ENOUGH IS SUFFICIENT
The following morning Johnny rode toward the northwest corner of the
Bar H, the hilly, wooded section which had been presided over by Wolf
Forbes. On his ride from the Bar H bunkhouse to the Triangle he had
seen numerous unbranded cattle and wondered what he would find on the
difficult section over which Wolf was wont to hold jealous guard.
Riding to the west of the town he then turned and went south, passing
behind the Doc's cabin, and parallel with the over-mountain trail.
Reaching Clear River he followed it onto Double X range and then let
Pepper pick her way over the mountain, and soon came to his objective,
where he found large numbers of cattle, with an unusually high
percentage of mavericks among them.
"Pepper," he said, alert for signs of Bar H riders, "th' SV has lost
a lot of cows--an' folks can't make cows. So if it's goin' to make up
its losses, it will have to do it with cows that are livin' this very
minute. Now, it ain't reasonable to go on a ranch an' round up a lot of
unbranded cattle, 'specially if it ain't willin' for 'em to be rounded
up. On th' other hand, there ain't no harm in ridin' around an' sizin'
things up. We want to find out where th' mavericks are, an' get some
idea of how many there are of 'em.
"Mebby you don't know it, but a lot of mavericks means, generally, a
lazy outfit, not to say nothin' worse. An' when a ranch reckons it's
fenced off by natural barriers from other herds, that don't excuse 'em.
A dishonest foreman or outfit, or a couple of dishonest men in it, can
get rich with mavericks, if they know their business, an' don't work
too hard. An' if th' whole outfit is dishonest an' workin' for its
ranch, mavericks belongin' to surroundin' ranches are awful temptations.
"Now, th' SV don't earnotch its calves. They don't have no sleepers,
at all; an' I know that calves will wander from their mothers after
they are weaned, an' get notions of their own; an' they can be cut out
an' drove to another range an' grow up to be big cows. On a ranch like
th' SV, that ain't had no round-up in three years, all calves will be
mavericks. There won't be a sign on none of 'em to tell where they
belongs.
"Now, then: We'll say th' Bar H is dishonest, but its foreman an'
outfit is workin' for th' ranch an' not for their own pockets. If they
drove SV calves to their own ranch, they'd put an iron on 'em as soon
as they could, after which they wouldn't have to bother with 'em no
more. They wouldn't have to be guarded jealous by th' best man of th'
outfit, an' turned back when they tried to get off th' ranch. When I
heard how Wolf almost lived out here, I got suspicious, Pepper; an'
when I saw too many mavericks on this ranch, I got more suspicious; an'
you've mebby heard that I was brought up in a plumb suspicious outfit.
Of course, all ranches are goin' to have some mavericks, 'specially if
it has a wild, rough range. Brush, timber, scrub, an' broken country
hides cows that don't get combed out in a round-up; we had some,
ourselves, down on th' old Bar-20, along our west line--but th' numbers
out here are scandalous. I'm keepin' cases on these cattle, an' I says
it's so scandalous that it just can't be true--but it is true, so far.
There's folks down here that are careless an' lazy, or crooked an' I've
got my suspicions about which it is.
"Now, we'll say that th' outfit is crooked, an' workin' for its own
pockets. They wouldn't want to brand any mavericks, not with th' ranch
mark. There's two ways of dividin' that conclusion. First: That they're
doin' it for their own pockets, th' foreman not knowin' about it. But
no foreman is so dumb that he'd overlook so many mavericks--he'd raise
h--l, an' weed out his punchers an' get new men. There wouldn't be
many cows unbranded if he was workin' for his ranch. Th' second is:
Foreman an' outfit are workin' for themselves, dividin' up th' profits
accordin' to some plan. Then nobody would care how many mavericks there
was, for th' more th' merrier. They'd have a right smart herd to brand
with th' mark of some friend's ranch, road brand, an' throw on th'
trail for some shippin' point up north, near th' railroad. Or mebby
they figger on stockin' a ranch of their own that they has in some
other part of th' country. Rustlers plumb love mavericks--an' if I was
one, an' wanted to get rich, I know where _I_'d start out. An' if it
wasn't for th' Double X layin' between this ranch an' th' Snake Buttes
country, them rustlers over there would give this outfit sleepless
nights. Them Double X punchers bein' on th' job all th' time is all
that saves these here mavericks from swappin' ranges. Th' Double X is
workin' for this passel of thieves, an' don't know it.
