STAMPEDED
For two weeks after Pecos Dalhart disappeared into the wilderness
Angevine Thorne spent the greater part of his time sitting in the
doorway of the store with his eyes fixed upon the tiny notch where
the Carrizo trail cut down through the mesa's rim. Never, until that
day when he had defied Boone Morgan, had Angy realized the heroic
devotion of his comrade to the cause of the revolution, and his heart
was strong to help him, even at the risk of his job. If Crit would
only have let him have a horse he would have gone to Lost Dog Cañon
long ago, to carry the news of Morgan's raid and his subsequent visit
to Verde Crossing in search of Pecos, but lacking any means of travel
he had to be content to wait and watch the trail. The two weeks passed
drearily and still, as each afternoon wore on, Babe seated himself in
the shade of the brush _ramada_ and speculated upon the fate of Pecos.
But in this he was not alone. Early in the game Isaac Crittenden had
noted the set gaze of his faithless roustabout, and though he still
rode out with his cowboys, he also managed to keep his one eye cocked
on the eastern horizon, for he had interests in those parts. There were
a hundred head of Monkey-wrench cattle still running loose in Lost Dog
Cañon, and that would make good pickings if Pecos went over the road.
As to what particular road the cattle-rustler took, whether to the
pen or parts unknown, or to his home on high, was immaterial to Isaac
Crittenden, providing always that he heard about it first. A bunch of
mavericks without an owner was likely to get snapped up quick in those
parts—John Upton might turn out to be the lucky man, but not if I. C.
knew himself, and he thought he did.
It is a long day's ride from Lost Dog Cañon—dragging a pack-animal a
man would get in about sundown—and as the days wore on Crittenden made
it a point to ride so that he could cut the Carrizo trail between four
and five. This was a desperate game that he was playing, for Pecos
Dalhart was undoubtedly in an ugly mood; but a little nerve will carry
a man a long way sometimes, and at a pinch Crit could shoot a gun
himself. So it happened that on the day that Pecos rode to the edge
of the bench and sat looking down doubtfully upon the distant Verde
Crossing, he heard a horse pounding in on his right and finally made
out Isaac Crittenden, in wild and unnecessary pursuit of a cow. At a
suitable distance the cowman looked up, let his cow go, and ambled
cautiously over toward his former agent. Holding his hands in sight to
show that his intentions were pacific, he came in closer and at last
motioned to Pecos to come away from the mesa rim.
"What's the matter with you?" he called, frantically repeating his
signal. "D' you want to let Boone Morgan see you?"
"Boone Morgan?" repeated Pecos, reining in his horse. "Why—what—"
"Haven't you heard the news?" demanded Crittenden, hectoringly. "Boone
Morgan took a hundred head of your Monkey-wrench critters down the
Pinal trail, and every dam' one of 'em had been burnt over from a U. He
was up here inquirin' for you a day or two ago."
Their eyes met and Pecos tried to pass it off in bravado, but Crit
had him at a disadvantage. "The best thing you can do is drift," he
observed, meaningly.
"Oh, I don't know," said Pecos, "I got a hundred head an' more of cows
over in Lost Dog Cañon yet. What'll you—"
"They ain't worth a dam'," cut in Crittenden, harshly.
"No, I know they ain't," assented the cowboy, patiently, "not to me—but
to a man with a big outfit they'd be worth about fifteen hundred
dollars."
"Well, _I_ don't want 'em," snapped Crit. "I got troubles enough,
already, without hidin' out from Boone Morgan."
"I'll sell you that brand cheap," supplicated Pecos, but the cowman
only showed his teeth in derision.
"Wouldn't take 'em as a gift," he said, shortly.
"Well, go to hell, then!" snarled the rustler, and jerking his horse
around he started toward Verde Crossing.
"Hey, where you goin'?" called Crittenden, but Pecos did not reply.
"You'll git into trouble," he persisted, following anxiously after him.
"Say, do you want to break into jail?"
Pecos halted on the rim of the mesa, turned deliberately about and
faced him.
"No," he said, "do you?"
"Why, what d' you mean?" demanded the cowman, leaving off his
blustering and coming nearer.
"Well, if they throw me in I'll tell all I know," replied Pecos.
"That's all. They may soak me for the Monkey-wrenches, but I'll sure
git you on them Wine-glasses, so you better not try any funny business.
What I'm lookin' for now is travellin' expenses—I'm not so stuck on
this country that I couldn't be induced to leave it!"
"No-o," sneered the cowman, "I don't reckon you are. They ain't a man
between Tonto and the Gila that don't know you for a rustler now. More
'n that, you've defied the officers of the law. No, Mr. Dalhart," he
said, a cold glint coming into his eye, "I won't give you a dam' cent
for your burnt-over cattle and if you take my advice you'll hit the
high places for New Mexico."
"Well, I won't take it, then," replied Pecos, sullenly. "I'm goin' down
to the Crossing to see Angy and—hey! there's the old boy now, flaggin'
me from the store. Well, good-bye, old Cock Eye, don't worry about me
none, I know my way around!" He favored his former employer with a
flaunting gesture of farewell, leaned over to catch the forward jump
of his horse, and went scampering down the slope and across the level,
yipping playfully at every bound.
"Well, the blank-blanked fool!" exclaimed Crittenden, slapping his leg
viciously with his quirt at this sudden wrecking of his hopes. "Well,
_dam'_ 'im, for a proper eejit!" He ground his teeth in vexation. "W'y,
the crazy dum-head!" he groaned, as the cloud of dust receded. "Boone
Morgan is shore to come back to the Crossing to-night and catch 'im in
the store! Him and that booze-fightin' Angy—I got to git rid of him—but
what in the world am _I_ goin' to do?"
