THE CATTLE WAR
When Pecos Dalhart, flying from his own evil conscience, went
stampeding out into the wilderness, Isaac Crittenden and John Upton
gazed after him with but a single thought—who would get his cattle?
With Pecos out of the way, Crittenden saw a clear field ahead of him in
the Lost Dog country and he joined Morgan in a throaty laugh, but Upton
viewed his mad flight with disappointment and chagrin.
"Well, laugh then, you robber," he snarled, turning angrily on Crit,
"I s'pose it tickles you to death to see that dam' cow-thief hit the
pike—he might talk and git you into trouble. Say, Mr. Morgan," he
protested, "ain't you takin' quite a responsibility onto yourself to
let that man git away?—you know what we came down here for," he added,
jerking his head toward Crit.
"Well, what did you come down here for, you little sawed-off runt?"
demanded Crittenden, belligerently. "Hollerin' around, as usual, I
s'pose!"
"I come down here to find out about them U cows of mine that you
branded into a Wine-glass," retorted Upton, "but you and the sheriff
here seem to have some kind of an understandin', lettin' the principal
witness git away, and all that, so I reckon I better pull."
"Not before you eat them words, Mr. Upton," cut in the sheriff,
fiercely. "I don't let no man make insinuations like that about me
without callin' on him to retract—and I ain't never been disappointed
yet!"
"Well, you jest let that Dalhart feller git away, didn't you?" demanded
Upton, defiantly.
"I certainly did, sir," replied Boone Morgan, with ponderous dignity,
"and when you git ready to start I shall accord you the same courtesy!
There are no papers out for Mr. Dalhart and unless I detect him in some
breach of law or receive a warrant for his arrest I've got no right to
lay a finger on him. Now you know very well I've got no understanding
with Crittenden, and I'm goin' to ask you to apologize for that
statement you jest made."
"Well, I didn't mean no offence," protested the cowman, meekly, "and I
apologize, all right—but at the same time it don't seem right to let
that dam' cattle-rustler git away like that."
"No," responded the sheriff, with heavy sarcasm, "it don't. But bein'
as he's gone you _cowmen_ will have a chance to show what good citizens
_you_ are. I don't know jest what Mr. Dalhart's plans are, but when
it comes around to the spring round-up I want to find every one of
them Monkey-wrench cattle _thar_! He's paid his taxes in full and
he's entitled to the full protection of the law, so long as he keeps
the peace. You hear me talking, now; this brand-burnin' has gone far
enough."
"But how about them U cows I lost?" put in Upton, pertinently. "Do Crit
and this Pecos Dalhart git to keep all the critters they stole?"
"Stole, nothin'!" retorted Crittenden hotly. "How about them J I C cows
of yourn?"
"You make a business of burnin' my brand!" rejoined Upton, shaking
his finger threateningly. "You hire men to rob me and rake my whole
upper range! I'm losin' more now than I did when the Apaches was in
the hills; but I'll git even with you yet, you dam', humped-back old
cow-thief!"
"Well, I see you gentlemen are goin' to keep on quarrellin'," observed
Boone Morgan, picking up his bridle-rein, "and I might as well go on
about my business. You got no more respect for the law, either one of
you, than a common cattle-rustler, and I'm goin' to quit wrastlin' with
you, right now. But you can cut this out and paste it in your hats—the
first man that steals a cow in Geronimo County, and I catch 'im, is
goin' to git the limit. Angy, gimme a bag of crackers and some of that
jerked beef—I'm tired of hearin' this yawp."
So genuine was his disgust that Boone Morgan plunged through the cold
river at nightfall and took the long trail for Geronimo, but the memory
of his last words lingered in the minds of the warring cowmen for many
a day, and though Pecos Dalhart was known to be over in New Mexico
somewhere his Monkey-wrench herd remained safe in Lost Dog Cañon. As
for the sheriff, having abandoned all idea of peace, he transacted his
business in the mountains by deputy and sat quiet in Geronimo, waiting
only for the first break to come back and make his word good. It had a
wonderful restraining influence upon Crit and Upton, this prolonged and
ominous absence, but as spring came on and the new crop of calves began
to gambol on the mesas, the old spirit of grab rose up and overleapt
the dull fear of last winter. Once more both Crit and Upton began to
take on nervy cowboys—men who by their boasts or by their silence let
it be known that they were game—and the cow-camp at Verde Crossing
sheltered gun-men from all over the Far West. From the Tonto country
there came rumors that Upton was bringing in bad men from Pleasant
Valley, fresh from the bloody combats where the Grahams and Tewkesburys
met. Bill Todhunter rode in when the round-up was well begun and looked
the outfits over with grave unconcern, dropping out of sight on the
trail and turning up at Geronimo two days later to report that all was
well in Lost Dog Cañon. There were no deputy sheriffs in disguise on
this round-up—both Crittenden and Upton satisfied themselves of that
early in the day—and as the work went on and the lust for spoils grew
with each branded maverick, the war spirit crept in and grew apace.
