THE INVADERS
The Mexican whipped his gun out and covered Sundown, who wisely put up
his hands. Two of the men crawled through the fence, secured Sundown's
horse, and ordered him to dismount. Before both feet had touched the
ground one of the Mexicans had snatched Sundown's gun from its holster.
Chance leaped at the Mexican, but Sundown's "Here, Chance!" brought the
dog growling to his master.
At that moment Loring stepped from the house, and shouldering aside the
men strode up to Sundown. The sheep-man was about to speak when the
tall one raised his arm and shook his fist in Loring's face.
"Fer two pins I'd jump you and stomp the gizzard out of you, you
low-down, dried-up, whisker-faced, mutton-eatin' butcher, you! I goes
to you and makes you a square offer and you come pussy-footin' in and
steals me ranch when I ain't there! If Jack Corliss don't run you
plumb off the edge afore to-morrow night, I'll sure see if there's any
law--" and Sundown paused for lack of breath.
"Law? Mebby you think you got somethin' to say about this here
water-hole, and mebby not," said Loring. "Don't get het up. I come to
this country before you knew it was here. And for law--I reckon seein'
you're wanted by the law that them papers of yourn is good for startin'
a fire--and nothin' more. The _law_ says that no man wanted by the law
kin homestead. The water-hole is open to the fust man that wants it
and I'm the fust. Now mebby you can think that over and cool off."
Sundown was taken aback. Though unversed in the intricacies of the
law, he was sensible enough to realize that Loring was right. Yet he
held tenaciously to his attitude of proprietor of the water-hole. It
was his home--the only home that he had known in his variegated career.
The fact that he was not guilty buoyed him up, however. He decided
that discretion had its uses. As his first anger evaporated, he cast
about for a plan whereby to notify Corliss of the invasion of the
water-hole ranch. His glance wandered to Chance.
Then he raised his eyes. "Well, now the fireworks is burned down, what
you goin' to do?"
Loring gestured toward the house. "That's my business. But you can
turn in and cook grub for the men. That'll keep you from thinkin' too
hard, and we're like to be busy."
"Then you're takin' me prisoner?" queried Sundown.
"That's correc'."
"How about the law of that?"
"This outfit's makin' its own laws these days," said Loring.
And so far as Loring was concerned that ended the argument. Not so,
however, with Sundown. He said nothing. Had Loring known him better,
that fact would have caused him to suspect his prisoner. With evident
meekness the tall one entered the house and gazed with disconsolate
eyes at the piled kyacks of provisions, the tarpaulins and sheepskins.
His citadel of dreams had been rudely invaded, in truth. He was not so
much angered by the possible effects of the invasion as by the fact.
Gentle Annie was lowing plaintively. The chickens were scurrying about
the yard, cackling hysterically as they dodged this and that herder.
The two pigs, Sundown reflected consolingly, seemed happy enough.
Loring, standing in the doorway, pointed to the stove. "Get busy," he
said tersely. That was the last straw. Silently Sundown stalked to
the stove, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work. If there were not
a score of mighty sick herders that night, it would not be his fault.
He had determined on a bloodless but effective victory, wherein soda
and cream-of-tartar should be the victors.
Soda and cream-of-tartar in proper proportions is harmless. But double
the proportion of cream-of-tartar and the result is internal riot.
"And a leetle spice to kill the bitter of the taste ought to work all
right," he soliloquized. Then he remembered Chance. Loring had left
to oversee the establishment of an outlying camp. The Mexican who
assisted Sundown seemed stupid and sullen. Sundown found excuse to
enter his bedroom, where he hastily scrawled a note to Corliss. Later
he tied the note to the inside of the dog's collar. The next thing was
to get Chance started on the road to the Concho. He rolled down his
sleeves and strolled to the doorway. A Mexican sat smoking and
watching the road. Sundown stepped past him and began to tinker with
the gas-engine. Chance stood watching him. Presently the gas-engine
started with a cough and splutter. Sundown walked to the door and
seemed about to enter when the Mexican called to him and pointed toward
the distant tank. Water was pouring over its rim. "Gee Gosh!"
exclaimed Sundown. "I got to shut her off." He ran to the engine and
its sound ceased. Yet the water still poured from the rim of the tank.
"Got to fix that!" he asserted, and started toward the tank. The
Mexican followed him to the fence.
