A HIDDEN ENEMY
Cock Murray had an engagement to meet Schatz at the point where the
Double Y's north line touched the Black Jack, and after he had ridden up
to the south line to see how the cows were doing, as Buck had ordered,
he swung west to the Black Jack to follow it down to the meeting place.
As he rode he neared the Hog Back, a vast upheaval of rock, not high
enough to be called a mountain, flat on the top except for hollows and
gullies, scantily covered with grass and stunted trees. The Hog Back
would have been called a mesa in the South, for want of a better name,
though it was no more a mesa than it was a mountain. A mile long and a
third of that across at its widest point, it made an effective natural
barrier between the Double Y and the river, hiding a pasture of great
acreage which lay between it and the precipitous cliff which frowned
down upon the rushing, swishing Black Jack eighty feet below. While the
round-up would, of course, comb this poor-grass part of the range for
outlaws and strays, the outfit never gave it any attention because
cattle seldom were found upon it.
Cock Murray, knowing that he had an hour to spare, and fond of hard
riding where his skill was called into play, suddenly decided to ascend
the Hog Back. Antelope were still to be found even on the range itself,
along the wildest part of the south line, and he might get a shot at one
if he made the climb. It was an easy task to go up the northern end,
where the trail arose in a succession of steep grades; but he had no
time for that and guided his pony up the rough, rocky east wall. As he
gained the top he rested the horse while he looked around. It was a
favorite view of his; below him lay the range and the river; he could
see, on a clear day, the dot that represented his ranch house; and to
the west and south lay the wild, rolling range of the Cyclone. Gradually
his gaze sought nearer objects and he thought of antelope. Moving
forward cautiously he kept keen watch on all sides, intending if he
caught sight of one, to dismount and stalk it on foot. He had ridden
nearly to the northern end when he jerked his pony to a stand, and then,
gazing earnestly ahead a short distance, went on as rapidly as the
broken ground would permit.
"Dead cows! What 'n h--l killed 'em? Wolves would clean 'em to the
bone. G'wan, you fool!" he growled at his mount. "Scared of dead cows,
are you! If you are, I 've got the cure for it right here on my heel."
The horse went on, picking its footing, and soon Murray whistled in
surprise: "Cyclone brand! Bet they 've got the itch, too. Yep! Died
from it, by G--d! Now, how the blazes did they get over here! Cows, and
sick ones especially, don't hanker to swim the Jack. Well, that will
hold over a little--let 's see how many are up here"--and he began the
search. Four were all he could find, two alive and two dead. The two
that still stumbled weakly in search of food, dropped as if struck by
lightning as the acrid gray smoke sifted past Murray's head. "Wonder
how many more there was and where they went to? Must have been here
some time, judging by the carcasses. Holy smoke! If any cows gone as
bad as these are loose on our range may the Lord pity _us_! Come on,
bronc; we 'll see what Schatz thinks about it. Wish I had time to build
a fire over these itch farms."
He was careful to guide his horse on ground barren of vegetation and not
let brush or grass touch the animal when he could avoid it. As he
plunged down the steep northern trail, a dried water course, he reined
up hard, looking closely at the tracks in the soft alluvial soil washed
down by the last rain. "Must have been about a dozen; perhaps a few
less--then some did get where we don't want them--holy cats! as if we
have n't got enough with our regular calf round-up!"
When he galloped up to the north line he found Schatz waiting for him.
"Schatz," he shouted, "I just found four itch cows on the Hog Back. Six
or eight are loose on th' ranch. They was Cyclone, an' they never
crossed th' Jack by themselves."
"_Mein Gott_! Did you drive dem back?"
"Two was dead; th' other two was so near it I just dropped 'em. They
could n't stand a drive even to th' river. Shall I tell Peters?"
"Shall you tell him? _Gewiss_! Vat you t'ink--I vant itch on de Double
Vy? How dey come?"
"I don't know. But they must 'a' been driven. Th' Jack is cold as ice
an' she runs strong by th' Rocking Horse. That's where th' tracks led
to. Cows ain't goin' to swim that for fun. Why, these was all et up
with th' itch--wonder they did n't drown."
"_Dank Gott_! Sick cows ain't made vell mit ice vater und schwimmin'.
Dey don't lif so long like de vater vas varm. Der shock help kill dem
quick."
Murray nodded, his hand resting on his gun, and Schatz noticed it.