Ike Crittenden was the first to renew the feud—he came across an old
ICU cow and branded her to ICU2. One of Upton's range riders picked her
up after the branding and Upton promptly altered the brand on an IC
cow, to break even. Then came the grand _coup_ for which Crittenden
had long been preparing. On the morning after Upton took his revenge,
the whole IC outfit—forty cowboys and every man armed—went galloping
over the Carrizo trail to Lost Dog Cañon. By noon they had gathered
every animal in the valley; at night they camped with the herd at
Carrizo Springs; and the next day every Monkey-wrench cow was safe
in the Verde corrals with her Monkey-wrench burnt to a Spectacle
([Illustration: [++] Cattle brand in the shape of eyeglasses.]) and her
ears chopped down to her head. The ear-marks having been altered once
already there was nothing for it but to make the new marks deeper
and more inclusive—swallow-fork the left and crop the right. The
swallow-fork was deep in the left, to take in an underbit that Pecos
had cut, and Old Funny-face, who had returned home with the herd, lost
the fancy Mexican window and _anzuelo_ in her right ear altogether,
along with all other signs of a former ownership. But even then the
artistic knife-work of José Garcia was not allowed to perish from
the earth. As Funny-face rose up from this last indignity and menaced
the perspiring cowboys with her horns, the little Garcia children,
hanging over the fence, dashed out through the dust and turmoil and
rescued the close-cropped ears. Already, in spite of threats and
admonitions, they had gathered quite a collection of variegated crops
and swallow-forks to serve as play-cows in their toy corral; but when
Marcelina came upon this last bloody evidence of the despite that was
shown her lover she snatched the ears away and hid them in the thatched
roof. Old Funny-face was Pecos's cow—she knew that as well as she knew
the red-spotted, dun-colored ears that had adorned her speckled head.
Pecos had bought Funny-face and her calf from her father for thirty
dollars, to keep around his camp to milk, and now there was nothing to
show for his ownership but the ears. But perhaps Pecos would be glad
even for them, if ever he came back. In a letter to Babe he had said he
was coming back, now that the sheriff was his friend. But Crit—ha-ah,
Ol' Creet—he was stealing all of Pecos's cows, and the sheriff did not
care! She stood by a post of the brush _ramada_ and scowled at him as
he raged about on his horse, cursing and shouting and waving his arms
and hurrying his men along. He was a bad man—ahr, how she hated him—and
now he was such a thief!
As the quick work of branding was brought to an end and the herd
driven pell-mell down the river and into the heavy willows, the Boss
of Verde Crossing sent half of his cowboys down to guard them and
began to clean up the corral. First he put out the fires and quenched
the hot running-irons and rings; then he removed the branding outfit,
dug a deep hole in the river-bed and set his men to work in details,
gathering up the clipped ears and swallow-forks from the trampled dirt
of the corral. A single ear left lying would be a record of his theft,
and when one of the Garcia _niños_, by an ill-timed dash for more ears,
set Crit upon the trail of their play cows he rushed in and ravished
all their toy corrals, even though Marcelina stood by the _ramada_ and
curled her lip at his haste.
"You will rob even the cheeldren, Meester Creet!" she remarked, as he
dumped them all into his hat.
"Mind your own business!" he answered, sharply, and scuttled away like
a crab, bearing his plunder with him.
"Ah, you ba-ad man!" observed Marcelina, making faces at his bent back.
"I hope Paycos come back and _keel_ you!"
But Isaac Crittenden was not worrying about any such small fry as
Pecos Dalhart. Boone Morgan and John Upton were the men he had on his
mind and it was about time for Upton to show up. A solitary horseman,
high up on the shoulder of the peaks, had watched their departure from
Carrizo Springs that morning, and if Upton had not known before he
certainly knew very well now that the Monkey-wrench brand was no more.
As for Boone Morgan—well, there was an IC cow in the corral, altered
by John Upton to JIC, and it was just as big a crime to steal one cow
as it was to steal a hundred. One thing was certain, no man from the
IC outfit would call on the sheriff for aid; and if Upton was the
red-headed terror that he claimed to be, the matter would be settled
out of court.
