A BATTLE IN THE DARK
"Everything ready?"
Bud Larkin sat his horse beside Hard-winter Sims and looked back over the
white mass that grew dimmer and dimmer in the dark.
"Yes." Sims lounged wearily against the horse's shoulder. It had been a
hard day.
"Get 'em on the move, then."
Sims, without changing his position, called out to the herders. These in
turn spoke to the dogs, and the dogs began to nip the heels of the leader
sheep, who resented the familiarity with loud blatting and lowering of
heads. But they knew the futility of resisting these nagging guardians and
started to forge ahead. Other dogs got the middlers in motion, and still
others attended to the tailers, so that in five minutes from the time
Larkin gave the word the whole immense flock was crawling slowly over the
dry plain.
Eight thousand of them there were; eight thousand semi-imbecile creatures,
unacquainted with the obstacles they must encounter or the dangers they
must face before they could be brought to safety or lost in the attempt.
And to guard them there were nearly seventy men whose fear lay not in the
terrors to be met, but in the sheep themselves: for there is no such
obstacle to a sheep's well-being as the sheep himself.
The last flock had arrived the night before, well-fed and watered. The
preceding six thousand were in good condition from days and weeks of
comfortable grazing in the hills; all were in good shape to travel.
In moving them at this time Larkin had seized the psychological moment.
The disgruntled cattle-owners, under a guard of ten men, were resting
quietly far from anything resembling excitement in one of the untracked
places among the mesas and scoria buttes. Bud had ascertained, by spies of
his own that scoured the country, that the great posse of rescuing
cowpunchers had gone safely off on a wild-goose chase, misled by one of
the sheepmen who was unknown in the country.
For the present, therefore, the range was clear, and Bud reckoned on its
remaining so until the cattlemen had been rescued from their durance vile.
In such a time the sheep-danger shrank into insignificance, and Larkin
counted on having his animals across the Bar T range before the finding of
the cattlemen, after which, of course, the men would be turned loose with
much commiseration and apology.
Of the seventy men guarding and driving the sheep not more than thirty
were regular herders. Forty were mounted and belonged to Jimmie Welsh's
fighting corps, which was composed mostly of owners and superintendents
from the north country.
Your usual Western shepherd is not a fighting man and cases have occurred
in the bitter range wars where a herder has been shot down in cold blood
unable to make a defense because of the grass growing out of his rifle.
Years alone in the brooding silence of the Sierra slopes or the obscure
valleys of the northern Rockies take the virulence out of a man and make
him placid and at one with nature. Into his soul there sinks something of
the grandeur of cloud-hooded peaks, the majesty of limitless horizons and
the colors of sky-blue water and greensward. With him strife is an unknown
thing except for the strife of wits with another herder who would attempt
to share a succulent mountain meadow.
Common report has it, and such writers as Emerson Hough put it in their
books, that a sheep-herder can scarcely follow his calling for seven years
without going mad. On the other hand, those who have lived for years among
the sheep declare that they have never seen a sheep-herder even mentally
unbalanced.
Probably both are right, as is usual to a degree in all discussion; but
the fact remained that, sane or insane, the herder was not a fighting
man--something had gone out of him. Therefore in bringing men other than
herders south with him, Jimmie Welsh had shown his cleverness. To fight
riders he had brought riders, and these men now helped to direct the river
of animals that flowed along over the dry plain.
There were two cook outfits to feed the men, one of which contained the
incomparable Ah Sin, who had amply revenged himself on the herders for his
warm reception at the camp.
That first night they marched ten miles, and, as before, found the
water-holes polluted by the cattle which take delight in standing in the
mud, and thus in a dry country work their own destruction by filling the
springs.
The next day the sheep cropped fairly well, although the sun was terrific
and no more water was discovered. Nightfall found them becoming nervous
and uneasy. They milled a long while before they bedded, and more of them
than usual stood up to watch.
Not a rider had been seen all day. Through the baking glare there had
moved a cloud of suffocating dust, and under it the thirsting, snorting,
blethering sheep, with the dogs on the edges and the men farther out at
regular intervals along the line.
After supper some of the men slept, for it was not planned to start the
sheep until midnight, as they needed the rest, being footsore with long
traveling. It was calculated also that they would reach the ford at the
Big Horn by shortly before dawn.
But the sheep would have none of it, and moved and milled uneasily until,
in order to save the lambs that were being crushed in the narrowing
circle, Sims gave the order to resume the march.
The night "walk" of sheep is a strange thing. First, perhaps, rides a
shepherd, erect and careless in his saddle, the red light glowing from the
tip of his cigarette; and beside his horse a collie-dog, nosing at
objects, but always with ears for the sheep and the voice of his master.