"Now, then: These mavericks out here are mostly all three years old, or
younger. There's some four-year-olds, an' others, of course. An' th'
SV ain't had a calf round-up in three years. Ain't that remarkable?
Th' Bar H owners get good reports every round-up. Th' new calves keep
right up to th' factor of natural increase, an' there ain't nothin'
to make anybody jump out here for a good look at things. An' when th'
drive figgers go on, an' show five hundred cattle on th' beef trail,
an' really there is a thousand, th' books balance just right; an' Big
Tom gets a Christmas present from th' owners for bein' such a good,
honest foreman. Where that extra five hundred head goes to nobody
knows but th' outfit. I've heard that Wolf is th' _segundo_ down here,
an' is trail boss on every drive. Do you wonder he's jealous of his
mavericks out here, an' watchin' day an night for some of them Snake
Buttes rustlers to bust through th' Double X riders an' pay this
section a visit? Him bein' so alert was another reason why I packed him
off to Highbank for a day or two, where he can have excitement, an'
there's things to do an' see. An' while he's enjoyin' th' hilarity of
town, we'll have a good look around. _Pull up_, Pepper, there's hoss
tracks--fresh, too. They was made while th' mornin's dew was heavy,
which is told by th' little chunks of dirt his hoofs picked up an'
turned over. You stay right here while I go ahead. _Lay down!_" He
slapped the horse and gave a low, peculiar whistle. Pepper laid her
ears back, but slowly obeyed the signal and went down, "playing dead"
on her side. Taking his rifle, Johnny slipped into the brush, following
a course parallel to but some distance from the tracks. For an hour
he trailed, seeing numbers of mavericks and but few branded cattle,
and twice he was in danger of being charged by crusty, old long-horned
"outlaws" who, while having a due and well-founded respect for mounted
men, evidently regarded a man on foot as being a different and less
dangerous species of animal. These he eluded by taking to the brush and
swiftly getting out of sight, detouring and picking up the trail again
farther along. Suddenly he stopped and laughed silently. On the farther
side of a clump of brush a conical, vertically dented Mexican sombrero
loomed against the sky. Waiting a moment to be sure that he had not
been heard, he raised the rifle and took long, deliberate aim. With
the roar of the gun the peak of the hat flipped up and over, reversing
itself as if on a hinge, and hung down on the side of the high crown
like a cup. There was a yell of surprise, the hat dipped down below the
shielding brush, and the sudden noise of pounding hoofs rolled toward
East Canyon. Johnny reloaded and ran to a place from where he could
see the fleeing horseman. It was Smitty, and he was mounted on his own
horse, a long-legged, big-barreled roan, and it was fresh from a three
days' rest. The speed it made awakened a surprised admiration in the
laughing rifleman, who watched the departing horseman until he dashed
into East Canyon.
"Thanks, Smitty," chuckled Johnny. "I'm glad you ain't headin' for
th' bunkhouse. Now I won't be bothered by no curious outfit combin'
these hills, lookin' for me. Reckon Smitty is goin' to town--or he
never would 'a' rode for th' canyon. Just th' same, I'm leavin' for
th' Double X. I've seen all I wants out here, an' now I'll try to fix
up a round-up for th' SV, an' get the rest of th' figgers I needs."
He returned to the horse and rode into the northwest, giving vent to
occasional bursts of laughter.
"Pepper," he chuckled, as he rode down the other slope of the
watershed, "we're havin' more fun down here than we had up around Twin
Buttes, but th' show ain't hardly begun. However, we'll laugh while we
can, an' meet trouble when it really comes."
Smitty pounded into and through East Canyon, busy with his crowded
thoughts and harrowed feelings. His horse from habit chose the
left-hand turn at the other end of East Arroyo, and swung around the
bend toward Gunsight.
"Twice!" he soliloquized. "Twice in th' hat! He was close up, th'
murderin' coyote--sneaked up on top of me when I was so far away from
th' mountain I had plumb forgot him. Sneaked up to th' other side of
that brush--couldn't 'a' been forty feet away--an' he missed _again_!
You can't tell me he didn't aim to miss, not _this_ time. An' I'm dead
shore he aimed to miss me that other time. Why? Because he didn't want
to hit me, _yet_! It was a warnin', it was. He says plain: 'Smitty,
you ain't wanted around here no more. I'm warnin' you th' second time.