From his station on the edge of the mesa he could see the dust to the
east where his cowboys were bringing the day's beef-cut down to the
river and then, far up toward the northern pass, a couple of horsemen
jogging down the Tonto trail. Boone Morgan rode a bay horse, and one
of these was solid color, but the other rode an animal that showed a
patch of white—looked kind of familiar, too. He watched them until
they showed up clear against a clay-bank and then, making sure that the
man on the bay was Morgan, he spurred across the flat to the store.
Whatever happened, he must be sure to get Pecos out of town, for Upton
had been talking Wine-glass to Morgan, and they might summon him for a
witness.
There was a sound of clanking glasses inside the door as Crittenden
rode up, and the voice of Angevine Thorne, flamboyantly proclaiming a
toast.
"Then here's to the revolution," he ended up, "and a pleasant journey
to you, Cumrad, wherever you go!"
They drank, and Crit, sitting outside on his horse, slapped his thigh
and laughed silently. "A pleasant journey," eh? Well, let it go at that
and he would put up the whiskey.
"You'll be sure and write me often," continued Angy, caressingly, "and
I'll send your _Voice of Reason_ to you, so you can keep up with the
times."
"All right, Pardner," answered Pecos, "but say, give Marcelina my best
and tell her I'll be back in the spring. Tell 'er something real nice
for me, Angy, will you? Aw, to hell with the cows; it'll be her I come
back for! Gittin' a little too warm for me right now, but I'll be here
when she comes home in the spring. Well, let's take another drink to
the sweetest little girl that ever lived and then I'll be on my way!"
The glasses clicked again and as Angy began another peroration Old Crit
pulled his horse around with an oath and started up the road. So that
was why he had been turned down by Marcelina—Pecos was making love to
her while he was gone! And he'd be back in the springtime, eh? Well,
not if there was room in the county jail and Boone Morgan would take
him down! Hot with his new-made scheme for revenge he spurred his horse
to a gallop and was just swinging around the first turn in the trail
when he fetched up face to face with Morgan and John Upton!
The world is full of hatred in a thousand forms but there is none more
bitter than that between two men who have seen a former friendship
turn to gall and wormwood. So bitter was the enmity between Upton and
Old Crit that it needed but the time and occasion to break out into
a war. Short, freckle-faced, and red-headed, with a week's growth of
stubby beard and a clear green eye, John Upton was not a man that one
would pick for an enemy, and the single swift move that he made toward
his pistol expressed his general sentiments plainer than any words. As
for Crittenden, his emotions were too badly mixed to lead to action,
but the one-eyed glare which he conferred upon his cow-stealing rival
convinced Boone Morgan at a glance that Old Crit was dangerous.
"I'd like to have a word with you, Mr. Crittenden," he said, taking
command on the instant, "and since Mr. Upton is interested in this
matter I have asked him to come along down. We won't discuss the
business I have in hand until we get to town, but now that I've got
you two gentlemen together I'd like to ask you to be a little more
careful about your branding. My deputies reported to me that on the
last round-up calves were found bearing a different iron from their
mothers and that mavericks were branded on sight, anywhere on the open
range. The law provides, as you know, that no cow-brute can be branded
anywhere except in a corral or at a round-up and no man has the right
to brand any maverick, _orejano_, leppy, or sleeper except in the
presence and with the consent of witnesses. There have been certain
irregularities up here in the past, as is to be expected in a new
country, but I want to tell you right now that in the future I'm going
to hold you cowmen to the law. I was elected and sworn in to uphold
the peace and dignity of Geronimo County, so if you have any little
feuds or differences to work off, I'll thank you to do it outside my
jurisdiction."
He paused, and as they rode down the broad trail that merged into
Verde's main street the rival cattle kings exchanged malignant glances
behind his broad and soldierly back. But the sheriff's eyes were to the
fore and at sight of Pecos Dalhart's horse tied to the ground in front
of the store he chuckled to himself.
"Well, well," he said, reaching down into his inside vest pocket, "I'm
just in time to deliver these papers—or am I mistaken in thinking
that that hoss yonder belongs to Mr. Dalhart?" He glanced across at
Crittenden, who shrugged his shoulders and scowled. "Quite correct, eh?
Well, then, if you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment I'll go in and
see Mr. Dalhart."
He swung down from his horse with military precision and strode toward
the door, carrying a bulky official envelope in his left hand and a
cigar stump in his right, but just as he crossed the threshold Pecos
Dalhart, startled by his voice, dodged out the back way and ran around
the store. It was a break for liberty with him and he took no thought
of the cost. Three seconds after the sheriff entered the doorway he
came tearing around the corner, heading for his horse. At sight of
Upton and Old Crit he paused and reached for his gun—for one tense
moment they glared at each other—then, flinging himself into the saddle
and hugging his horse's neck, Pecos went spurring away down the trail,
reckless of everything but the one main chance of escape.
"Hey! Wait a minute!" roared Boone Morgan, dashing out the doorway and
waving his envelope. "Come back heah, you pore dam' fool! Well, don't
that beat the devil?" he inquired, turning to Crit and Upton. "_I_
didn't have no warrant for him! No! I jest wanted—" he paused and,
noticing the wolfish eagerness with which the cowmen awaited his final
words, he suddenly changed his mind. "Well, what's the difference,"
he grumbled, tucking the big envelope back into his pocket, "he'll
keep." He followed the cloud of dust that stood for Pecos Dalhart until
it tore up over the rim of the mesa and disappeared, and a deep and
subterranean rumbling in his chest paid tribute to the joke. There was
something like a thousand dollars in that big official envelope—the
balance of the Monkey-wrench tax sale—and all he wanted of Pecos was
his written receipt for the money.