THE SIX PISTOL SHOTS
The next morning, after breakfast, which shortly followed the rising of
the sun, Bissell called Bud Larkin aside just as that young man had headed
for the corral to rope and saddle Pinte.
Gone was any hint of the man of the night before. His red face was sober,
and his brown eyes looked into Bud's steel-gray ones with a piercing,
almost menacing, intensity.
"I hope any friend of Julie's will continue to be my friend," was all he
said, but the glance and manner attending this delicate hint left no doubt
as to his meaning. His whole attitude spelled "sheep!"
"That depends entirely upon you, Mr. Bissell," was Larkin's rejoinder.
The cowman turned away without any further words, and Bud continued on to
the corral. At the enclosure he found Stelton roping a wiry and vicious
calico pony, and when he had finally cinched the saddle on Pinte, he
turned to see Julie at his side.
"You had better invite me to ride a little way with you," she said,
laughing, "because I am coming anyhow."
"Bless you! What a treat!" cried Bud happily, and helped to cinch up the
calico, who squealed at every tug.
Stelton, his dark face flushed to the color of mahogany, sullenly left him
the privilege and walked away.
Presently they mounted, and Bud, with a loud "So-long" and a wave of the
hand to some of the punchers, turned south. Julie, loping beside him,
looked up curiously at this.
"I thought you were going north, Bud," she cried.
"Changed my plans overnight," he replied non-committally, and she did not
press the subject further, feeling, with a woman's intuition, that war was
in the air.
Ten miles south, at the ford of the southern branch of Grass Creek, she
drew up her horse as the signal for their separation, and faced north.
Bud, still headed southward, put Pinte alongside of her and took her
hand.
"It's been a blessing to see you, you're so civilized," she said,
half-seriously. "Do come again."
"Then you do sometimes miss the things you have been educated to?"
"Yes, Bud, I do, but not often. Seeing you has brought back a flood of
memories that I am happier without."
"And that is what you have done for me, dear girl," he said in a low tone
as he pressed her hand. The next moment, with a nonchalant "So-long," the
parting of the plains, he had dug the spurs into his horse and ridden
away.
For a minute the girl sat looking after this one link between her desolate
existence and the luxury and society he still represented in her eyes.
"His manners have changed for the worse," she thought, recalling his
abrupt departure, "but I think he has changed for the better."
Which remark proves that her sense of relative masculine values was still
sound.
Larkin continued on directly south-east for twenty miles, until he crossed
the Big Horn at what is now the town of Kirby. Thence his course lay south
rather than east until he should raise the white dust of his first flock.
With regard to his sheep, Larkin, in all disputed cases, took the advice
of his chief herder, Hard-winter Sims, the laziest man on the range, and
yet one who seemed to divine the numbed sheep intelligence in a manner
little short of marvelous.
Sims he had picked up in Montana, when that individual, unable to perform
the arduous duties of a cowboy, had applied for a job as a
sheep-herder--not so much because he liked the sheep, but because he had
to eat and clothe himself. By one of those rare accidents of luck Sims at
last found his _metier_, and Larkin the prince of sheepmen.
When Bud had determined to "walk" ten thousand animals north, Sims had
accompanied him to help in the buying, and was now superintending the long
drive.
On his advice the drive had been divided into five herds of two thousand,
he contending that it was dangerous, as well as injurious to the sheep, to
keep more than that number together. The others were following at
intervals of a few days. Larkin had left the leaders just north of the
hills that formed the hooked southern end of the Big Horn Mountains, and
expected that in two days' time they would have come north almost to the
junction of Kirby Creek and the Big Horn, near where it was calculated to
cross them.
After grazing his horse for an hour at noon, and taking a bite to eat
himself, Larkin pushed on, and, in a short time, made out a faint, whitish
mist rising against the horizon of hills. It was the dust of his leaders.
Presently, in the far distance, a man appeared on horseback making toward
him, and Bud wondered if anything had happened.
His fears were partially justified when he discovered the horseman to be
Sims, and were entirely confirmed when he had conversed with the herder.
"We've sure got to get them sheep to water, and that mighty quick," was
the latter's laconic announcement.
"Nonsense! There's plenty of water. What's the matter with 'em?"
"Ten miles out of the hills we found a water-hole, but the cattle had been
there first, and the sheep wouldn't look at it. At the camp last night
there was another hole, but some imp had deviled the herd an' they lay
alongside the water, dyin' of thirst, but they wouldn't drink. We pushed
'em in an' they swam around; we half-drowned some of 'em, but still they
wouldn't drink.
"So we made a night march without finding water, and we haven't found any
to-day. They're gettin' frantic now."
Bud quirted the tired Pinte into a gallop, and they approached the herd,
about which the dark, slim figures of the dogs were running. From the
distance the first sound was the ceaseless blethering of the flock that
proclaimed its misery. The next was the musical tinkling of the bells the
leaders wore.
"Reckon they've found another hole," said Sims. "Thought I seen one when I
was ridin' out."