Then come the sheep themselves, with cracking ankle-joints, clattering
feet, muffled blethering, a cloud of dust, and the inevitable sheep
smell. Perhaps there is a moon, and then the herders must watch for racing
cloud-shadows that cause stampedes.
Such was the picture of the Larkin sheep that night, only there was no
moon. They started at ten, and Sims sent Miguel forward to walk before
them, so they would not exhaust themselves with too fast traveling. On the
move the sheep seemed more contented.
It was perhaps one o'clock in the morning that Larkin, in company with his
chief herder, spurred out far in front of the advancing flock to
reconnoiter. The sheep would be within approaching distance of the ford in
a couple of hours, and Bud wished everything to be clear for them.
Nearing the Big Horn, Sims suddenly drew up his horse, motioning Bud to
silence. Listening intently, they heard the voice of a man singing an old
familiar plains song. The two looked at each other in amazement, for this
was one of the "hymns" the cowboys use to still their cattle at night, the
time of the most dreaded stampedes. It was the universal theory of the cow
country that cattle, particularly on a "drive," should not be long out of
hearing of a human voice.
So the night-watchers, as they rode slowly about the herd, sang to the
cattle, although some of the ditties rendered were strong enough to
stampede a herd of kedge-anchors.
"Cows here?" said Sims. "What does this mean, boss?"
"It means that we're beaten to the ford and will have to hold the sheep
back."
"Yes, but who's driving now? This is round-up and branding season."
"I don't know, but between you and me, Sims, I'll bet a lamb to a calf
that the rustlers are running their big pickings north. There are some
mighty good heads at the top of that crowd, and they have taken advantage
of the deserted range, just as we have, to drive their critters."
"By George! You've hit it, boss!" cried Sims, slapping his thigh. "Now,
what do yuh say to do?"
For a long minute of silence Bud Larkin thought. Then he said:
"Here's my chance to get those rustlers and at the same time benefit
myself. There can't be more than a dozen or fifteen of them at the
outside. Ride back to the camp, Simmy, and get twenty men, the best
gun-rollers in the outfit. Tell anybody that's afraid of his hide to stay
away, for the rustlers are top-notch gun-fighters."
"But what'll yuh do with a thousand cattle on yore hands?" demanded
Hard-winter in amazement.
"I'll tell you that if we get 'em," was Bud's reply. "As I see it, we
can't do without them."
The plan of campaign was somewhat indefinite. The last intention in the
world was to frighten away the cattle by a grand charge and a salvo of
young artillery. With great caution the sheepmen approached near enough to
discern the white cover of the cook-wagon, when it was seen that the whole
herd was slowly moving toward the ford, the singing rustlers circling
around it.
Bud told off a dozen of his riders and instructed each to pick a man and
to ride as near in to him as possible without being seen. Then, at the
signal of a coyote's howl twice given, to close in and get the drop on the
rustlers, after which the remainder of the body would come along and take
the direction of things.
Sims was put in charge of this maneuver, and was at liberty to give the
signal whenever he thought circumstances justified it. It was a strange
procession that marched toward the ford of the Big Horn--first fifteen
hundred head of calves and young steers, guarded by unsuspecting
rustlers; then the knot of sheepmen and the dozen riders closing in on
their quarry, and, last of all three miles back, eight thousand sheep
clattering through the dust.
For what seemed almost half an hour there was silence. Then suddenly came
the far-off, long-drawn howl of a coyote, immediately followed by another.
Bud set spurs into his horse, revolver in hand, the remaining eight men at
his heels, and made directly for the cook-wagon, where he knew at least
one or two of the outfit might be sleeping.
The drumming of the horse's hoofs could now be plainly heard from all
sides, and a moment later there was a stab of light in the dark and the
first shot rang out.
After that there were many shots, for the rustlers, keyed up to great
alertness by the hazardness of their calling, had opened fire without
waiting for question or answer.
Bud, as he dashed up to the cook-wagon, saw two men crawl out and stand
for a minute looking. Then, as their hands moved to their hip-pockets like
one, he opened fire. At almost the same instant the flames leaped from
their guns, and Bud's hat was knocked awry by a bullet that went clean
through it.
Meantime the man who had been riding beside him gave a grunt and fell from
his saddle. One of the rustlers doubled up where he stood.
Larkin, to avoid crashing full into the cook-wagon, swerved his horse
aside, as did the others. The horse of the man who had been shot stood
still for a moment, and in that moment the rustler who remained standing
gave one leap and had bestridden him.
Bud saw the maneuver just in time to wheel his horse on a spot as big as a
dollar and take after the man in the darkness, yelling back, "Get the
others!" as he rode.