"You come back?" he queried significantly.
"Sure thing! I ain't got a hoss, have I?"
The Mexican nodded. Sundown crawled through the fence and strode
slowly to the tank. He pretended to examine it first in view of the
house and finally on the opposite side. As Chance sniffed along the
bottom of the tank, Sundown spoke to him. The dog's ears pricked
forward. Sundown's tone suggested action. "Here, Chance,--you fan it
for the Concho--Jack--the boss. Beat it for all you're worth. The
Concho! Sabe?" And he patted the dog's head and pointed toward the
south.
Chance hesitated, leaping up and whining.
"That's all right, pardner. They ain't nothin' goin' to happen to me.
You go!"
Chance trotted off a few yards and then turned his head inquiringly.
"That's right. Keep a-goin'. It's your stunt this time." And Sundown
waved his arm.
The return of Sundown without the dog occasioned no suspicion on the
Mexican's part. He most naturally thought, if he considered the fact
at all, that the dog was hunting the mesas. Then Sundown entered the
house and experimented with soda and cream-of-tartar as though he were
concocting a high explosive with proportions of the ingredients
calculated to produce the most satisfactory results. His plan,
however, was nipped in the bud. That night the herders refused to eat
the biscuits after tasting them.
Hi Wingle, coming from the bunk-house, wiped his hands on his apron,
rolled a cigarette, and squatted in the shade. From within came the
clatter of knives and forks and the rattle of dishes. The riders of
the Concho were about through dinner. Wingle, gazing down the road,
suddenly cast his cigarette away and rose. The road seemed empty save
for a lean brown shape that raced toward the Concho with sweeping
stride. "It's the dog. Wonder what's up now?"
Chance, his muzzle specked with froth and his tongue lolling, swung
into the yard and trotted to Wingle. "Boss git piled ag'in?" queried
the cook, patting Chance's head. "What you scratchin' about?"
The dog lay panting and occasionally pawing at his collar.
"What's the matter? Cockle-burr?" And Wingle ran his fingers under
the collar. "So? Playin' mail-man, eh?"
He spread out the note and read it. Slowly he straightened up and
slowly he walked to the bunk-house. "No. Guess I'll tell Jack first."
He strode to the office and laid the note on Corliss's desk. The
rancher, busy running up totals on the pay-roll, glanced at the
sweat-stained piece of paper. He read it and pushed it from him. "All
right, Hi."
Wingle hesitated, then stepped out and over to the bunk-house. "Takes
it mighty cool! Wonder what he's got up his sleeve. Somethin'--sure!"
Corliss studied the note. Then he reached for paper and envelopes and
wrote busily. One of the letters was to the sheriff in Antelope. It
was brief.
I'm going to push a bunch of stock over to the water-hole range. My
boys have instructions not to shoot. That's the best I can do for them
and the other side. JOHN CORLISS.
The other letter was to Nell Loring. Then he rose and buckled on his
gun. At the bunk-house he gave the letters to Lone Johnny, who saddled
and departed immediately.
Without making the contents of the note known, he told the men that
they would join Bud Shoop and his outfit at the Knoll and push the herd
north. Later he took Wingle aside and told him that he could stay and
look after the rancho.
The indignant Hi rolled down his sleeves, spat, and glared at Corliss.
"I quit," he snapped. "You can hire a new cook."
Despite his preoccupation Corliss smiled. "All right, Hi. Now that
you're out of a job, you might saddle up and ride with us. We'll need
some one to keep us good-natured, I reckon."
"Now you're whistlin'!" said Wingle. "Got a gun I can use? I give
mine to Sundown."
"There's one over in the office on the desk. But we're going to push
the herd over to the water-hole. We're not going there to fight."
"Huh! Goin' to be quiet, eh? Mebby I better take my knittin' along to
pass the time."
And Wingle departed toward the office. Rejoining Corliss they rode
with the men to the Knoll. Bud Shoop nodded gravely as his employer
told him of Loring's occupation of the west bank of the river. Then
the genial Bud rode over to the herd that was bunched in anticipation
of just such a contingency as had developed. "It's a case of push 'em
along easy--and all night," he told his men. "And if any of you boys
is out of cartridges there's plenty in the wagon."
