we find we're goin' to scatter 'em like shootin' stars--and
if any man sees Jasp Swope I'll jest ask him to let me know. Is it a
go? All right--and I'll tell you how we'll do.
"There's only three places that the sheep can get in on us: along the
Alamo, over the Juate, or around between the Peaks. Well, the whole
caboodle of us will camp up on the Alamo somewhere, and we'll jest
naturally ride them three ridges night and day. I'm goin' to ask one
of you fellers to ride away up north and foller them sheepmen down, so
they can't come a circumbendibus on us again. I'm goin' to give 'em
fair warnin' to keep off of our upper range, and then the first
wool-pullin' sheep-herder that sneaks in on Bronco Mesa is goin' to
git the scare of his life--and the coyotes is goin' to git his sheep.
"That's the only way to stop 'em! W'y, Jim Swope would run sheep on
his mother's grave if it wasn't for the five dollars fine. All right,
then, we'll jest fine Mr. Swope fifteen thousand dollars for comin' in
on our range, and see if he won't go around. There's only one thing
that I ask of you fellers--when the time comes, for God's sake _stick
together_!"
The time came in late October, when the sheep were on The Rolls. In
orderly battalions they drifted past, herd after herd, until there
were ten in sight. If any sheepman resented the silent sentinels that
rode along the rim he made no demonstration of the fact--and yet, for
some reason every herd sooner or later wandered around until it
fetched up against the dead line. There were fuzzy _chollas_ farther
out that got caught in the long wool and hurt the shearers' hands; it
was better to camp along the Alamo, where there was water for their
stock--so the simple-minded herders said, trying to carry off their
bluff; but when Creede scowled upon them they looked away sheepishly.
The _padron_ had ordered it--they could say no more.
"_Muy bien_," said the overbearing Grande, "and where is your
_padron_?"
"_Quien sabe!_" replied the herders, hiking up their shoulders and
showing the palms of their hands, and "Who knows" it was to the end.
There was wise counsel in the camp of the sheepmen; they never had
trouble if they could avoid it, and then only to gain a point. But it
was this same far-seeing policy which, even in a good year when there
was feed everywhere, would not permit them to spare the upper range.
For two seasons with great toil and danger they had fought their way
up onto Bronco Mesa and established their right to graze there--to go
around now would be to lose all that had been gained.
But for once the cowmen of the Four Peaks were equal to the situation.
There were no cattle to gather, no day herds to hold, no calves to
brand in the pens--every man was riding and riding hard. There was
wood on every peak for signal fires and the main camp was established
on the high ridge of the Juate, looking north and south and west. When
that signal rose up against the sky--whether it was a smoke by day or
a fire by night--every man was to quit his post and ride to harry the
first herd. Wherever or however it came in, that herd was to be
destroyed, not by violence nor by any overt act, but by the sheepmen's
own methods--strategy and stealth.
For once there was no loose joint in the cordon of the cowmen's
defence. From the rim of the Mogollons to the borders of Bronco Mesa
the broad trail of the sheep was marked and noted; their shiftings and
doublings were followed and observed; the bitterness of Tonto cowmen,
crazy over their wrongs, was poured into ears that had already
listened to the woes of Pleasant Valley. When at last Jasper Swope's
boss herder, Juan Alvarez, the same man-killing Mexican that Jeff
Creede had fought two years before, turned suddenly aside and struck
into the old Shep Thomas trail that comes out into the deep crotch
between the Peaks, a horseman in _chaparejos_ rode on before him,
spurring madly to light the signal fires. That night a fire blazed up
from the shoulder of the western mountain and was answered from the
Juate. At dawn ten men were in the saddle, riding swiftly, with
Jefferson Creede at their head.
It was like an open book to the cowmen now, that gathering of the
sheep along the Alamo--a ruse, a feint to draw them away from the
Peaks while the blow was struck from behind. Only one man was left to
guard that threatened border--Rufus Hardy, the man of peace, who had
turned over his pistol to the boss. It was a bitter moment for him
when he saw the boys start out on this illicit adventure; but for once
he restrained himself and let it pass. The war would not be settled at
a blow.
At the shoulder of the Peak the posse of cowmen found Jim Clark, his
shaps frayed and his hat slouched to a shapeless mass from long
beating through the brush, and followed in his lead to a pocket
valley, tucked away among the cedars, where they threw off their packs
and camped while Jim and Creede went forward to investigate. It was a
rough place, that crotch between the Peaks, and Shep Thomas had cut
his way through chaparral that stood horse-high before he won the
southern slope. To the north the brush covered all the ridges in a
dense thicket, and it was there that the cow camp was hid; but on the
southern slope, where the sun had baked out the soil, the mountain
side stretched away bare and rocky, broken by innumerable ravines
which came together in a _redondo_ or rounded valley and then plunged
abruptly into the narrow defile of a box canyon. This was the middle
fork, down which Shep Thomas had made his triumphal march the year
before, and down which Juan Alvarez would undoubtedly march again.
Never but once had the sheep been in that broad valley, and the heavy
rains had brought out long tufts of grama grass from the bunchy roots
along the hillsides. As Creede and Jim Clark crept up over the brow of
the western ridge and looked down upon it they beheld a herd of forty
or fifty wild horses, grazing contentedly along the opposite hillside;
and far below, where the valley opened out into the _redondo_, they
saw a band of their own tame horses feeding. Working in from either
side--the wild horses from the north, where they had retreated to
escape the drought; the range animals from the south, where the sheep
had fed off the best grass--they had made the broad mountain valley a
rendezvous, little suspecting the enemy that was creeping in upon
their paradise. Already the distant bleating of the sheep was in the
air; a sheepman rode up to the summit, looked over at the promised
land and darted back, and as the first struggling mass of leaders
poured out from the cut trail and drifted down into the valley the
wild stallions shook out their manes in alarm and trotted farther
away.
A second band of outlaws, unseen before, came galloping along the
western mountain side, snorting at the clangor and the rank smell of
the sheep, and Creede eyed them with professional interest as the
leaders trotted past. Many times in the old days he had followed along
those same ridges, rounding up the wild horses and sending them
dashing down the canyon, so that Hardy could rush out from his hiding
place and make his throw. It was a natural hold-up ground, that
_redondo_, and they had often talked of building a horse trap there;
but so far they had done no more than rope a chance horse and let the
rest go charging down the box canyon and out the other end onto Bronco
Mesa.
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
canyon, 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 canyon 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 canyon, 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 canyon.
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 canyon, 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 canyon, 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
canyon, 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 canyon,
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 canyon 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 canyon 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 canyon 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 canyon, 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 canyon? 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 canyon. 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.