But, mebby, th' third time I won't miss.' I'm sayin' there won't be no
third time. Practice makes perfect, an' _I_ ain't no target. He won't
score no bulls-eye on _me_! Big Tom says it's a joke; all right; but
if it is, it ain't goin' no further. An' th' reason is, _I_ am. _I_'m
goin' further, an' I ain't comin' back. I ain't even wastin' time to
go back to th' house for my war bag, an' have to give 'em an argument
about quittin'. There ain't much pay a-comin' to me--none, when I pays
up what I owe--an' I'm callin' everythin' square, all around. Pore
Squint! Huh; I'd rather be able to say 'Pore Squint' than hang around
here till somebody up an' says 'Pore Smitty.' This here country ain't
fit for a dog no more an' I'm goin' to find one that is. Keep a-goin',
you long-laigged rabbit!"
He whirled over the rocky hump below the historic stone benches on Pine
Mountain and streaked toward Gunsight, seeing the Doc come to the door
of the shack and wave at him. The Doc was haggard and sallow, nervous
and poorly nourished after an unfavorable bout with his worst enemy,
and leaned weakly against the door casing as he watched the hard-riding
puncher whirl toward him. He made up his mind that if Big Tom wanted to
see him, Mahomet could come to the mountain, for he was in no condition
to go afield. To his surprise and great relief, Smitty followed the
bend in the trail and headed to ride past. Then it was that Doc waved
again.
Smitty's hand went to his nose and he shouted a greeting and prophecy
in three words. The Doc, unstrung and highly irritable, took enraged
umbrage at the insulting greeting, jerked the Colt from its shoulder
holster and took three erratic shots at the derisive rider, followed
almost instantly by three more. Smitty's anger flared up and centered
on this tangible escape valve. Shooting at him seemed to be the fashion
these days, but it had to stop. There were five rapid reports and five
puffs of smoke, spaced at regular intervals along the trail behind his
horse. He was lucky in his off-hand shooting, for all of the bullets
found a target. One smashed the Doc's window, already cracked; one
drilled a hole through the edge of the door behind him; one turned his
water bucket into a sprinkling can, and the other two screamed past him
into the room and accounted for a dishpan and his lamp. The owner of
the aforesaid articles waxed wrathy and indignant, and jumped up and
down, making strange noises; then, running after the irritated puncher,
tried in vain to find the chambers of his six-gun with the wrong ends
of a handful of cartridges, at the same time indulging in a spirited
monologue, which was jumpy and spasmodic from shortness of breath.
Smitty turned in the saddle and let loose an insult which cannot be
excelled in words, wig-wagged again, and flashed up the gentle slope
toward town.
Gunsight heard him coming, and those inhabitants who suspected that
strange things were likely to happen, made haste to look out and see
what it was. Dailey chose his doorway, Dave an open window, while
Two-Spot wished to be unhampered by walls and roof, and chose his
favorite hang-out, the front of the saloon.
"Where you goin' so fast?" shouted Dailey, pleasantly curious. He
became instantly indignant at the gesture which answered him, and the
words which followed the action left no doubt in his mind that he had
interpreted it correctly. He reached for his gun, thought better of it
and, shaking a fist, shouted instead: "All right! But you'll be comin'
back, cuss you!" and forthwith reached toward the gun again at the
shouted answer he received.
Two-Spot saw the felt cup flapping up and down at the edge of the
sombrero's peak and he let out a howl of pleasure at the sight, whereat
Dave discreetly ducked back from the window, fearing Smitty's reply;
but the puncher kept on ahead of his dust cloud and whirled over the
trail toward Juniper.
Two-Spot shouted with laughter. "Did you see th' hat? Did you _see_
it? Just what I was sayin'," he cried, delighted by the idea that his
humorous conception had appealed to another. "Number Two, an' Smitty
pulls his stakes. Hey, Dailey!" he shouted, "you says he'll be comin'
back; _I_'m sayin' he won't. I'm bettin' we won't see Smitty no more.
He's takin' what's left of his hat where it won't be spoiled no more.
Did you notice th' hoss he's on? That ain't no Bar H critter; that's
his _own_! I'm givin' you two to one he won't come back--two to one,
you gapin' jackass!"
Dailey's open mouth closed suddenly, and he stepped forward, feeling
for his gun again; but Two-Spot went around the corner of the saloon,
kicking his heels together. "He won't come back! Squint, Polecat, an'
Smitty! Wonder who else will be missin'? Three in a row--if Polecat
stays away. But Polecat won't, cuss him. I know him too well for that.
He won't--and I'll be glad of it, too, th' coyote. Who's next?"