A "NORTHER"
When Lawler returned to the Circle L ranchhouse he found that Mary had
gone East, to school. She had left for Willets on the second day
following Lawler's departure; and Mrs. Lawler had already received two
letters from her. Mrs. Lawler watched her son keenly when she told him
that Joe Hamlin had brought a letter stating that Hamlin was to be
permitted to take a number of mixed cattle from the Circle L--and that
he had driven away one hundred. She smiled gently when she told Lawler
that on the day before her departure Mary had visited Ruth Hamlin--had
spent the whole day with her, and had come home, mysteriously delighted.
Ruth had given up the school.
"Mary loves her, Kane," said Mrs. Lawler. And she smiled again when she
saw a flush reach Lawler's face.
Lawler intended to ride to the Hamlin cabin this morning. It was the
third day following his arrival at the ranch; and until now he had had
no time for anything except to attend to the many details of work that
had been neglected during his absence.
There were still three thousand head of cattle on the Circle L
range--the men had held them in the valley for a time during his absence
on the trail, but the grass had grown sparse, and the herd was now
grazing on the big plain beyond the northern slope of the valley.
During the time he had been home the outfit had been busy. The Circle L
had a dozen line camps--little adobe cabins scattered over the range,
occupied during the winter by Circle L cowboys whose duty it was to
guard the cattle against the aggressions of timber wolves, rustlers,
cold, and starvation.
For two days the chuck-wagon had been sent rattling to the various line
camps, stocking them with supplies against the winter. As the weather
was threatening the hoodlum wagon had been pressed into service this
morning; and all the men, with the exception of the blacksmith--who was
working diligently in his shop near the corral; and two punchers--Davies
and Harris, who had been assigned to Number One camp--were away with the
two wagons.
Davies and Harris had not been able to resist the lure of "town." The
prosperity that had descended upon them had made them restless, and the
night before they had importuned Lawler to permit them to spend "one
more night in town before holin' up for the winter."
Lawler had consented; and now he was wishing that he hadn't. For when he
emerged from the ranchhouse this morning he saw a dark cloud bank far in
the north, moving southward on the chill wind.
The herd, he knew, was somewhere on the big level beyond the slope of
the valley, in the vicinity of Number One line camp. It was an isolated
section, off the trail that led to town--a section of featureless level
near a big break in the valley. The break opened upon another big level
that stretched southward for a hundred miles. In other days Luke Lawler
had lost many cattle here; they had drifted through the break by
hundreds, with a blizzard behind them; and had been swallowed by the
great waste.
Two years before--aware of the previous losses--Lawler had erected a
wire fence across the big break, extending from a craggy mountain wall
on the western end, to a sheer butte that marked the end of the break,
eastward.
Lawler had sent Red King to the crest of the valley on his way to the
Hamlin cabin, when he noted that the cloud bank in the north had grown
denser, nearer. The wind had increased in velocity, and he had to lean
against it as he rode; and it was so cold and raw that he drew his heavy
cap down over his eyes to shield them, and drew over his mouth the heavy
woolen scarf he wore around his neck.
He rode on a short distance, casting troubled glances into the north. He
found himself wondering if Davies and Harris had gone to the line camp.
If they hadn't, and a storm broke, the herd on the big level was in
danger.
He brought Red King to a halt. The big horse pranced, whistling eagerly.
He champed on the bit, tossed his head, raising it finally and staring
straight into the north.
"You see it too, eh, King?" said Lawler. "Well, we can't take that
chance; we'll have to go to the camp."
He headed Red King down into the valley again, where the bitter wind did
not strike them, riding westward rapidly.
It was noon before Lawler and Red King had traveled half the distance to
the line camp. A dull, gray haze was sweeping southward. It mingled with
the southern light and threw a ghostly glare into the valley, making
distance deceptive, giving a strange appearance to the landmarks with
which Lawler and the horse were familiar.
Lawler increased Red King's pace. He saw that the storm was nearer than
he had thought, and he would have to work fast to get the cattle headed
into the valley before it broke.
