DEATH AND TAXES
The iron hand of the law after hovering long above the Verde at last
descended suddenly and with crushing force upon the unsuspecting
cowmen. For a year Boone Morgan had been dallying around, even as other
sheriffs had done before him, and the first fears of the wary mountain
men had speedily been lulled into a feeling of false security. Then the
fall round-ups came on and in the general scramble of that predatory
period Morgan managed to scatter a posse of newly appointed deputies,
disguised as cowboys, throughout the upper range. They returned and
reported the tally at every branding and the next week every cowman
on the Verde received notice that his taxes on so many head of
cattle, corral count, were due and more than due. They were due for
several years back but Mr. Boone Morgan, as deputy assessor, deputy
tax-collector, and so forth, would give them a receipt in full upon the
payment of the fiscal demand. This would have sounded technical in the
mouth of an ordinary tax-collector but coming from a large, iron-gray
gentleman with a six-shooter that had been through the war, it went.
Upton paid; Crittenden paid; they all paid—all except Pecos Dalhart.
It was at the store, shortly after he had put the thumb-screws on Ike
Crittenden and extracted the last ultimate cent, that Boone Morgan
tackled Pecos for his taxes. He had received a vivid word-picture of
the lone resident of Lost Dog from his deputy, Bill Todhunter, and
Pecos had been equally fortified against surprise by Angevine Thorne.
They came face to face as Pecos was running over the scare-heads of the
_Voice of Reason_, and the hardy citizens of Verde Crossing held their
breaths and listened for thunder, for Pecos had stated publicly that
he did not mean to pay.
"Ah, Mr. Dalhart, I believe," began the sheriff in that suave and
genial manner which most elected officials have at their command. "Glad
to meet you, Mr. Dalhart. There's a little matter of business I'd like
to discuss, if you'll jest step outside a moment. Yes, thank you.
Nice weather we're having now—how's the feed up on your range? That's
good—that's fine. Now, Mr. Dalhart, I don't suppose you get your mail
very regular, and mebby you ain't much of a correspondent anyway, but
my name's Morgan—I'm a deputy tax-collector right now—and I'd like to
have you fill out this blank, giving the number of assessable cattle
you have. Sent you one or two by mail, but this is jest as good. Sorry,
you understand, but the county needs the money."
"Yes, I'm sorry, too," observed Pecos, sardonically, "because it'll
never git none from me."
"Oh, I dunno," replied the sheriff, sizing his man up carefully,
"Geronimo County has been able to take care of itself, so far; and when
I put the matter in its proper light to men who have been a little
lax in the past—men like Upton and Mr. Crittenden, for instance—they
seem perfectly willing to pay. These taxes are to support the county
government, you understand—to build roads and keep up the schools and
all that sort of thing—and every property-owner ought to be glad to do
his share. Now about how many head of cows have you got up at Lost Dog
Cañon?"
"I've got jest about enough to keep me in meat," answered Pecos,
evasively.
"Um, that'd be about two hundred head, wouldn't it?"
Two hundred was a close guess, and this unexpected familiarity with
his affairs startled the cowboy, but his face, nevertheless, did not
lose its defiant stare. Two hundred was really the difference between
what U cows Upton had lost last spring and the total of Crittenden's
Wine-glass bunch, and Boone Morgan was deeply interested in the
whereabouts of that particular two hundred head. To Old Crit, this
tax-collecting was only a mean raid on his pocket-book—to Morgan it was
the first step in his campaign against cattle rustling. When he had
determined the number of head in every brand he might be able to prove
a theft—but not till then.
"Call it two hundred," he suggested, holding out the paper
encouragingly, but Pecos drew back his hand scornfully.
"Not if it was a cow and calf," he said, "I wouldn't pay a cent. D'ye
think I want to pay a government of robbers? What does yore dam'
government do for me, or any other pore man, but make us trouble?"
"Well, sometimes that's all a government can do for a certain class of
people," observed the sheriff, eying him coldly, "and I'd like to say
right now, Mr. Dalhart, that in such a case it can make a hell of a lot
of trouble."
Pecos grunted.
