THE CATTLE-SHEEP WAR
Next morning before dawn a determined and desperate band of men rode
from the Star Circle Ranch, under the leadership of Mart Cooley. Whitey
and Injun were wise enough not to show themselves, Whitey fearing not
only that they would be forbidden to go, but that they would be sent
home. This would be mortifying, to say the least. But if he were not
forbidden--well, we all know the kinds of excuses with which we ease our
consciences.
While this was going on in Whitey's mind, Bill Jordan was sleeping at
the Bar O. But had Bill known whither his joke on Whitey was leading the
boys, it is likely that he would not have slumbered so peacefully.
So they waited until the warlike expedition had disappeared on the
rolling prairie, and then they followed at a distance. And that was
easy, for Injun could have tracked that mass of horses' hoofprints in
his sleep.
Most of the time Injun and Whitey were out of sight of the cattlemen.
So in order to make this story run right along, it is necessary to tell
what happened to the men while the boys were absent, all of which Injun
and Whitey heard about afterwards.
It was well along in the forenoon when in the distance a mass of moving
dots, with moving specks on its outskirts, indicated a flock of sheep,
and spurring their horses to a gallop the men dashed toward it. And I
regret to say that when the flock was reached, the gallop did not end.
The men rode straight through that bleating, panic-stricken mass, on the
edge of which two hysterical collies vainly tried to exert control of
their charges. The cattlemen were looking for the shepherd.
Some distance beyond the flock, or where the flock had been, for the
sheep were now rushing across the plain, was a two-horse, canvas-topped
wagon, with a stove-pipe protruding through the top at the back. For
your sheepherder does not sleep on the ground like the cowboy, but
prefers a sheltering wagon. When the men reached this shelter, there
was no one in sight. As they reined in, one of the leaders called, "Come
out of there, you black-hearted dog!"
There was no response. Twenty guns were drawn from their holsters. There
was a moment's pause, and the guns were raised. But the curtains of the
wagon were drawn, and a figure appeared and descended to the ground. The
guns were held suspended in the hands of their surprised owners--for
they faced a woman.
The lynching party drew the line at killing the woman--though she did
not know that--but they did not draw the line at making her talk. She
was a half-breed, and she spoke English very badly, but with a gun
thrust in her face, she spoke enough.
And from what the frightened creature gasped out, and from what Mart
Cooley figured in his mind, this is what was learned: Knowing that the
cattlemen would seek revenge, but would first round up their scattered
herd, the sheepmen had had time to act. They had driven almost all their
sheep to the home ranch of the big owners, thinking they could be
protected better there. They had gathered all the men available, and
these were at the ranch, awaiting an attack. The woman's flock was too
far away to be driven in, and she had been left in charge because the
sheepmen had thought that the cowmen would not harm her.
With this knowledge gained, the party wasted no more time on the woman
or on her scattered sheep, but started off for the bigger game. When
Injun and Whitey arrived on the spot, the woman had nothing more to say.
She possibly felt that she had talked enough. Besides, she was busy
smoking a pipe and waiting for the clever dogs to gather the scattered
flock. But the ground was like the page of a book to Injun, and he read
there, much better than the woman could have told him, that the sheep
had been scattered, and the direction in which the men had gone.
Donald Spellman, the manager of the sheep ranch, was a clever, daring,
and resourceful man. His ranch house was situated at the head of a
narrow canyon, or coulee, that led up into steep, barren hills down
which no horse could go. Into this pocket he had the sheep driven by
thousands. Across the narrow entrance his men had built a heavy
barbed-wire fence that was not visible from the foothills. In the
daytime the pass could be defended from the ranch house. At night, with
the sheepmen stationed in the hills, an attempt to break through that
wire fence would be more than dangerous. And this was the situation
against which Mart Cooley led his determined band.
It was at the end of a hard day's ride, and, late afternoon, when the
cattlemen arrived in sight of the enemies' stronghold. They had circled
the plains to the west, and ridden down in the shelter of the hills, to
avoid coming within rifle range of the house. These western hills were
rocky, and at their end a growth of firs, scrub oak, and brush gave the
lynchers shelter. They were four or five hundred yards from the house,
which was in plain view.
Mart Cooley, Walt Lampson, Buck Milton, and a couple of ranchmen stood
in this natural screen and took in the situation.
"Sheep must be up in that coulee," said Walt.
"Sure," Mart replied. "They c'n wait. That there house is sure in a good
spot. If it'd bin planned for a fort it couldn't be better." He stood
and silently regarded the house, his eyes narrowed more than usual. "How
many men d'ye s'pose they've got in there?" he asked finally.
"Reck'n they could scrape up 'bout twenty-five, in th' time they've
had," Walt answered.