"_Gewiss_, if dey vas too veak to drive in der river, it vas besser to
shoot dem. But ven dey drop dey stay mit all dem parasites. Drivin'
dem off de range is besser. _Aber_, you stopped dem de best vay you
could."
Murray nodded again. "Yes, yo're right--but I was n't thinkin' of
shootin' no cows," he asserted calmly. "I know all about that. But I
was just a-wonderin' if I should ketch some skunk of a cow-punch drivin'
itch cattle on us, an' shoot him, if he 'd drop any parasites when _he_
fell."
"_Ach Gott_! Alvays you shoot, like Dave! Shoot, shoot, shoot! Vy in
_Himmel_ should you alvays grab dot gun? Brains are in your head, and
_besser_ as lead in dot Colt. Brains first, and if dey don't do it, den
der gun. But alvays der gun should be last. _Verstanden_?"
Murray did not reply and his companion, exchanging a few terse sentences
with him, waved him towards the ranch house while he followed the line
towards the Little Jill.
Buck was washing for supper when Murray arrived and kept right on with
his ablutions as the puncher told his tale. Murray quite expected to
see some signs of its effect on the owner, but he met with surprise and
looked it. Buck Peters almost made an ally when he turned, after
Murray's last word. "Murray, that's good work. Prepare for _hard_
work. Send Ned here right away," he said, quietly, no trace of emotion
in his voice.
Murray went out, thinking hard. When a man could take such a blow as
that one had been taken, then he was clean grit all through. To smile
as Buck had done--"By G--d, he 's a man!" swore the puncher. "I can't
_help_ liking him; wish I did n't have to help throw him. And I wish he
did n't trust me like he does--ah, h--l!" he growled, savagely. "He 's
a range thief, after all!"
When Monroe entered the ranch house he found his employer looking out of
the window in the direction of the Hog Back, but he turned at Ned's
entry. "Got work ahead, Ned. Murray found some Cyclone cows dead and
wobbly on th' Hog Back. Bad case of itch. He killed th' wobblers but
says th' tracks show that about a dozen was in th' herd. That means
eight of 'em are on our range among the cattle. Tell th' boys we start
th' round-up at daylight. If we can, we 'll make this do for the spring
round-up, too; if not, then th' calves 'll have to wait till we can go
for 'em. Th' north range won't have no itch cows on it yet, so take th'
south first. As fast as we can cut out th' cattle that are free from
it, we 'll throw 'em over on th' north range. Begin in th' Hog Back
country an' clean up. Drive everything out of it."
"It's d--d funny Cyclone cows swum th' Jack," commented Monroe, a black
look on his face. "By G--d, let _me_ ketch anybody at that game!"
"That's th' whole thing, Ned," and Buck smiled: "To ketch 'em. I know a
man who 'd clean up th' mystery if he was here, an' was told he did n't
have nothin' else to do." He smiled again quietly and turned to his
supper. "But he ain't here, so what's th' use."
"Mebby I--" suggested Ned, nervously.
"No, yo 're goin' to help me most by curing th' evil on th' table; never
mind th' dealer, nor th' game. We 've got as many cards as we 're goin'
to get--use 'em, Ned. Help me lick th' itch first--th' hows an' whys
can wait."
"Yo 're right, Peters; an' we _will_ lick it! But it makes me fightin'
mad, a thing like this. I 'll get everything all ready to-night an' th'
round-up starts with th' comin' of th' sun to-morrow. Good-night."
Buck ate slowly, his thoughts far more occupied with the problem than
with the food. This was the firing of the first cannon in the fight
Monroe had predicted. Who was responsible? His suspicions, guided by
Monroe's warning, were directed towards Schatz, but in his present
absence of knowledge they could advance no farther than suspicions.
Dave's half-closed eyes sneered at him as he recalled the ambiguous
threat made that first night in the Sweet-Echo: still remained suspicion
only. McReady, of the Cyclone, might have designs for the Double Y, but
he doubted it. They had yet free grass a-plenty, though the time was
not far distant when the private ownership of the Double Y would be an
invaluable asset. Still, it might be any other cowman in that part of
the country--or none of them. Well, he had met problems as great as this
one on the Texan range--but he had fought them with an outfit loyal to
the last man, every unit of it willing and eager to face all kinds of
odds for him. He now recalled those men to his mind's eye, and he never
loved them more than he did now, when he realized how really precious
unswerving loyalty is. Hopalong, Red, Johnny and the others of the old
Bar-20 outfit, made an honor roll that held his thoughts even to the
temporary exclusion of the bitterness of his present situation. If only
he had that outfit with him now! Even his neighbors and acquaintances
on that southern range were to be trusted and depended upon more than
his present outfit. His vision, knocking patiently at first upon the
door of his abstraction, at this point kicked its way in and demanded
attention. Buck became aware that for some time he had been staring
unseeingly at a folded paper, tucked partly under his bunk blanket.
