CONNIE MEETS A NEIGHBOR
The following morning when Connie threw off his blankets and swung
his feet to the floor beside his bed he emitted a startled grunt of
surprise and pain. "What in thunder is the matter with me?" he
muttered, as he rose gingerly to his feet, and stretched his arms
above his head. Every muscle of his body from neck to heels was
stiff and sore as though he had been pounded with a club. He dressed
with an effort and seating himself on the edge of the bed, began
laboriously to pull on his boots.
"Come in!" he called, in answer to a knock, and the head and
shoulders of the boss were thrust through the doorway.
"How you feelin'?" asked Harmon with a grin, as the boy leaned
stiffly over to pull on his other boot.
"Feeling! I feel like I'd fallen off the top of the highest mountain
in the world and hit a rock every ten feet all the way down."
The boss laughed: "Yup, I mistrusted you would. That's what it does
to you--ridin' when you ain't used to it. An' they's only one cure
fer it--keep on ridin'. It'll pretty near bust you in two to ride
to-day, but you got to keep at it. After three or four days you'll
be able to ride all day an' never know you done nothin'.
"Breakfast's ready, an' after breakfast me an' Kid Owens, an' old
Alex, an' Milk River is goin' to ride after horses. It'll take mebbe
a week to git 'em all gathered, an' if I was you I'd kind of hang
around till we git back. Tex, he's goin' to stay here to look after
the hospital bunch an' the ranch hands will keep on throwin' 'em hay.
You better ride a little every day. Tex, he'll saddle up fer you
till you git on to it."
"Why can't I ride for horses, too?"
"Holy Smoke! Ridin' after horses is the hardest ridin' they is. It
ain't no job fer anyone that ain't broke in to it. We'll be foggin'
it all over the range from daylight till dark an' it would jest
nach'ly pound a pilgrim to pieces. No, you got to git broke in easy.
Ride a spell in the forenoon, an' agin in the afternoon an' rest up
between times. You'll git plenty of ridin' this summer, but you
ain't in no shape fer a hard ride, now."
"I guess you're right," answered the boy as he rose to his feet and
hobbled stiffly to the dining room.
After breakfast Connie found Nigger standing saddled and bridled in
the horse corral, and despite the protest of wracked muscles, he led
him out, mounted, and headed for the open range.
A half hour later he pulled up at almost the identical spot from
which he and Harmon had surveyed the valley upon the previous day.
Three or four miles down the creek he could see the nearest of the
two sheep outfits that the foreman had pointed out. "Might just as
well go down and get acquainted with my neighbours," he muttered,
"that is, if I don't fall apart before I get there."
Nigger picked his way slowly down the steep trail that slanted from
the butte, and holding to the bench in order to avoid dismounting to
open the gates of the hay pastures, Connie proceeded down the creek.
A wide-spread grey patch appeared in the distance, a patch that
seemed to be slowly moving and shifting about over the dead brown
grass of the range. As the boy drew nearer he saw that the grey
patch was a band of sheep, and that a man on foot and a dog were
following them. He surveyed the feeding sheep with interest.
Hundreds and hundreds of them spread out over the bench and threaded
their way among the sodden snowdrifts of the coulees. Careful not to
disturb them, he circled widely and pulling his horse to a stand
beside the nester, called out a cheerful greeting.
The sheep-man eyed him with a hostile glare: "Why didn't you ride
right through 'em?" he asked, truculently. "You'll be gittin' fired
first thing you know, if Harmon catches you bustin' orders."
"What do you mean?" asked the boy, in surprise.
"Mean! You're ridin' a Round Seven horse, ain't you? I mean why
didn't you try to scatter them sheep, or turn 'em back on me, like
the rest does?"
"I didn't know you wanted them scattered."
The man laughed nastily. "Harmon wants 'em scattered. You're
workin' fer the Round Seven, ain't you?"
Connie hesitated only for an instant, "Yes," he answered, "I'm
working for the Round Seven. But, what's that got to do with it?
Those sheep don't belong to the Round Seven, do they?"
The sheep-man eyed the boy in astonishment. The look of hostility
faded from his eyes, and he drew a step closer: "Say, kid," he said,
"you're a pilgrim, all right, I know'd it by the way you ride, an' by
the way you swung out fer them sheep. I don't know who you be, nor
where you come from, nor why you throw'd in with the Round Seven.
But I do know that if you stick with that outfit you'll learn every
mean, ornery, crooked, an' low-down trick there is in the cow
business. When Bob Harmon gits through with you, you'll mebbe be
slick enough to start you an outfit on nothin', the way he done. He
busted Mr. Wilson, an' he'll bust the new owner. I hear he's another
miner from up around Alasky somewheres, an' Harmon'll bust him, too."
Connie grinned: "Maybe he'll come down and learn the business and
find out where the trouble is," he suggested.