"Now, jest for instance," continued Morgan, warming up a little, "in
case you don't pay your taxes on them two hundred head of cattle I can
get judgment against you, seize any or all of 'em, and sell the whole
shooting-match for taxes. I'll do it, too," he added.
"Well, turn yoreself loose, then," flared back Pecos, "the bars are
down. But I'll tell you right now, the first deputy tax-collector
that puts a rope on one of my cows, I'll bounce a rock off'n him—or
something worse!"
"I ain't accustomed to take no threats, Mr. Dalhart," bellowed Boone
Morgan, his temper getting away with him, "and especially from a
man in your line of business! Now you go your way, and go as far
as you please, but if I don't put the fear of God into your black,
cattle-rustling heart my name is 'Sic 'em' and I'm a dog. I'll collect
them taxes, sir, _next week_!"
"Like hell you will," snarled Pecos, throwing out his chin. He scowled
back at the irate officer, cast a baleful glance at the IC punchers,
and mounted from the far side of his horse, but when he rode away Ike
Crittenden went out behind the corral and laughed until he choked.
After all the trouble this man Dalhart had made him, just to think of
him locking horns with Boone Morgan! And all from his crazy reading of
the _Voice of Reason_! The memory of his own enforced tax-paying fell
away from him like a dream at the thought of Pecos Dalhart putting up a
fight against the sheriff of Geronimo County, and on the strength of it
he took a couple of drinks and was good-natured for a week.
If Pecos had had some self-appointed critic to point out just how
foolish he was he might have seen a new light, gathered up about twenty
head of Monkey-wrench steers and sold them to pay his taxes; but his
only recourse in this extremity was to the _Voice of Reason_, and
whatever its other good qualities are, that journal has never been
accused of preaching moderation and reason. It was war to the knife
with Pecos, from the jump, and the day after his return he took his
carbine, his cigarette makings, and the last _Voice of Reason_ and
went up the trail to lie in wait for Boone Morgan. The country around
Lost Dog Cañon is mostly set on edge and the entrance to the valley is
through a narrow and crooked ravine, filled with bowlders and faced
with sun-blackened sandstone rocks, many of which, from some fracture
of their weathered surface, are pock-marked with giant "wind-holes."
Into one of these natural pockets, from the shelter of which a single
man could stand off a regiment, Pecos hoisted himself with the dawn,
and he did not leave it again till dark. As the wind came up and,
sucking in through the opening, hollowed out each day its little more,
the loose sand from the soft walls blew into Pecos's eyes and he gave
up his fervid reading; but except for that and for the times when
from the blackness of his cavern he searched the narrow trail for his
enemies, he pored over the _Voice of Reason_ as a Christian martyr
might brood over his Bible. It was his religion, linked with that far
more ancient religion of revenge, and if Boone Morgan or any other
deputy tax collector had broken in upon his reveries they certainly
would have stopped something worse than a bouncing stone.