It was now a matter between the pursuer and the pursued. Pounding away
into the darkness, heedless of gopher-holes, sunken spots, and other
dangers, the two sped. Occasionally the man ahead would turn in his saddle
and blaze away at his pursuer, and Bud wondered that none of these hastily
fired bullets came near their mark. For his part he saved his fire. It was
not his idea to shoot the rustlers, but rather to capture them alive,
since the unwritten law of that lawless land decreed that shooting was too
merciful a death for horse- or cattle-thieves.
[Illustration: A moment later there was a stab of light in the dark and
the first shot rang out.]
But Larkin found, to his dismay, that the horse of the other was faster
than his own, and when they had galloped about a mile he had to strain his
eyes to see the other at all. He knew that unless he did something at once
the other would get away from him.
He lifted his revolver and took careful aim at the barely perceptible form
of the horse. Then, when the other fired again, Larkin returned the shot,
and almost immediately noticed that he was creeping up. At fifty yards the
fleeing man blazed away again, and this time Bud heard the whistle of the
bullet. Without further delay he took a pot-shot at the rustler's gun arm
and, by one of those accidents that the law of chance permits to happen
perhaps once in a lifetime, got him.
After that the rustler pulled up his failing animal to a walk and faced
him around.
"Hands up!" yelled Larkin, covering the other.
The answer was a streak of yellow flame from the fellow's left hand that
had been resting on his hip. The bullet flew wide as though the man had
never shot left-handed before, and Bud, furious at the deception, dashed
to close quarters recklessly, not daring to shoot again for fear of
killing his man.
This move broke the rustler's courage, and his left hand shot skyward.
His right arm being broken, he could not raise it. Larkin rode alongside
of him and peered into his face.
It was Smithy Caldwell.
Quickly Bud searched him for other weapons.
"What're yuh goin' to do with me, Larkin?" whined the blackmailer. "Don't
take me back there. I haven't done nothin'."
"Shut up and don't be yellow," admonished Bud. "If you're not guilty of
anything you can prove it quick enough, I guess."
"I saved your life once," pleaded the other. "Let me go."
"You saved it so you could get more money out of me. Think I don't know
you, Caldwell?"
"Let me go and I'll give you back all that money and all the rest you've
ever given me. For God's sake don't let 'em hang me!"
The cowardice of the man was pitiful, but Bud was unmoved. For years his
life had been dogged by this man. Now, an openly avowed rustler, he
expected clemency from his victim.
"Ride ahead there," ordered Bud. Caldwell, whimpering, took his position.
"Put your hands behind you." The other made as though to comply with this
command, when suddenly with a swift motion he put something in his
mouth.
Instantly Bud had him by the throat, forcing his mouth open. Caldwell,
forced by this grip, spat out something that Bud caught with his free
hand. It was a piece of paper. Larkin slipped it into the pocket of his
shirt and released his clutch. Then he bound Smithy's hands and started
back toward the scene of the raid.
When he arrived, with his prisoner riding ahead on the limping horse, he
found that all was over. Two of the rustlers were dead, but the rest were
sitting silent on the ground by the side of the cook-wagon. One sheepman
had been killed, and another's broken shoulder was being roughly dressed
by Sims.
Others of the sheepmen were riding around the herd, quieting it. That
there had been no stampede was due to the fact that the shooting had come
from all sides at once, and the creatures, bewildered, had turned in upon
themselves and crowded together in sheer terror, trampling to death a
number in the center of the herd.
Less than half a mile ahead were the banks of the Big Horn and the ford. A
mile behind the leaders of the sheep were steadily advancing. There was
only one thing to be done.
"Drive the cows across the ford," commanded Bud. Then he told off a detail
to guard the prisoners, and the rest of the men got the cattle in motion
toward the crossing.
Bud did not join this work. Instead, he pulled from his pocket the bit of
paper that Smithy Caldwell had attempted to swallow. By the light of a
match he read what it said:
The range is clear. Drive north fast to-nite and travel day and nite.
Meet me to-morrow at Indian Coulee at ten. Burn this. Stelton.
For a minute Bud stared at the incriminating paper, absolutely unable to
digest the information it carried. Then with a rush understanding came to
him, and he knew that Mike Stelton, the trusted foreman of the Bar T
ranch, was really the leader of the rustlers, and was the most active of
all of them in robbing old Beef Bissell.
For a long time he sat motionless on his horse, reviewing all the events
that had passed, which now explained the remarkable activity of the
rustlers and their ability to escape pursuit and capture.
"I don't know where Indian Coulee is, Stelton," he said to himself, "but
I'll be there at ten if it's within riding distance."