"He couldn't do it. Harmon's too slick for 'em. Wilson, he was
here, an' Harmon robbed him blind right under his nose. What with
stickin' his own brand on as many Round Seven calves every year as he
dares to, an' bein' in kahoots with a crooked commission outfit in
Chicago, that sends in short weight returns to Wilson, an' splits the
rake-off with Harmon, an' what with sellin' hay to this here Wadell,
down the crick an' shovin' the money in his pocket. No wonder it
busted Wilson."
"Why didn't you go to Wilson and tell him?" asked the boy.
"A man's supposed to mind his own business in this country," he
answered. "If I had, Wilson wouldn't of believed me. Harmon had him
fooled complete. An' besides, I've got a wife an' two little kids
that I'm tryin' to make a livin' for--an' if Harmon ever got wise
that I'd told Wilson anything--well, some fine night I'd turned up
missin'--that's all. I don't know what I went an' shot off my mouth
to you for. Somehow you don't look like his stripe. I guess mebbe
it was you ridin' around the sheep. If you carry what I've said back
to Harmon it's all up with me."
Connie smiled: "Don't worry about anything you've told me ever
getting to Harmon," he assured. "But, you haven't told me yet, why
Harmon should want his men to scatter your sheep."
"'Cause he wants to bust me an' put me out of business, that's why.
An' he's blame near done it. I had a good outfit started here before
the Round Seven come along an' located above me. At that, there
would be'n plenty room for both of us. The range is big, an' there's
plenty of water. I wouldn't of bothered 'em. Fact is I'd gone out
of my way to do 'em a good turn. Fellow named McNamara started the
outfit an' I never had no trouble with him. Then he sold out to
Wilson, an' Wilson made Harmon foreman, an' from that time on I've
had my troubles. What with the Round Seven throwin' in stock around
my fences along in August when the range gits pretty well burnt, so
they'll see my green alfalfa an' bust through an' eat it an' tromp it
in the ground; an' then holdin' the stock in close so they'll eat off
the grass that I need fer winter range--look at it! So short that
the sheep has got to run their legs off to grab a mouthful here an'
there. Look at 'em feed. Them leaders has travelled a mile while we
be'n talkin' an' they ought to fill up easy this time a year. I
ain't goin' to have no lamb crop to speak of jest because the ewes
has got to run theirself thin to git a livin'. It makes herdin' ten
times harder, an' I've used up what little hay I was able to cut
after the Round Seven cattle got through with it. Fer the last two
years I've jest about be'n able to make both ends meet, an' I ought
to be layin' by a little money."
"Couldn't you sue the Round Seven for damages," asked the boy, "and
buy the hay?"
The man laughed, bitterly. "This here is a cow country, son. A
sheep-man wouldn't stand no show to git damages agin a cow outfit.
An' even if I did, where'd I buy hay? They ain't another outfit that
raises any hay to speak of within thirty mile of here. I couldn't
haul it fast enough to feed it, even if I could buy it. I've tried
to buy it from the Round Seven--but Harmon jest laughs at me."
"But, you said he sells it to another sheep outfit down the creek."
"Yes, but that's different. Wadell an' Harmon is in kahoots somehow.
Mebbe Harmon's got a share in Wadell's sheep. I couldn't say fer
sure. Only I know that he helps Wadell out all he kin. They ain't
no cattle shoved over onto him. He ain't got no legal right to his
claim even. He ain't done no ditchin', an' he couldn't hold no claim
anyhow, because he's already proved up on one claim over on Shonkin,
near where Harmon's ranch is. He's jest squatted there, an'
pertendin' he's took up the claim, but he ain't foolin' me. There's
two or three more of his stripe located on Beaver, the other side of
the Round Seven. I got it figgered out that Harmon got 'em all to
come over around the Round Seven for some reason of his own. I don't
know why he wants 'em there, but they're all friends of his. Me, an'
Bill Samuels, an' Mike Campbell is the only bony fido nesters on
Eagle or Beaver. Bill and Mike has got little cow outfits over on
Beaver, an' Harmon keeps their stuff scattered to the farthest edges
of the range. He's tryin' to bust them, too. His orders is to throw
all their stuff out--that is, when his riders sees any of Bill's or
Mike's stock they shove it away from home. They've only got a few
hundred head apiece, an' they don't run no round-up, so it keeps 'em
ridin' all over Montana keepin' track of their stock. No sir, a
little outfit ain't got no show agin a big outfit if the big outfit
wants to get 'em. But, they's plenty of big outfits that's run
decent, an' try to do the nesters a good turn instead of harmin' 'em.
The IX is like that, an' the Circle C. But, the PU an' The Round
Seven is different."
"But, isn't it true that the nesters are fencing off all the water?"
asked the boy.