"An' some o' 'em shepherds, an' rotten shots, an' they's fifty o' us,"
Buck put in. He was eager for action.
"Well, I come here t' fight, an' I'm paid for it," said Mart Cooley.
"But if we go after 'em in th' open an' th' daylight, they'll get a lot
of us. We'll wait till night."
"Suits me," said Walt Lampson. "I don't want no sheepman t' get me."
There was a puff of smoke from the house, and a bullet whined over the
men's heads. They dropped to the ground. The lynchers raised their
rifles and emptied them, but not at the house. Back of it and to the
left was a raised water tank, and into the lower part of this the shots
were directed. As the men wormed their way back through the scrub, and
around the hill, thin streams of water began to trickle from the tank.
"If we have t' stick 'round awhile, we'll leave 'em some thirsty,
anyhow," said Walt.
Volleys of harmless shots had followed their creeping course, for at
five hundred yards it is hard to hit an object on the ground--especially
when it is protected by scrub.
Under cover of the steep hills the cattlemen waited for night. There was
no sign of attack from the hills. Evidently the sheepmen were keeping
their forces in the house during the daylight hours. After a brief
twilight the night fell, cloudy and very dark. And Mart Cooley had
formed another plan.
One of the men knew the lay of the canyon. Its only practical outlet was
that guarded by the sheepmen. But a short way up the canyon there was a
spring in the hills, which found its outlet in a narrow stream that
ended in a small waterfall at the edge of a cliff. Mart figured on his
force entering the canyon, stampeding the sheep, and driving them over
this waterfall. It was as simple as it was cruel, but you may have
noticed that it takes clever people to think of simple things, and Mart
Cooley was proving almost as clever with his mind as he was with his
guns. For Mart also figured on the effect on the sheepmen's nerve when
they found their herds gone, and their water from the tank giving out.
Under cover of darkness Mart led about fifteen men around the hill,
which they skirted, and, giving the ranch house a wide berth, made their
way toward the mouth of the canyon. There was only one thing to guide
them on their course. Where the western hills raised their heights
toward the sky, their outline showed darker than the surrounding night.
From this wall of black, Mart's force steered a diagonal course that
would lead to the center of the canyon's mouth. Once in the canyon, out
of range of the house and among the sheep, lanterns and fires would
provide light enough for the men's purpose.
It is not likely that there was an idea of poetic justice in the mind
of Mart Cooley; a thought that in stampeding the sheep he was repaying
the sheepmen in their own coin for stampeding the cattle, repaying them
with the death of the victims added as interest.
The plan seemed to be working out easily--too easily. Then, from one of
the foremost rider's mounts, came the shrill neigh of a horse in pain,
and the thudding of the animal's hoofs as it shied violently, for it had
collided with the barbed wire fence. This was Mart's first intimation
that there was a fence, but he had no time to think that he had been
matched in cleverness by Donald Spellman, for things began to happen.
First came the sound of a cowbell. At intervals along the lower strands
of barbed wire bells had been hung. Next came a volley of shots, from
the hills, which had been sought by the sheepmen under the cover of the
night. They were firing toward the sound of the bells. The firing was
not well-directed, but it was steady and dangerous.
It is doubtful whether the attackers could have cut their way through
the fence, handicapped as they were, but they had no chance to try, for
just then a third thing happened. A cloud-obscured moon had been
climbing the eastern hills, and at that moment the clouds parted and the
entire valley was bathed in moonlight.
The light was peaceful and beautiful, but it brought a deadly effect.
Not only did it reveal the cattlemen to their enemies in the hills, but
to those in the distant ranch house, as well. The cracking of rifles was
almost continuous in that fatal triangle, in which the sheepmen formed
two points, and the cowmen the tragic third.
As the trapped fifteen rushed their mounts toward the shelter of the
western hills, drawing farther away from their eastern enemies, they
were forced to a nearer approach to the ranch house, to run the gantlet
of its concealed sharp-shooters. A galloping horse, with its rider, does
not offer an easy mark; fifteen of them, the objective of twenty rifles,
form a better target. And when Mart Cooley's followers reached the
shadows of the farther hills, they did not number fifteen, but eight.
It was into this party of flying horsemen that Injun and Whitey were
carried bodily. As darkness had come on, the boys had ridden cautiously
in the tracks of the advancing party. They had been attracted by the
sound of the shots, and approached as near as they dared, to witness the
battle. They were near the corner of the hill when the terrified horses
dashed toward them, and to avoid being run down they had spurred their
ponies ahead and were swept along with the flying riders.
Well, Mart Cooley had made the mistake of not figuring on the cleverness
of Donald Spellman, and the result of this was not only to make him
furious with himself, but to add to his, and to all the other men's
desire for revenge. All thoughts of starving the enemy out were lost,
absorbed in a lust for killing. The excited men paid no attention to the
boys. It is doubtful if they even saw them.