The distance from the Circle L ranchhouse to the big plain near the line
cabin was about fifteen miles, and the trail led upward in a long,
tiresome rise. Yet Red King struck the level with a reserve strength
that was betrayed by the way he fought for his head as he saw the level
stretch before him. He was warmed up--he wanted to run.
But Lawler drew him down in an effort to locate the herd before he
started toward it.
Man and horse made a mere blot on the yawning expanse of land that
stretched away from them in all directions. A lone eagle in the sky or a
mariner adrift on a deserted sea could not have seemed more isolated
than Lawler and Red King. In this limitless expanse of waste land horse
and rider were dwarfed to the proportion of atoms. The yawning, aching,
stretching miles of level seemed to have no end.
Several miles into the north Lawler saw the herd. Directly westward, at
a distance of about a mile, he saw the line cabin. No smoke was issuing
from the chimney; and so far as he could discern, there were no men with
the cattle.
Harris and Davies had overstayed. That knowledge might have been
responsible for the grim humor in Lawler's eyes; but the rigidness of
his body and the aggressive thrust to his chin were caused by knowledge
of a different character. The storm was about to break.
The sun was casting a dull red glow through the gray haze. It was
blotted out as he looked. Southward from the horizon ends extended a
broad sea of shimmering, glittering sky that contrasted brilliantly to
the black, wind-whipped clouds that had gathered in the north. Fleecy
gray wisps, detached from the heavy, spreading mass northward, were
scurrying southward, streaking the shimmering brilliance and telling of
the force of the wind that drove them.
A wailing note came from the north, a sighing vague with a portent of
force; a whisper of unrest, a promise of fury. Far in the north, its
blackness deepening with distance, stretched the menace, arousing awe
with its magnitude.
Nature seemed to know what impended, for on the vast level where the
storm would have a clear sweep the dried grass, bronzed by the searing
autumn sun, was rustling as it bent far southward; the hardy sage bowed
reluctantly to the fitful blasts, and the scraggly, ugly yucca
resentfully yielded to the unseen force.
A wide, shallow gully ran northwestward from a point near Red King,
almost in a straight line toward the herd. Lawler urged the big horse
into the gully and rode hard. The distance was several miles, but when
Red King came to the gully end he flashed out of it like a streak of red
flame. He was drawn down, instantly, however, snorting and pawing
impatiently, while Lawler shielded his eyes with his hands and again
scanned the country.
He saw the herd; and as he watched it began to move. There were no men
near the cattle.
They started slowly, seemingly reluctant to leave the level. They moved
sullenly, closely massed, their heads lowered, their tails drooping. The
wind, now beginning to carry a vicious note with its whine, drove a
heavy dust cloud against them, warning them. The wind was icy, giving
the cattle a foretaste of what was to come. And mingling with the dust
were fine, flinty snow particles that came almost horizontally against
their rumps, stinging them, worrying them. They increased their pace,
and soon were running with a swinging, awkward stride, straight toward
the wire fence, several miles distant.
If they saw Lawler they gave no sign, for they went lumbering on,
snorting and bawling their apprehension.
Lawler was about to start Red King toward them, when he noted movement
on the level a little northwestward from the cattle. Peering intently,
he saw two horsemen racing southward, a little distance ahead of the
cattle, parallel with them.
At first Lawler was certain the men were Davies and Harris, and he
smiled, appreciating their devotion to duty. But when he saw them race
past the cattle, not even halting to head them in the right
direction--which would have been slightly eastward, so that they would
enter the valley before reaching the fence--he frowned, wheeled Red King
sharply, and sent him back into the gully from which he had emerged.
"They're strangers, King," he said, shortly to the horse as the latter
fled headlong down the gully toward the point from which he had started;
"Davies and Harris wouldn't leave the herd with that norther coming on."
The big horse made fast time down the gully. He brought Lawler to a
point near the fence where it crossed the gully at about the instant the
two riders were dismounting some distance away.
