GAME
They got their buck--a big six-point--just before the sun dipped below
the flaming sky-line. In order to pack the meat in, one or the other
would have to walk. Pete volunteered, but Bailey generously offered to
toss up for the privilege of riding. He flipped a coin and won.
"Suits me," said Pete, grinning. "It's worth walkin' from here to the
ranch jest to see you rope that deer on my hoss. I reckon you'll
sweat."
It took about all of the foreman's skill and strength, assisted by
Pete, to rope the deer on the pony, who had never packed game and who
never intended to if he could help it. And it was a nervous horse that
Pete led down the long woodland trail as the shadows grew distorted and
grim in the swiftly fading light Long before they reached the mesa
level it was dark. The trail was carpeted with needles of the pine and
their going was silent save for the creak of the saddles and the
occasional click of a hoof against an uncovered rock. Pete's horse
seemed even more nervous as they made the last descent before striking
the mesa. "Somethin' besides deer is bother'n' him," said Pete as they
worked cautiously down a steep switchback. The horse had stopped and
was trembling. Bailey glanced back. "Up there!" he whispered,
gesturing to the trail above them. Pete had also been looking round,
and before Bailey could speak again, a sliver of flame split the
darkness and the roar of Pete's six-gun shattered the eerie silence of
the hillside. Bailey's horse plunged off the trail and rocketed
straight down the mountain. Pete's horse, rearing from the hurtling
shape that lunged from the trail above, tore the rope from his hand and
crashed down the hillside, snorting. Something was threshing about the
trail and coughing horribly. Pete would have run if he had known which
way to run. He had seen two lambent green dots glowing above him and
had fired with that quick instinct of placing his shot--the result of
long practice. The flopping and coughing ceased. Pete, with cocked
gun poked ahead of him, struck a match. In its pale flare he saw the
long gray shape of a mountain lien stretched across the trail.
Evidently the lion had smelled the blood of the deer, or the odor of
the sweating horses--a mountain lion likes horse-flesh better than
anything else--and had padded down the trail in the darkness, following
as close as he dared. The match flamed and spluttered out. Pete
wisely backed away a few paces and listened. A little wind whispered
in the pines and a branch creaked, but there came no sound of movement
from the lion. "I reckon I plugged him right!" muttered Pete. "Wonder
what made Jim light out in sech a hurry?" And, "Hey, Jim!" he called.
From far below came a faint _Whoo_! _Halloo_! Then the words separate
and distinct: "I--got--your--horse."
"I--got--a--lion," called Pete shrilly.
"Who--is lyin'--?" came from the depths below.
Pete grinned despite his agitation. "Come--on--back!" shouted Pete.
He thought he heard Bailey say something like "damn," but it may have
been, "I am." Pete struck another match and stepped nearer the lion
this time. The great, lithe beast was dead. The blunt-nose forty-five
at close range had torn away a part of its skull. "I done spiled the
head," complained Pete. In the succeeding darkness he heard the faint
tinkle of shod feet on the trail.
Presently he could distinctly hear the heavy breathing of the horse and
the gentle creak of the saddle. Within speaking distance he told the
foreman that he had shot a whopper of a lion and it looked as though
they would need another pack-horse. Bailey said nothing until he had
arrived at the angle of the switchback, when he lighted a match and
gazed at the great gray cat of the rocks.
"You get twenty dollars bounty," he told Pete. "And you sure stampeded
me into the worst piece of down timber I've rode for a long time.
Gosh! but you're quick with that smoke-wagon of yours! Lost my hat and
liked to broke my leg ag'in' a tree, but I run plumb onto your horse
draggin' a rope. I tied him down there on the flat. I figure you've
saved a dozen calves by killin' that kitty-cat. Did you know it was a
lion when you shot?"
"Nope, or I'd 'a' sure beat the hosses down the grade. I jest cut
loose at them two green eyes a-burnin' in the brush and _whump_! down
comes Mr. Kitty-cat almost plumb atop me. Mebby I wasn't scared! I
was wonderin' why you set off in sech a hurry. You sure burned the
ground down the mountain."
"Just stayin' with my saddle," laughed Bailey. "Old Frisco here ain't
lost any lions recent."
"Will he pack?"
"I dunno. Wish it was daylight."
"Wish we had another rope," said Pete. "My rope is on my hoss and
yours is cinchin' the deer on him. And that there lion sure won't
lead. _He's_ dead."
"'Way high up in the Mokiones,'" chanted Bailey.
"'A-trippin' down the slope'!" laughed Pete. "And we ain't got no
rope. But say, Jim, can't we kind of hang him acrost your saddle and
steady him down to the flats?"
"I'll see what I can do with the tie-strings. I'll hold Frisco. You
go ahead and heave him up."
Pete approached the lion and tried to lift it, but it weaved and
slipped from his arms. "Limper 'n wet rawhide!" asserted Pete.
"Are you that scared? Shucks, now, I'd 'a' thought--"
"The doggone lion, I mean. Every time I heave at him he jest folds up
and lays ag'in' me like he was powerful glad to see me. You try him."
The horse snorted and shied as the foreman slung the huge carcass
across the saddle and tied the lion's fore feet and hind feet with the
saddle-strings. They made slow progress to the flats below, where they
had another lively session with Pete's horse, who had smelled the lion.
Finally with their game roped securely they set out on foot for the
ranch.
The hunting, and especially Pete's kill, had drawn them close together.
They laughed and talked, making light of high-heeled boots that pinched
and blistered as they plodded across the starlit mesa.
"Let's put one over on the boys!" suggested Pete. "We'll drift in
quiet, hang the buck in the slaughter-house, and then pack the
kitty-cat into the bunk-house and leave him layin' like he was asleep,
by Bill Haskins's bunk. Ole Bill allus gits his feet on the floor
afore he gits his eyes open. Mebby he won't step high and lively when
he sees what he's got his feet on!"
Bailey, plodding ahead and leading Frisco, chuckled. "I'll go you,
Pete, but I want you to promise me somethin'."
"Shoot!"
Bailey waited for Pete to come alongside. "It's this way, Pete--and
this here is plain outdoor talk, which you sabe. Mrs. Bailey and me
ain't exactly hatin' you, as you know. But we would hate to see you
get into trouble on account of Gary or any of the T-Bar-T boys. And
because you can shoot is a mighty good reason for you to go slow with
that gun. 'T ain't that I give two whoops and a holler what happens to
Gary. It's what might happen to you. I was raised right here in this
country and I know jest how those things go. You're workin' for the
Concho. What you do, the Concho's got to back up. I couldn't hold the
boys if Gary got you, or if you got Gary. They'd be hell a-poppin' all
over the range. Speakin' personal, I'm with you to the finish, for I
know how you feel about Pop Annersley. But you ain't growed up yet.
You got plenty time to think. If you are a-hankerin' for Gary's scalp,
when you git to be twenty-one, why, go to it. But you're a kid yet,
and a whole lot can happen in five or six years. Mebby somebody'll git
Gary afore then. I sure hope they do. But while you're worldly for
me--jest forget Gary. I ain't tellin' you you _got_ to. I'm talkin'
as your friend."
"I'll go you," said Pete slowly. "But if Steve Gary comes at me--"
"That's different. Let him talk--and you keep still. Keepin' still at
the right time has saved many a man's hide. Most folks talk too much."