Mart took his forty-odd men back to the firs and scrub oaks at the lower
point of the western hills, and there they stretched out in the brush,
and prepared to bombard the ranch house. The moonlight was now Mart's
friend instead of his enemy. The sheepmen were divided. Those on the
hills would come in range of the cattlemen's rifles if they attempted to
cross the moonlit valley, and in the meantime they were harmless.
A number of volleys were fired into the house, not at the windows, but
beneath the window ledges. When men are besieged in a house they must
fire from the windows, kneeling by them. Several of the cattlemen's
bullets tearing through the wooden wall of the house had caught these
kneeling figures, and the fire from the place, never accurate, began to
weaken. Mart had another purpose in view, but of that he said nothing.
Possibly he was mortified by the failure of his sheep raid.
Knowing Injun and Whitey as you do, you can imagine that they got as
near to this dangerous situation as they could. No one ordered them back
because no one noticed them. But they fired no shots. The wish to kill
any man, no matter how vile, filled no part of Whitey's young life. It
would be hard to answer for Injun. Hard to tell what the blood of all
his fighting forefathers was prompting him to do.
But Injun couldn't fire a shot if he wanted to. You may remember the
Winchester that had been presented to Injun at the Bar O Ranch. He had
left the gun at home. Injun knew nothing of the modern silencer, but he
had one of his own--his bow and arrows. When he had started out in
pursuit of the horse-thief, whom he supposed to be Henry Dorgan, Injun
had carried these. No explosive gunshots for him. He expected to have to
work silently.
While most of the men had their eyes and the sights of their guns fixed
on the house, Mart Cooley kept his eyes on the sky. But despite this
Mart noticed that no shots came from two figures near him, and looking
closer he saw the crouching Whitey and Injun, the latter with his bow
and arrows. Mart was about to speak to them, when a cloud crossed the
moon. Mart gave vent to an oath of satisfaction and started forward.
Then he thought of something, came back, and grasping Injun by the arm,
dragged him forward with him.
It was a large cloud that obscured the moon, so there was a long period
of darkness. Whitey stayed where he was. He wondered whether Mart Cooley
would come and drag him forward, and rather hoped so. He wondered
whether this darkness would give the men on the hills a chance to join
their fellows in the ranch house. And Whitey also wondered where Buck
Milton was. He hadn't seen him with the party. But Buck was lying out
there on the plain; that is, the mortal Buck was. The other Buck was
probably with his friend Tom.
At last Whitey's curiosity could hold him back no longer, and he crept
forward to the front line of men, keeping well to one side. They had
ceased firing, the house was dark. And the sheepmen there had ceased
firing too. Their only marks had been the flashes of the cattlemen's
guns, and those showed no longer.
All the men were hushed, as though in expectancy. Whitey peered into the
darkness, as they were doing. The cloud's ragged edge showed at the
lower half of the moon, and the ranch house could be dimly seen. From
halfway between it and the men a small light appeared, flickered for a
moment, then rising in the air described a graceful half-circle and
alighted on the ranch house roof. Another, another, and then others
followed. Injun was firing lighted arrows.
The moon came forth, and a volley of shots was poured from the ranch
house toward the spot from whence the arrows had come. A volley from the
cattlemen penetrated the walls of the house. Whitey trembled for Injun,
out there in No Man's Land. He need not have trembled, for that young
person was safely crouching behind a boulder.
For the first time Whitey noticed that a breeze was stirring. Just as in
the night when you light a match a breeze springs up to put it out, so
now wind seemed to come to fan those burning arrows on the ranch house
roof. Whitey watched, chilled but fascinated. The men around him were in
the whirl of a fight. He was a spectator; one who saw other men being
forced out of a trap to their deaths. The arrows burned like tinder.
Whitey did not know that they were soaked in oil, brought along for the
purpose of firing the house.
There had been no rain for a week, so the roof was dry, and soon narrow,
snake-like lines of flame began to creep across it. Whitey thought of
the feelings of the imprisoned sheepmen, knowing what was going on
overhead, but helpless to prevent it. It seemed that they surely must
make some effort. Both sides had ceased firing. Then an idea occurred to
Whitey. Why did not the sheepmen escape from the back of the house? A
volley of shots from the other side of the valley seemed to answer the
question. Under cover of the darkness Mart Cooley had sent half his men
to a point that commanded the rear of the ranch house. Their shots
sounded continuously for a moment and told a plain story. The sheepmen
had tried to escape from the back, and had failed.
These shots told another story. Why were they not answered from the
hills? Because the hill men had joined their fellows in the ranch house.