John Corliss rode with his men. He told them to cut out any stray
Two-Bar-O stock they saw and turn them back. Toward evening they had
the cattle in motion, drifting slowly toward the north. The sixteen
riders, including Corliss and Wingle, spread out and pushed the herd
across the afternoon mesas. The day was hot and there was no water
between the Knoll and Sundown's ranch. Corliss intended to hold the
cattle when within a mile of the water-hole by milling them until
daylight. When they got the smell of water, he knew that he would not
be able to hold them longer, nor did he wish to. He regretted the fact
that Chance was running with him, for he knew that Loring's men, under
the circumstances, would shoot the dog if they had opportunity.
Toward evening the outfit drew up in a draw and partook of a hearty
supper. The cattle began to lag as they were urged forward, and Chance
was called into requisition to keep after the stragglers. As the herd
was not large,--in fact, numbered but five hundred,--it was possible to
keep it moving steadily and well bunched, throughout the night.
Within a short mile of the water-hole the riders began to mill the herd.
Bud Shoop, riding up to Corliss, pointed toward the east. "Reckon we
can't hold 'em much longer, Jack. They're crazy dry--and they smell
water."
"All right, Bud. Hold 'em for fifteen minutes more. Then take four of
the boys with you and fan it for the road. You can cache in that draw
just north of the water-hole. About sunup the herd'll break for water.
Loring's outfit will be plenty busy on this side, about then. If he's
got any gunmen handy, they'll be camped at the ranch. Chances are that
when the cattle stampede a band or two of sheep, he'll turn his men on
us. That's your time to ride down and take possession of the ranch.
Most likely you won't have to draw a gun."
Shoop reined close to Corliss and held out his hand. "Mebby not, Jack.
But if we do--so-long."
Then the genial Bud loped to the outriders, picking them up one by one.
The cattle, freed from the vigilance of the circling horsemen, sniffed
the dawn, crowded to a wedge, and began to trot, then to run. Shoop
and his four companions spurred ahead, swung to the road, and thundered
past the ranch-house as a faint edge of light shot over the eastern
horizon. They entered the mouth of the draw, swung around, and reined
up.
"We're goin' to chip in when Jack opens the pot," said Shoop. "Just
how strong we'll come in depends on how strong Jack opens her." Then
with seeming irrelevance he remarked casually: "Sinker wasn't such a
bad ole scout."
"Which Loring's goin' to find out right soon," said "Mebby-So," a lean
Texan.
"Sinker's sure goin' to have company, I take it," remarked "Bull"
Cassidy.
"Boss's orders is to take her without makin' any noise," said Shoop.
"Huh! _I'm_ plumb disappointed," asserted Mebby-So. "I was figurin'
on singin' hymns and accompanyin' meself on me--me cayuse. Listen!
Somethin' 's broke loose!"
Thundering like an avalanche the herd swept down on the water-hole,
ploughing through a band of sheep that were bedded down between them
and the ranch. The herder's tent was torn to ribbons. Wingle,
trailing behind the herd, dismounted, and, stooping, disarmed the
bruised and battered Mexican who had struggled to his feet as he rode
up.
From the water-hole came shouts, and Corliss saw several men come
running from the house to seize their horses and ride out toward the
cattle. The band of riders opened up and the distant popping of
Winchesters told him that the herders were endeavoring to check the
rush of the thirst-maddened steers. The carcasses of sheep, trampled
to pulp, lay scattered over the mesa.
"It sure is hell!" remarked Wingle, riding up to Corliss.
"Hell is correct," said Corliss, spurring forward. "Now I reckon we'll
ride over to the rancho and see if Loring wants any more of it."
Silently the rancher and his men rode toward the water-hole. As they
drew near the line fence, the Mexican riders, swinging in a wide
circle, spurred to head them off.
"Hold on!" shouted Corliss. "We'll pull up and wait for 'em."
"Suits me," said Wingle, loosening his gun from the holster.
The Mexicans, led by Loring, loped up and reined with a slither of
hoofs and the snorting of excited ponies. Corliss held up his hand.
Loring spurred forward and Corliss rode to meet him.
"Want any more of it?" queried Corliss.
"I'll take all you got," snarled Loring.
"All right. Just listen a minute." And Corliss reached in his
saddle-pocket. "Here's a lease from the Government covering the ten
sections adjoining the water-hole ranch, on the south and west. And
here's a contract with the owner of the water-hole, signed and
witnessed, for the use of the water for my stock. You're playing an
old-fashioned game, Loring, that's out of date. Want to look over
these papers?"