With a smothered oath he sprang from his seat, strode to the bunk and
snatched up the paper. The warning it contained was better founded than
the first. It read:
"Buck Peters: Itch on the YY. Crossed the Jack at the Rocking Horse. A
Friend."
"If you told me who sent it across, you 'd be more of a friend,"
muttered Buck--in which he was less wise than Tex, who did not see the
sense in having the servant removed while the master remained.
Hoofbeats rolled up in the darkness and stopped at the door of the house
and a moment later Whitby entered the room, his pink, English complexion
aglow with the exercise and wind-beating of his ride.
Buck was glad to see him; he needed a little of the other's cheerful
optimism and after a few minutes of random conversation, Buck told him
of the latest developments. Whitby's surprise was genuine, and the
practicability of his nature asserted itself. This was ground upon
which he was thoroughly at home.
"I say, Buck, we can show these swine a thing or two they don't know,"
he began. "They don't know it in the States, I 'll lay, nor north of
the line either, for that matter. My Governor is a cattle man, you
might say; on the other side of the pond, of course. And I 've knocked
about farm land a good bit, you know. Now a chap in the same county had
a lot of sheep with this what-d'you-call it--scab, they said. He used a
preparation of arsenic but a lot of the beggars died, poisoned, you
know. He had tried a number of other things and he got jolly well tired
of the game; so he wrote to a cousin, chemist or something, and told him
about it; and this chap sent him a recipe, after a bit, that killed off
the parasites like winking, without injuring a single sheep."
"That ain't goin' to help us none, Whit. You ain't got th' receipt an'
you don't know how to make th' stuff."
"Ah! But I do though. I gave him a hand with the silly beggars and
bally good fun it was, too. We passed them through a long trough and
ducked their heads under as fast as they came along. But it was work,
no end, mixing the solution. There was nothing funny about that part of
it."
"See here, Whit, are you really in earnest? Do you think you can make
the stuff and show us how to use it?"
"Absolutely certain, dear boy. Cattle are n't sheep, but I 'll be bound
it 'll do the trick."
"How fast can you run 'em though?"
Whitby reflected. "We could do a thousand a day, perhaps more. It
depends on how many you do at once, you know." And Whitby went into a
detailed description to which Buck gave close attention. At the end he
shook his head. "Reckon we 'll have to stick to th' old way," he
adjudged, regretfully. "There ain't that quantity of lime and sulphur
in all Montana."
"Ah, yes; your point is good," drawled Whitby, smiling. "But your
partner lives in Chicago where there is any quantity of it. If we wired
him to-morrow to get the stuff and ship it at once he would do it, don't
you know."
"Take it too long to get here," replied Buck, gloomily.
"Don't you think the railroad will see that such an important
consignment gets off and comes through quickly, especially if the
consignor is willing to pay the damage? I 'll bet you a good cigar it
will be here within a week after we wire. Let _me_ send the wire and I
'll bet you a box. I 'm bally good at wires. I used to get money out
of the Governor by wire when I could get it no other way."
"Let her go," said Buck. "If it's all you say we 'll show them coyotes
we know a few tricks ourselves."
"Yes, I fancy we shall," replied Whitby. "But isn't this a rummy game?
They act like savages, you know. It is all very refreshing to a sated
mind--and their justice is so deuced direct, right or wrong. Fancy
Blackstone in the discard, as you Americans say, and a Colt's revolver
sovereign lord of the realm!"
"King Colt is all right, Whitby, when you _know_ who to loose him at,"
declared Buck, turning toward the door to the kitchen. "Jake! Jake!"
he called.
The sharp, incisive tones told their story and brought buoyancy to the
cook, for he was on his feet, across the kitchen, and into the
dining-room in apparently one movement, which astounded the soul of that
culinary devotee when leisure gave time for reflection.
"Why, Jake, I believe yo 're gettin' to be almost a human, livin'
creature," remarked Buck. "I never saw you move so fast before. It
ain't pay day now, you know."
"Shore I know, but next _week is_," grinned Jake, not quite catching the
meaning.