On nearer approach it was seen that the herd was "milling," that is,
revolving in a great circle, with a number of inner circles, half
smothered in the dust they raised, without aim or knowledge of what they
did, or why. About the herd at various points stood the half-dozen
shepherds, their long crooks in their hands. Whenever a blatting animal
made a dash for liberty the dogs drove it into the press, barking and
nipping.
Larkin rode to a tall, dark-skinned shepherd, a Basque from the California
herding.
"What is it, Pedro?" he asked. "What is the matter with them?"
"Only the good God can tell. The leaders they take fright at something, I
do not know, and we 'mill' them before any damage is done."
Larkin rode around the trampling, bawling mass to the rear, where were the
cook wagon and a couple of spare horses. He at once dismounted and changed
his uncomfortable riding-boots for the brogans of the herder. Pinte he
relegated to the string, for the use of a horse with sheep is ludicrous,
since the dogs are the real herders, and obey the orders given by the
uplifted arms of the men.
When he rejoined Sims, the sheep had become calmer. The flock-mind,
localized in the leaders, had come to the conclusion that, after all,
there was nothing to fear, and the circling motion was gradually becoming
slower and slower. In a quarter of an hour comparative quiet had been
restored, and Sims gave the order to get the flock under way. Since they
had not come upon water at this place, as the herder had hoped, it was
necessary to continue the merciless drive until they found it.
Immediately the dogs cut into the dirty-white revolving mass (the smell of
which is like no other in the world), and headed the leaders north. But
the leaders and tail-enders were inextricably mixed, and for a long time
there was great confusion.
Sheep on the march have one invariable position, either among the leaders,
middlers or tailers, and until each animal has found his exact post,
nothing whatever can be done with him.
Until night fell the animals fed on the dry bunch-grass, and then, under
the trotting of the dogs, took position on the brow of a rising hill, as
though bedding down for the night. But all did not rest, for perhaps fifty
remained standing in the perpetual flock-watch.
In an hour these would lie down and others take their places, but all
through the night, and at any time when the flock rested, this hereditary
protection would become operative--seemingly a survival of a day when
neither man nor dog had assumed this duty.
The cook dug his trench, built his fire and set his folding table out
under the pale sky that was just commencing to show brilliant stars. After
the last cup of steaming coffee had been downed and pipes lighted, Sims
gave the order to march. The herd was nearly still now, and roused with
much complaining, but the dogs were inexorable, and presently the two
thousand were shuffling on, feeding now and then, but making good
progress.
There was but one thing left to do in the present instance--find running
water, for it was certain that all the springs on the plain would have
been visited by cattle, and that, therefore, the sheep would stand by and
idly perish of thirst.
Sims knew his country, and directed the flock toward a shallow, rocky ford
of the Big Horn, some five miles distant. In the meantime Bud Larkin was
facing two alternatives, either one disastrous. The crossing of the Big
Horn meant a declaration of war to the Bar T ranch, for in the loose
division of the free country, the Bar T range extended south to the
river.
On the other hand, should he turn the herds east along the bank of the Big
Horn, it would be impossible to continue the march long in that direction,
since the higher mountains were directly ahead, and the way through them
was devious, and attended with many difficulties and dangers. On such a
drive the losses to him in time and strayed sheep would be disastrous.
Larkin had no desire to clash with the cattlemen unless it were absolutely
necessary, but he decided that his sheep should go through, since the free
range was his as well as another's. On that long night march, when the men
were behind the sheep, driving them, contrary to the usual custom, he told
Sims of his interview with Beef Bissell, and the herder cracked his
knuckles with rage at the position taken by the cowman.
"Send 'em through, Mr. Larkin," he advised, "and if the Bar T outfit start
anything I allow we'll return 'em as good as they give."
It was within an hour of dawn when the leaders of the flock lifted their
heads and gazed curiously at the line of trees that loomed before them
along the banks of the river. The next instant they had started forward on
a run, blethering the news of water back along the dim, heaving line. The
dust beneath their sharp feet rose up into a pall that hid the sky as the
whole flock got into motion.
Then dogs and men leaped forward, for now the blind singleness of purpose
that pervaded the animals was more disastrous than when they refused to
drink. Working madly, the dogs spread out the following herd so that all
should not crowd upon the same point of the river and drown the leaders.
It was unavoidable that some should be lost by being pushed into the
deeper waters north or south of the ford, but for the most part the
watering was successfully accomplished, and at the first glow of dawn the
animals were contentedly cropping the rich grasses in the low bottoms near
the river.
But the work was not yet finished.
When it had become light enough to see, the leaders were rounded up at the
ford, and, nipped into frenzy by the dogs, began the passage across the
shallow bar. With the leaders safely over it was only a matter of time
until the rest had followed, and by the time it was full day the last of
the tailers were feeding in the opposite bottoms.
For Bud Larkin this was a very serious dawn. He had cast the die for war
and led the invasion into the enemy's country. Any hope that the act might
remain unknown was shattered before the sheep had fairly forded the
stream. Against the brightening sky, on a distant rise of ground, had
appeared the silent figure of a horse and man, one of the Bar T range
riders.
Six distant, warning pistol shots had rung out, and then the horse and
rider had disappeared across the plain at a headlong gallop.