In this particular incident Mr. Crittenden was more than right. The
matter was already adjudicated by range law, and entirely to the
satisfaction of Upton. For while Crit was hustling his Monkey-wrench
herd over to Verde Crossing, the U outfit—also forty strong—had
hopped over the shoulder of the Peaks, rounded up every Wine-glass
cow that they could gather, and were at that moment busily engaged at
Carrizo Springs in altering them to a Circle-cross ([Illustration:
[++] Brand in the shape of a female gender symbol]). It made a very
pretty brand too; but after studying on it for a while and recalling
his past experience with Crit, Upton decided to play safe and make
it a double cross ([Illustration: Brand in the shape of circle with
a double cross]). No more ICU2's for John Upton—he had been there
once—and Circle Double-cross it went on every animal they marked. The
next morning, with every cow and calf well in hand, the U boys began to
drift the Circle Double-cross herd back over the mountain, and just as
Crittenden was marshalling his fighting men to win back the ravished
stock there was a clatter of hoofs down at the Crossing and Boone
Morgan rode into camp, followed by a posse of deputies.
"Well, what's the trouble up here, Mr. Crittenden?" he inquired,
glancing with stern displeasure at the armed men who gathered about
their chief. "Is there an Injun uprisin' or have you gone on the
warpath yourse'f?"
"You jest come down to my corral," spat back Crittenden, "and I'll show
you what's the matter! That low-lived John Upton has been burnin' my
brand!" He led the way at a gallop to where the IC cow that had been
altered to JIC was tied by the horns to a post. "You see that brand?"
he inquired, "well, that was made three days ago by John Upton—you can
see the J is still raw."
"Umph!" grunted the sheriff, after a careful scrutiny of the brand,
"did anybody see him do it?"
"No, but he done it, all right!"
"Would you swear to it? Can you prove it? How do you know somebody else
didn't do it?"
"No, I can't swear to it—and I can't prove it, neither—but one of my
boys picked that cow up three days ago right in the track of Upton's
outfit, and, knowin' the little whelp as I do, I don't need no lawyer's
testimony to make a case!"
"Well, I do," replied Boone Morgan, resolutely, "and I don't want this
to go any further until I get the facts! What you goin' to do with all
those two-gun cowboys?"
"I'm goin' to take over the mesa after John Upton and his dam',
cow-stealin' outfit," cried Crittenden, vehemently, "and if you're
lookin' for legal evidence, he went out of Carrizo Springs this
mornin' drivin' nigh onto two hundred head of Wine-glass cows, as one
of my boys jest told me. Law, nothin'!" shouted the cowman, recklessly.
"I ain't goin' to sit around here, twiddlin' my fingers, and waitin'
for papers and evidence! What I want is action!"
"Well, you'll get it, all right," replied Morgan, "and dam' quick, too,
if you think you can run it over me! I want you to understand, Mr.
Crittenden, that I am the sheriff of this county, and the first break
you make to go after John Upton I'll send you down to Geronimo with the
nippers on, to answer for resisting an officer! Now as for these men of
yours, I give every one of 'em notice, here and now, that I want this
racket to stop, and the first man that goes up against me will wind up
in the county jail. Bill," he continued, turning to his trusted deputy,
"I leave you in charge of this layout while I go after John Upton. Keep
the whole outfit in camp until I come back, if you have to kill 'em.
I've got enough of this."
He rode down to the store with his posse, bought a feed of grain for
his horses and provisions for his men, and half an hour afterward went
galloping out the Carrizo trail, his keen eye scanning the distant
ridges and reading the desert signs like a book. It did not take an
Indian trailer to interpret the deep-trampled record of that path. Two
days before a big herd of cows and calves had come into Verde Crossing
from Carrizo, driven by many shod horses and hustled along in a hurry.
As he approached Carrizo fresher tracks cut across the old signs, the
tracks of cows and calves fleeing from scampering ponies, and at the
Springs the fresh signs closed in and trampled out all evidence of the
old drive. It was the last page of the story, written indelibly in
the sandy earth. On the open _parada_ ground the cropped ears had all
been gathered, but the bruised bushes, the blood and signs of struggle
told the plain story of Upton's branding, just as the vacancy of the
landscape and the long trail leading to the north spelled the material
facts of the drama. The Wine-glass cows that used to be about Carrizo
Springs were gone—John Upton had driven them north. But why? The answer
lay beyond Carrizo Springs, where the white trail leads down from Lost
Dog Cañon. There the trampled tracks that led into Verde Crossing stood
out plain again in the dust—three days old and pressed on by hurrying
horses. If the law could accept the record of Nature's outspread book
Crit and Upton were condemned already, the one for stealing Pecos
Dalhart's herd, the other for branding over the Wine-glasses. But the
law demands more than that. It demands evidence that a lawyer can
read; the sworn testimony of honest and unprejudiced witnesses; the
identification of men, brands, and cows, proved beyond a doubt; and
all this in a country where all cows look alike, all witnesses are
partisans, and an honest man is the noblest work of God. Boone Morgan
took up the long trail to the north with fire in his eye, and he rode
furiously, as was his duty, but deep down in his heart he knew he was
after the wrong man, and would not even get him.