"Oh, I 'm glad you do," sighed Buck with relief. "Now as long as you
ain't sufferin' no hallucernations, suppose you tell Ned to come in
here. You need n't tell _him_--he knows it ain't, too."
"Knows what ain't?" demanded Jake, his fingers slowly ploughing through
his mass of hair. "If I need n't tell him, what do you want me to tell
him for?"
"Be calm, Jake, be calm," replied Buck, raising a warning finger.
"There are _two_ tells in this; one you must, th' other you need n't."
"Ah, go to h--l an' tell him yourself," retorted Jake, backing toward a
handy chair so as not to be without a weapon.
"You tell Ned I want to see him--I 'll explain th' second tell later.
Now--_Will_ y'u tell?"
Jake backed into the kitchen, slammed shut the door behind him, and lost
no time in getting to the bunkhouse.
"Hey, Ned," he blurted out, "th' boss says to tell you he wants to see
you. Th' second tell can wait till later. William Tell?"
"What t'ell!" snorted Bow-Wow, arising.
"You another?" demanded the cook; then he fled, Ned following more
leisurely.
Bow-Wow looked at Murray inquiringly: "What did he mean by William
Tell?"
Murray put down his mended riding gear. "Why, don't you know?"
"Shore; what is it?" sarcastically responded Bow-Wow. "If I knew, do
you think I 'd tell?"
"Well I know, all right. It's what he was brought up on, Bow-Wow."
"Huh! Did you know him when he was a kid?"
"Shore! He used to live in th' next street in th' same town, or was it
in some other town?" he mused, thoughtfully. "H--l, that don't make no
difference, 'cause he lived in th' next street. See?"
"No; I don't; not a d--d bit!"
"Bow-Wow, if I was as thick as you get sometimes, I 'd drink lots of
water an' thin down a bit. This is th' story of William Tell, an' I 'll
tell it to you if you won't tell: When he was a kid he had a awful
yearnin' for apples, like you has for cheap whiskey, Bow-Wow. Nothin'
else suited him an' th' bigger he got th' more apples he had to eat.
All th' farmers was a-layin' for him with guns, so what did li'l Willie
do? Why, he shot 'em down with a bow an' arrer. An' that's why he can
throw a stone so straight to-day. _Now_ do you see?"
Bow-Wow threw a shoe after Murray's departing figure and suggested a
place to go to. Then he scowled and muttered: "If I was shore of what I
suspects I 'd give you a sample of _my_ shootin', _six_ samples so you
'd appreciate the real thing." He grinned at the memory of Jake's
message.
"You 'll say somethin' with sense in it some day if you gropes long
enough, Jake. Yo 're gettin' warmer all th' time."
When Monroe reached the ranch house Buck met him with some sharp orders:
"Send Bow-Wow to Twin River and Wayback first thing to-morrow. Tell him
to leave word we want two dozen more punchers for our round-up--fifty
dollars a month an' a full month's work guaranteed. Jake 's goin' to
dig some big holes in th' ground in th' next few days--he ain't fit for
nothin' else, not even cookin'."
A crash in the kitchen interrupted him. "Jake!" he called. There was a
scramble and the cook appeared, much excited. "What's th' fuss about?"
"Fell off my chair," replied Jake. "An' it hurts, too."
"Yo 're gettin' too soft, Jake. A little exercise 'll toughen you so a
chair would n't dare to tackle you. I 'm goin' to let you dig some holes
first thing to-morrow."
Jake had visions of extensive excavations, dug by him, into which
thousands of dead cows were being piled for burial. "Would n't it be
better to burn 'em, or push 'em into th' river an' shoot 'em there?"
"I never saw holes you could handle that way, Jake," gravely replied
Buck.
"Why, no," supplemented the foreman. "Most holes would ruther be slit
up th' middle an' salted. That's th' way we allus used to get rid of
'em."
"I don't mean holes--I mean _cows_!" explained Jake.
"Oh, then it 's all right," responded Buck. "I ain't goin' to ask _you_
to dig no cows, Jake. But yo 're goin' to dig some nice ditches
to-morrow; long, deep ones, an' good an' wide."
"I ain't never dug a ditch in my life," hastily objected Jake.
"Why, did n't you tell me how you dug that railroad cut down there in
Iowa, an' got a hundred dollars extra 'cause you saved th' company so
much money?" inquired Buck.
"Oh, but that was a steam shovel!"