But no one played into his hand to that extent. They say the Apaches
educated the whole United States army in the art of modern warfare and
Boone Morgan as a frontier Indian fighter had been there to learn his
part. In the days when Cochise and Geronimo were loose he had travelled
behind Indian scouts over all kinds of country, and one of the first
things he had mastered was the value of high ground. He had learned
also that one man in the rocks is worth a troop on the trail and while
he was gathering up a posse to discipline Pecos Dalhart he sent Bill
Todhunter ahead to prospect. For two long days that wary deputy haunted
the rim-rock that shut in Lost Dog Cañon, crawling on his belly like
a snake, and at last, just at sundown, his patience was rewarded by
the sight of the lost Pecos, carbine in hand, rising up from nowhere
and returning to his camp. As the smoke rose from his newly lighted
fire Todhunter slipped quietly down the ravine and, stepping from rock
to rock, followed the well-trampled trail till he came to the mouth
of the wind-cave. Peering cautiously in he caught the odor of stale
tobacco smoke and saw the litter of old papers on the sandy floor,
signs enough that Pecos lived there—then, as the strategy and purpose
of the cattle-rustler became plain, he picked his way back to his
lonely camp and waited for another day. With the dawn he was up again
and watching, and when he saw Pecos come back and hide himself in his
wind-cave he straightened up and set about his second quest—the search
for the Monkey-wrench cattle. At the time of his first visit to Lost
Dog he had seen a few along the creek but there must be more of them
down the cañon, and the farther away they could be found the better
it would suit his chief. It was not Boone Morgan's purpose to start a
war—all he wanted was enough Monkey-wrench cattle to pay the taxes,
and a way to get them out. The indications so far were that Pecos had
them in a bottle and was waiting at the neck, but if the water ran
down the cañon there must be a hole somewhere, reasoned the deputy, or
better than that, a trail. Working his way along the rim Bill Todhunter
finally spied the drift-fence across the box of the cañon, and soon
from his high perch he was gazing down into that stupendous hole in
the ground that Pecos had turned into a pasture. From the height of
the towering cliffs the cattle seemed like rabbits feeding in tiny
spots of green, but there they were, more than a hundred of them, and
when the deputy beheld the sparkling waters of the Salagua below them
and the familiar pinnacles of the Superstitions beyond he laughed and
fell to whistling "Paloma" through his teeth. Boone Morgan had hunted
Apaches in the Superstitions, and he knew them like a book. With one
man on the rim-rocks to keep tab on Pecos, Boone and his posse could
take their time to it, if there was any way to get in from that farther
side. Anyhow, he had located the cattle—the next thing was to get word
to the Old Man.
As a government scout Boone Morgan had proved that he was fearless,
but they did not keep him for that—they kept him because he brought
his men back to camp, every time. The effrontery of Pecos Dalhart's
daring to challenge his authority had stirred his choler, but when
Bill Todhunter met him at the river and told him how the ground lay he
passed up the temptation to pot Pecos as he crawled out of his hole in
the rock, and rode for the lower crossing of the Salagua. The trail
which the hardy revolutionist of Lost Dog Cañon was guarding was,
indeed, the only one on the north side of the river. From the pasture
where his cows were hidden the Salagua passed down a box cañon so deep
and precipitous that the mountain sheep could not climb it, and even
with his cowboy-deputies Boone Morgan could hardly hope to run the
Monkey-wrench cows out over the peaks without drawing the fire of their
owner. But there was a trail—and it was a bad one—that led across the
desert from the Salagua until it cut the old Pinal trail, far to the
south, and that historic highway had led many a war party of Apaches
through the very heart of the Superstitions. East it ran, under the
frowning bastions of the great mountain, and then northeast until it
came out just across the river from Pecos Dalhart's pasture. It was a
long ride—sixty miles, and half of it over the desert—but the river was
at its lowest water, just previous to the winter rains, and once there
Boone Morgan felt certain they could make out to cross the cattle.
"And mind you, boys," he said to his posse, as they toiled up the
wearisome grade, "don't you leave a single cow in that pasture or I'm
going to be sore as a goat. The county pays mileage for this, and the
taxes will be a few cents, too—but I'm going to put one rustler out of
business at the start by a hell-roaring big sheriff's sale. I'm going
to show some of these Texas hold-ups that Arizona ain't no cow-thief's
paradise—not while old Boone's on the job."
The second night saw them camped on the edge of the river just across
from the pasture, and in the morning they crossed on a riffle, every
man with his orders for the raid. By noon the cattle began to come
down the valley, tail up and running before the drive; not a word was
spoken, for each man knew his business, but when the thirsty herd of
Monkey-wrench cows finally waded out into the river to drink, a sudden
rush of horsemen from behind crowded the point animals into swimming
water, and before the leaders knew what had happened they were half way
across the river and looking for a landing.
"_Ho—ho—ho—ho—ho!_" shouted the sheriff, riding in to turn them
upstream, and behind him a chorus of cowboy yells urged the last
bewildered stragglers into the current. They crossed, cows and calves
alike, and while the jubilant posse came splashing after them or rode
howling up to the ford Boone Morgan poured the water out of his boots
and smiled pleasantly.