"To hell with your papers. I'm here and I'm goin' to stay."
"Well, we'll visit you regular," shouted a puncher.
"Better come over to the house and talk things over," said Corliss. "I
don't want trouble with you--but my boys do."
Loring hesitated. One of his men, spurring up, whispered to him.
Wingle, keenly alert, restrained a cowboy who was edging forward.
"Don't start nothin'," he said. "If she's goin' to start, she'll start
herself."
Loring turned to Corliss. "I'd like to look at them papers," he said
slowly.
"All right. We'll ride over to the house."
The two bands of riders swung toward the north, passed the tank, and
trotted up to the ranch-gate. They dismounted and were met by Shoop
and his companions. Loring blinked and muttered. He had been
outgeneraled. One of the Concho riders laughed. Loring's hand slipped
to his belt. "Don't," said Corliss easily. The tension relaxed, and
the men began joking and laughing.
"Where's Sundown?" queried Corliss.
Loring gestured toward the house.
"I'll go," said Wingle. And he shouldered through the group of
scowling herders and entered the house.
Sundown, with hands tied, was sitting on the edge of his bed. "They
roped me," he said lugubriously, "in me own house. Bud he was goin' to
untie me, but I says for the love of Mike leave me tied or I'll take a
chair and brain that Chola what kicked Gentle Annie in the stummick
this mornin'. He was goin' to milk her and I reckon she didn't like
his looks. Anyhow, she laid him out with a kind of hind-leg upper-cut.
When he come to, he set in to kickin' her. I got his picture and if I
get me hands on him . . ."
Wingle cut the rope and Sundown stood up. "They swiped me gun," he
asserted.
"Here's one I took off a herder," said Wingle. "if things get to
boilin' over--why, jest nacherally wilt the legs from under anything
that looks like a Chola. Jack's got the cards, all right--but I don't
jest like the look of things. Loring's in the corner and he's got his
back up."
As they came from the house, Loring was reading the papers that Corliss
had handed to him. The old sheep-man glanced at the signatures on the
documents and then slowly folded them, hesitated, and with a quick turn
of his wrist tore them and flung the pieces in Corliss's face. "That
for your law! We stay!"
Corliss bit his lip, and the dull red of restrained anger burned in his
face. He had gone too far to retreat or retract. He knew that his men
would lose all respect for him if he backed down now. Yet he was
unable to frame a plan whereby he might avoid the arbitration of the
six-gun. His men eyed him curiously. Was Jack going to show a yellow
streak? They thought that he would not--and yet . . .
Sundown raised his long arm and pointed. "There's the gent what kicked
me cow," he said, his face white and his eyes burning.
The punchers of the Concho laughed. "Jump him!" shouted "Bull"
Cassidy. "We'll stand by and see that there's no monkeyin'."
Corliss held up his hand. The Mexicans drew together and the age-old
hatred for the Gringo burned in their beady eyes.
Sundown's thin lips drew tight. "I've a good mind to--" he began. The
Mexican who had maltreated the cow mistook Sundown's gesture for intent
to kill. The herder's gun whipped up. Sundown grabbed a chair that
stood tilted against the house and swung it. The Mexican went down.
With the accidental explosion of the gun, Mebby-So grunted, put his
hand to his side, and toppled from the saddle. Corliss wheeled his
horse.
"Don't shoot, boys!" he shouted.
His answer was a roar of six-guns. He felt Chinook shiver. He jumped
clear as the horse rolled to its side. Sundown, retreating to the
house, flung open the bedroom window and kneeling, laid the barrel of
his gun on the sill. Deliberately he sighted, hesitated, and flung the
gun from him. "God Almighty--I ought to--but I can't!" He had seen
Corliss fall and thought that he had been killed. He saw a Mexican
raise his gun to fire; saw him suddenly straighten in the saddle. Then
the gun dropped from his hand, and he bent forward upon his horse,
recovered, swayed a moment, and fell limply.