"All right; you 'll steam afore yo 're at it very long."
Jake backed out again, slipped out of his kitchen, and stood reflective
under the stars. He would quit and flee to Twin River if it was n't
such a long walk. "D--n it!" he growled, and forthwith threw two stones
into the darkness by way of getting rid of some of his anger.
"Sa-a-y!" floated a voice out of the night. "You jerk any more rocks in
_this_ direction an' I 'll beat you up so you 'll wipe your feet on
yoreself, thinkin' yo 're a doormat! What 'n h--l you mean, anyhow?"
"Mebby they 's _apples_!" jeered Bow-Wow from the bunk-house. "Hello,
William Tell!"
The cook softly closed the door and propped a chair against it. "Gee
whiskers! I ain't goin' to stay _here_ much longer! _Every_body 's
gettin' crazy!"
"'If a body meets a body, comin' through th' rye,'" quavered a voice
from the corral and a voice in the darkness profaned the song: "Ever
meet yoreself goin' t'other way, after surroundin' th' rye?"
"Never had that pleasure after you 'd been at th' booze."
Chesty Sutton entered the bunk-house and stared at Bow-Wow. "What's
eatin' you?" he demanded, curiously.
"I dunno; I 've been itchin' ever since Murray told us. Wonder if I 've
got it?"
Chesty considered: "Well, now I remember that chickens, cats, and dogs
don't get cattle itch. You ain't got it, Bow-Wow. It 's yore
imagination that's got it. But if you 're bound to scratch, do it
somewhere else--you make me nervous, keepin' on one spot so long. Wait
till I asks th' boys about it."
"Stop!" snapped Bow-Wow, his hand on a bottle of harness oil: "You never
mind about askin' anybody! I 'll take yore word for it--remember, I 'll
bust yore gizzard if you gets that pack o' coyotes barkin' at my heels!"
"Holy Smoke! We 'll have our hands full a while," growled Chesty,
dropping onto a box. "Let any o' this crowd ketch anybody throwin'
mangy cows over on us! An' right after it comes th' Spring
combin'--this is shore a weary world."
"Jake 's got to dig some ditches," remarked the foreman, entering the
house, and immediately the misery of future hours was forgotten in the
merriment and satisfaction found in this news. Jake would have a lot of
advisers.
In the ranch house Whitby was laughing gently and finally he voiced a
wish: "I say, Peters, what a wealth of character there is out here. I
wish Johnnie Beauchamp were here--what a rattling good play he could
make. You know, Johnnie's last play was almost a success--and I 'm very
much interested in him. I backed him to the tune of two thousand
pounds."
Invited to spend the night in the ranch house, Whitby accepted with
alacrity. In carrying out McAllister's wishes he could not be too near
headquarters, he concluded; but added to this, he entertained a sincere
admiration for Buck Peters which increased as the days went by.
Some few minutes after the lights were out, Buck was brought back from
the shadowy realm of sleep by Whitby's voice coming from the other room.
"I say, Peters, did you keep those calculations?"
"Yes," answered Buck. "Why?"
"There 's the lumber, you know. It might be a good idea to have
McAllister send it on."
"Shore would. You tell him."
"I will," promised Whitby. A few seconds later he broke out again: "Do
you know, Buck, the railroad companies of America are cheerful beggars.
They take your luggage and then play ducks and drakes with it, in a very
idiotic way. Why, mine was lost for two weeks and I was in a very devil
of a fix. So it would not be a bad idea, you know, if I tell your
partner to send a man with the consignment. He can sit on the barrels
and see that they are n't placed on a siding to prove the theory that
loss of movement results in inertia. Am I right?"
Buck laughed from his heart. "If there 's anything you don't think of
make a note of it an' let me see it," he commended.
"What a rummy remark. I say, how--ha! ha!" and Whitby's bunk creaked to
his mirth. "That's rather a neat one, you know! I did n't know you
were Irish, Peters, blessed if I did! I must tell that to your man
Friday--it will keep the bally ass combing his frowsy locks for a week."
Buck had one foot on the Slumberland boundary when he heard the voice
again, seeming to have travelled a long distance: "And I believe I
should be rewarded for my brilliancy. I 'll ask your partner to send
some brandy and a box of _good_ cigars with the rest of it as my fee. I
'll have to learn to smoke all over again," he complained drowsily. A
raucous snore bounced off the partition and Whitby opened his eyes for a
moment: "My word, if Friday could only cook as well as he snores!"