"Jest hold 'em in the willows a while, boys," he said, "until they git
quieted down and drink, and then we'll hit the trail. There's over a
hundred head of cattle there, but I'm going to sell every dam' one
of 'em—sheriff's sale. Then when that crazy Texican gets back on the
reservation I'll give him back his money—what's left—along with some
good advice."
He motioned to the boys to string the cattle out and soon in a long
line the much-stolen Monkey-wrench cows were shambling over the rough
trail, lowing and bellowing for the peaceful valley that lay empty of
its herd. From the high cliffs above Lost Dog Cañon, Bill Todhunter
saw the slow procession wending its way toward town and he made haste
to follow its example. The old silence settled down upon the valley
of Perro Perdito, a silence unbroken even by the lowing of cattle,
and as Pecos lay by his fire that night he felt the subtle change.
His mind, so long set against his enemies, opened up, and he began to
wonder. Boone Morgan had certainly said he would collect those taxes
within a week, and the week was up. Moreover, hiding in a wind-hole
from daylight till dark was getting decidedly monotonous. From the
beginning Pecos had realized that he was one man against many but he
had hoped, by remaining hid, to catch them at a disadvantage. If they
sneaked up and looked over into the lonely cañon they might easily
think he had fled and come in boldly—but somehow nothing came out as he
had expected. He slept on the matter, and woke again to that peculiar
hushed silence. What was it that he missed? His horses were safe in
their pole corral; Old Funny-face and her speckled calf were still
hanging around the camp; the cattle were along the creek as usual—ah,
yes! It was the lowing of cows against the drift-fence bars! With a
vigorous kick he hurled his blanket aside, stamped on his boots and
ran, only stopping to buckle on his six-shooter. At the bars he paused
long enough to see that there were no fresh tracks and then dashed down
the pent-in gorge that led to the pasture rim. The shadow of the high
cliffs lay across the sunken valley like a pall, but there were no
humped-up cattle sleeping beneath the trees. It was time for them to be
out and feeding in the sun, but the meadows and hillsides were bare.
He was astounded and could not believe his eyes—the pasture was empty
as the desert. Cursing and panting Pecos plunged madly down the steep
trail until he came to the first water, and there he threw down his
gun and swore. Fresh and clean on the margin of the water-hole was the
track of a shod horse, pointing toward the river! It was enough—Pecos
knew that he was cleaned! Indians and mountain renegades do not ride
shod horses, and if Boone Morgan had his cows across the river already
he could never get them back. Another thought came to Pecos, and he
scrambled wildly up the trail to defend his remaining herd, but there
was no one there to fight him—his upper cattle were safe. Yet how long
would it take to get them, in order to finish him up? All Boone Morgan
and Upton had to do was to wait until he went down to the store for
provisions and then they could rake his upper range the same way. And
would they do it? Well, say! Pecos pondered on the matter for a day or
two, keeping mostly behind the shelter of some rock, and the sinister
import of Morgan's remarks on what a government can do for a certain
class of people bore in upon him heavily. Undoubtedly he was included
in that class of undesirables and if he was any reader of character
Boone Morgan was just the kind of a man to make him a lot of trouble.
Upton was against him because he had stolen his U cows, and Crit was
against him worse because he had given him the cross—every cowman on
the range would be against him because he was a rustler. Pecos watched
the rim-rock vindictively after that, hoping to get a chance to pot
some meddlesome cowman, but no inquisitive head was poked over. At
last he stole up the ravine one morning and took to the high ground at
dawn. There, sure enough, were the boot-marks among the rocks and he
noticed with a vague uneasiness that some one had been watching him
for days—watching his wind-hole, too,—probably could have shot him a
hundred times, but now the tracks were old. A hot and unreasonable
resentment rose up in Pecos at the implication. Nobody cared for him
now, even to the extent of watching him! He could crawl into his hole
and die now, and everybody would just laugh. Well, he would show Mr.
Everybody what kind of a sport he was. After which circumlocuted
reasoning Pecos Dalhart, the bad man from Perro Perdito Cañon, being
really lonely as a dog, threw the saddle on his horse and hit the trail
for the Verde.