Lawler rode out of the gully and brought Red King to a halt. There was
no danger that the two men would discover him, for all objects in the
vicinity were rapidly being blotted out by the dancing smother of dust
that was riding the north wind. Lawler was to the north of the men,
slightly eastward, and they could not have faced the smother of dust to
look toward him.
Lawler could dimly see the herd moving toward the fence; he could see
the men plainly; and as he watched them his eyes narrowed. The big horse
leaped with the word he caught from his rider's lips, racing lightly
with the wind toward the fence where the men were working.
Lawler's approach was noiseless, for all sound was engulfed in the
steady, roaring whine of the storm. Neither of the two men, working at
the fence, heard Lawler as he brought the big horse to a halt within
half a dozen paces of them.
The taller of the two, plying a pair of wire-nippers, completed his work
at a fence post and turned to leap toward another. The movement brought
him against the muzzle of Lawler's horse. He halted jerkily, retreated a
step, and looked up, to see Lawler looking at him from behind the muzzle
of the big pistol that had leaped into his hand.
There was no word spoken--none could be heard at the moment. What
followed was grim pantomime, with tragedy lurking near.
The tall man held his position. He had tentatively extended his right
hand, the fingers spread, clawlike. Now the hand was going upward,
accompanied by the other. When the man had stepped backward to escape a
collision with Lawler's horse, the wind had whipped his hat from his
head. He now stood there, his hair waving to the vicious whims of the
gale, veiling his eyes and he not daring to lower his hands to brush it
away.
The shorter man, too, had assumed a statuesque pose. He had turned when
he had noted his companion's startled movement, and he, too, had seen an
apparition that had sent his hands swiftly upward.
The big horse stood motionless, his back to the wind. He did not move as
Lawler leaped from his back--smoothly, quickly, his eyes alert, his
muscles tensed for violent action.
The men stood rigid while Lawler jerked their pistols from their
holsters and tossed them into the dust waves that danced and swirled
around them. The short man was catapulted against the tall one with a
viciousness that staggered both; and then they heard Lawler's voice,
sharp and penetrating, above the shrieking of the wind:
"Those cattle will be here in five minutes! If you don't have that fence
repaired before then, you drift with them, hoofing it!"
In the allotted time they repaired the fence, working with breathless
energy, while Lawler stood near, the menacing gun in hand, a saturnine
smile wreathing his face.
When the herd reached the fence there was no break in it. More--where
the break had been were three men on horses who took instant charge,
easing the cattle down along the fence, heading them eastward toward the
shelter they were sure to find if they kept going.
The three men followed the cattle for a mile--until they were going
straight and fast toward the home ranch. Then Lawler, smiling with
bitter humor, motioned the men toward the back trail.
They seemed to know what was demanded of them. They wheeled their
horses, sending them into the billowy white smother that was now coming
in a gigantic wave toward them.
The southern light had gone. A dense blackness, out of which roared a
gale that robbed them of their breath, struck them. The snow was hurled
against them like a sand blast, biting deep, blinding them.
It took them more than an hour to travel the distance that lay between
the point at which they had cut the fence, and the line cabin. And when
they reached a windbreak near the structure the two men rode behind it,
silent, thankful.
Lawler had ridden forth, prepared for bad weather. His face was now
muffled in a huge scarf that encircled his neck, and his eyes were
shielded by the peak of the fur cap he wore. He dismounted, waved the
men toward a dugout, and watched them as they dismounted and led their
horses through a narrow door. When the men emerged Lawler led the big
red horse in, leaving the men to stand in the white gale that enveloped
them.
The wind was now roaring steadily, and with such force that no man could
have faced it with uncovered face. It came over the vast emptiness of
the northern spaces with a fury that sent into one the consciousness
that here was an element with which man could not cope.
Lawler emerged from the dugout and closed the door behind him. He barred
it, turned and motioned the two men toward the cabin. He followed them
as they opened the door and entered. Then, after closing the door and
barring it, he lifted the peak of his cap, removed the scarf from his
neck, glanced around the interior of the cabin and looked coldly at the
men.
"Well," he said; "there's a heap of explaining to be done. You can begin
now--one at a time!"