Bud Shoop, on foot, ran around to the rear of the house. His horse lay
kicking, shot through the stomach. The foreman drew himself up under
cover of the hen-house and fired into the huddle of Mexicans that swept
around the yard as the riders of the Concho drove them back. He saw
"Bull" Cassidy in the thick of it, swinging his guns and swearing
heartily. Finally a Mexican pony, wounded and wild with fright, tore
through the barb-wire fence. Behind him spurred the herders. Out on
the mesa they turned and threw lead at the Concho riders, who retreated
to the cover of the house. Corliss caught up a herder's horse and rode
around to them. Shorty, one of his men, grinned, fell to coughing, and
sank forward on his horse.
"Loring's down," said Wingle, solemnly reloading his gun. "Think they
got enough, Jack?"
"Loring, eh? Well, I know who got him. Yes, they got enough."
Shorty, vomiting blood, wiped his lips on his sleeve. "Well, I
ain't--not yet," he gasped. "_I'm_ goin' to finish in a blaze of
glory. Come on, boys!" And he whirled his horse. Swaying drunkenly
he spurred around the corner of the house and through the gateway.
Corliss glanced at Wingle. "We can't let him ride into 'em by his
lonesome," said Wingle. "Eh, boys?"
"Not on your fat life!" said Bull Cassidy. "I got one wing that's
workin' and I'm goin' to fly her till she gits busted."
"Let's clean 'em up! Might's well do a good job now we're at it.
Where's Bud?"
"He's layin' over there back of the chicken-roost. Reckon he's
thinkin' things over. He ain't sayin' much."
"Bud down, too? Then I guess we ride!" And they swept out after
Shorty. They saw the diminutive cowboy tear through the band of
herders, his gun going; saw his horse stumble and fall and a figure
pitch from the saddle and roll to one side. "And if I'm goin'--I want
to go out that way," shouted Bull Cassidy. "Shorty was some sport!"
But the Mexicans had had enough of it. They wheeled and spurred toward
the south. The Concho horses, worn out by the night-journey, were soon
distanced.
Corliss pulled up. "Catch up a fresh horse, Hi. And let Banks know
how things stand. If Loring isn't all in, you might fetch the doctor
back with you. We'll need him, anyway."
"Sure! Wonder who that is fannin' it this way? Don't look like a
puncher."
Corliss turned and gazed down the road. From the south came little
puffs of dust as a black-and-white pinto running at top speed swept
toward them. He paled as he recognized the horse.
"It's Loring's girl," said Wingle, glancing at Corliss.
Nell Loring reined up as she came opposite the Concho riders and turned
from the road. The men glanced at each other. Then ensued an awkward
silence. The girl's face was white and her dark eyes burned with
reproach as she saw the trampled sheep and here and there the figure of
a man prone on the mesa. Corliss raised his hat as she rode up. She
sat her horse gazing at the men. Without a word she turned and rode
toward the ranch-house. The Concho riders jingled along, in no hurry
to face the scene which they knew awaited them at the water-hole.
She was on her knees supporting her father's head when they dismounted
and shuffled into the yard. The old sheep-man blinked and tried to
raise himself. One of the Concho boys stepped forward and helped her
get the wounded man to the house.
Corliss strode to the bedroom and spoke to Sundown who turned and sat
up. "Get hit, Sun?"
"No. But I'm feelin' kind of sick. Is the ole man dead?"
"He's hurt, but not bad. We want the bed."
Sundown got to his feet and sidled past the girl as she helped her
father to the bed.
"I sent for the doctor," said Corliss.
The girl whirled and faced him. "You!" she exclaimed--"You!"
The rancher's shoulders straightened. "Yes--and it was my gun got him.
You might as well know all there is to it." Then he turned and,
followed by Sundown, stepped to the yard. "We'll keep busy while we're
waiting. Any of you boys that feel like riding can round up the herd.
Hi and I will look after--the rest of it."
"And Bud," suggested a rider.
They found Shoop on the ground, the flesh of his shoulder torn away by
a .45 and a welt of red above his ear where a Mexican's bullet had
creased him. They carried him to the house. "Sun, you might stir
around and rustle some grub. The boys will want to eat directly." And
Corliss stepped to the water-trough, washed his hands, and then rolled
a cigarette. Hi Wingle sat beside him as they waited for dinner.
Suddenly Corliss turned to his cook. "I guess we've won out, Hi," he
said.
"Generally speakin'--we sure have," said Wingle. "But I reckon _you_
lost."
Corliss nodded.