All were cooped up there, making their choice of deaths; by fire or by
bullets. Anything would be better than the fire. Why didn't they do
something? Whitey found himself growing impatient with these doomed men
whom he never had seen.
Something was stirring on the ranch house roof and glittered
occasionally in the moonlight. The cattlemen watched it intently. It was
the head of an axe, forcing its way through from beneath. The cattlemen
laughed. When the wielded axe had formed a sufficient opening, the head
and shoulders of a man appeared in it, and his hands followed,
supporting a bucket of water. Twenty of the attackers' rifles were
directed toward the roof, but at an order from Mart Cooley they were
lowered. Mart raised his rifle, fired a single shot, and the man's
figure disappeared through the opening, the bucket falling from his
hands and pitching down over the edge of the roof.
[Illustration: THE MAN'S FIGURE DISAPPEARED THROUGH THE OPENING, THE
BUCKET FALLING FROM HIS HANDS]
"Now they know what kind o' shootin' t' expect when they come out," said
Mart.
So Whitey knew why Mart alone had fired. It was to add to the fears of
the sheepmen--if that could be done. Anyway, no other man appeared at
the opening in the roof.
Whitey watched the flames creep up and down the roof, growing higher as
they stole along. He saw them flicker over the eaves, lap the walls of
the house, and finally clasp it like a red, flaring robe. But Whitey did
not think of the fire in those terms, but as a thing of horror, of
death.
You, who have followed the adventures of Whitey, know that he had been
in situations in which he was threatened with death. But then he had
been upheld by excitement; by the necessity of protecting himself. And
he had even faced death, but then he had come on it unexpectedly, in the
case of the hanging train robbers. This was a different matter; waiting
to see men burned out and shot down. And it is small wonder that
Whitey's nerves quivered, that the burning house began to dance before
his eyes, and that he buried his face in his arms, to shut out the
sight.
It is unlikely that Walt Lampson had thought of Whitey, until he chanced
to see this action. Then he spoke, and not unkindly.
"You'd better get back there behind the hill, kid," Walt said. "This
ain't no place for you."
And so Whitey rose, and returned to where Monty was tethered, and he
was not ashamed of the fact that he stumbled as he walked. But Injun
still crouched out behind the boulder. There was no quivering of his
nerves. The only fear he might have had was that if he returned he would
be sent to the rear; and he was too wily to take a chance. So most of
what followed was seen by Injun, and heard about by Whitey.
There came the time when the surviving sheepmen could no longer remain
in the house. Like a wise leader, Donald Spellman divided his forces,
and ten crouching figures emerged from the front of the house, and ten
from the back, and were outlined against the flames, as they scurried
away. How they were harried and followed and shot down would not make
pleasant reading, and what happened to those who were captured it is not
necessary to write, as you will remember what the cattlemen had sworn to
do at their meeting.
After this, if there had been any who doubted Mart Cooley's skill as a
gunman, they doubted no longer. And it was the misfortune of Donald
Spellman to come under Mart's aim. Or perhaps it was his good fortune
to be mortally wounded by a bullet, instead of ending his life as did
the captives. But Spellman had something to say before he died, and he
said it to Walt Lampson.
"You got us," he gasped, "an' you got us right. An' I only got one thing
to tell you, an' to tell you quick. I didn't plan that cattle stampede.
It was a dirty trick."
"Who did?" Walter asked eagerly.
And Spellman answered that question with the last words he ever spoke.
It was at this time that Injun, still crouching behind his boulder, saw
something like a miracle--a dead man coming to life. The man had fallen
at the first volley, and the fight had swung past him. And now he rose,
and stole hastily on his moonlit way. Injun watched solemnly. He had no
mind to give a warning, and probably get shot for his pains. He might
even have admired the trick, if he had not had a closer view of the
runaway, who was Henry Dorgan.
When Injun discovered this, he was solemn no longer. He reached for his
bow, but there was no arrow to fit in it. The last had been shot at the
ranch house. Injun watched Dorgan disappear into the night, and said
bitter things--in the Injun language.
So ended the last of this engagement in the cattle-sheep war, except for
one incident. The cause of it all was still to be dealt with--the sheep.
And here was another picture that Whitey fortunately missed. A tragic
picture, seen from the hills at dawn, as the white, panic-stricken
creatures, crowding, bleating, and complaining, were forced through the
canyon to the bed of the narrow, shallow stream, on their way to the
opening in the cliffs, through which the brook fell in a tiny waterfall
over the edge of the precipice. These innocent instruments and victims
of the greed and passions of man!
These things happened, my friends. Let you and me, and all of those who
love America and the West, send up a silent prayer to the Creator that
they are of the past, that they may never happen again--to leave such
harrowing pictures in the minds of men.