"No, it ain't true!" exclaimed the sheep-man indignantly. "How much
have I got under fence? How much has Samuels got? And, how much has
Mike Campbell got fenced? Jest one forty apiece for hay--that's what
we've got fenced. Fencin' costs money an' we ain't fencin' no more
than what we have to. It's your crooked little outfit like Wadell
that's doin' the fencin'--him an' the others that Harmon has got
planted along the cricks. An' the fencin' is done with Round Seven
wire! I know. I ain't no fool--but what can I do? Look at the way
their claims is laid off--each one of 'em has filed 'em a homestead
an' a desert along the crick. That takes care of a mile of water,
an' then they've filed their wives on a woman's desert, that takes
care of another mile--an' they ain't none of 'em married. They've
jest gone to work an' filed these here wives that there ain't no such
people. How in time they expect to prove up on 'em I don't know, but
they've got four years to figger that out--an' maybe they've got some
scheme or other about it. Take Wadell--that ain't his real name,
which it's Curry, but he had to change it, 'cause he's holdin' down
his claim on Shonkin under his real name, an' I expect the others has
all changed their names, too. Them kind changes their names, like
honest folks changes their shirt. They dirty one name up by wearin'
it a while, an' then they change to another."
"Will you be willing to stand by what you've told me, when the time
comes for a show-down?" asked Connie, abruptly.
The sheep-man cast a swift, startled glance into the boy's face. He
noted that the lines about the mouth had stiffened, and that the
blue-grey eyes that gazed steadily into his own gleamed hard and
cold. The fear-inspired denial that his lips had already framed
remained unspoken, and came the question: "What do you mean? Who are
you? An' what do you mean by a show-down?"
"I mean just this," answered the boy, and in his voice was the ring
of determination, "If what you've told me is true, and we can prove
that it's true, this cattle country will be a whole lot better off
without Bob Harmon. The state provides a place for just such men as
he is, and the others that are working with him. I think I see
through their game. I served a year with the Mounted up in the
Yukon, and first and last, I helped put quite a lot of his kind where
they belonged."
"But--who are you? An' what you doin' down this side of the line? I
can't afford to get mixed up in no rookus with Harmon. We're a long
ways from the railroad down here. The bad lands butts right up onto
us, an' the bad lands is full of outlaws--horse thieves, an' cattle
rustlers, an' such. If Harmon ever thought I tipped him off to
anyone, my life wouldn't be worth only just the price of a ca'tridge.
An' when they found me in some coulee the sheriff an' everyone else
would lay it to the outlaws in the bad lands. Harmon he wouldn't
think no more of pottin' a man than he would of brandin' a
maverick--if he thought he could get away with it. For Gosh Sakes,
kid, don't start nothin'! Or you an' me both will git ourn--pronto!
But, you ain't told me yet who you be?"
"Morgan is my name," answered the boy, "Connie Morgan. And I'm the
new owner of the Round Seven."
"The -- owner -- of -- the -- Round -- Seven!" Slowly the man's lips
formed the words, as he stared incredulously into the grey-blue eyes.
"Yes, the owner of the Round Seven. And I'm down here to clean
things up a bit. When I get through this South Slope of the Bear
Paws is going to be a healthier place to live in than it is right
now. You and I will hit out all right--and the other little outfits,
too, that are on the square. But the rest of them are going where
they belong. A month from now we'll have them hunting their holes
like rats."
The face of the sheep-man had lighted for a moment as he caught
something of the boy's enthusiasm, but the light faded, leaving it
positively grey with terror. "You can't do it! They's too many of
'em agin' you, an' they're hard men. You ain't got a chance--an' you
jest a kid!"
"Look here!" cried the boy impatiently. "I may be just a kid but
I've kind of knocked around in places where I've had to use my head.
I'm not afraid of Harmon and his bunch of cheap crooks! All I want
you to do is to keep your mouth shut about everything that's passed
between us. Then when the time comes and Harmon and the rest of them
are locked up in jail, you've got to come to the front with testimony
that will put them behind the bars for a long, long time. Will you
do it?"
The man pondered for a few moments and a grin slowly twisted his
lips: "It ain't no ways in reason that you can get away with it.
But, somehow--I guess it's them eyes of yourn--somethin' about you
kind of makes me think mebbe you can. Anyhow--here goes! Me, bein'
a grown man, had ought to be ashamed not to have as much nerve as a
kid. From now on, I'm for you--an' you don't need to wait, if you
need me, till them crooks is locked up, neither. But, take it slow,
kid, take it slow! If I was you I'd lay low till the calf round-up
was far enough along so you can get him with the goods. He'll slap
his brand on a lot of Round Seven stuff this spring--an' in Montana,
if you want to get a man real good, jest you prove up a job of
rustlin' onto him. The Stock Association will back you up, then. If
you say so I'll slip the word to Mike Campbell, an' Samuels, an' then
if anything comes up where you need friends right quick, they'll be
four of us."
"Good idea," assented Connie. "And we'll just lie low and keep our
eyes open till we get the calf-rustling on him, and then we'll clean
house."
"It'll sure feel fine to be good neighbors with the Round Seven
again," said the man. "Seems like when things gets so bad they jest
naturally can't get no worse, luck always changes."
Connie laughed: "A crook has only got about so long to run before he
gets caught. The smarter they are, the longer they can get away with
it--but they're all fools--or they wouldn't be crooks. Guess I'll be
going back, now. So long."
"So long, an' good luck to you!" answered the man, and with a wave of
his arm, he sent his dog to head off the leaders of his band of sheep.