MOUNTAIN LAW
As the sheriff's posse spurred their tired horses up the long slope
of the rocky mountain and down into the rough country beyond, the
trail grew fresher with every hour, until the blood from mutilated
ears showed wet in the trampled dirt. But as the herd made its way
into the broken ground the heavy trail split up and divided; at each
fork of the cañon a bunch was cut off from the drag of the herd and
drifted by a hand or two down onto the lower range, and when at last
the trail broke out into the open country again the posse was following
the tracks of only three men and twenty or thirty cows. Then they
picked up a stray, burned clean into a Circle-Double-cross and freshly
ear-marked, and after that the remnant of the band, standing wearily
by a water-hole. Every one of them had been freshly branded with a
hot iron—no hair-brand or attempt at burning through a sack—and half
of their ears were bloody from being torn in the brush; but there were
no cowboys loitering near, waiting to be caught with the goods. The
horse-tracks still led on until at last they scattered out and mounted
the neighboring ridges. But if the trail was lost there were other
signs to lead Morgan on his way. The sun was hanging low now, and their
horses were jaded from hard riding, but at the familiar bellowing of a
cow-herd they pricked up their ears and forged ahead. The valley opened
out suddenly before them and there on their regular _parada_ grounds
was the entire U outfit, holding a big herd and cutting, roping,
and branding by days' works. Innocence and industry were the twin
watchwords in that aggregation—they were too busy even to look up—and
when Boone Morgan saw the game he rode past them without speaking and
tackled the cook for supper.
"Boys are workin' kinder late to-night, ain't they?" he observed,
filling his plate from the Dutch ovens.
"Sure are," answered the cook, sententiously. He had caught a glimpse
of a star on a deputy's vest, and his orders were not to talk.
"Can't even stop to eat, hey?" continued the sheriff, nodding at an
ovenful of cold biscuits that had been wastefully thrown in the dirt.
"Well, that's a pity, too, because you sure do make good bread. But a
sour-dough biscuit ain't never no good unless it's eaten fresh."
"No," grumbled the cook, taken off his guard, "and ef they's anything I
do despise it is to cook up a good oven of bread and then have it spile
thataway."
"Well, we're certainly appreciatin' this batch," remarked Morgan,
glancing genially around at his busy men. "The boys bein' away
yesterday kind of threw you out, I reckon."
"Thet's right," agreed the cook, oblivious of his intent, "I hed a big
kittle of beans spile on me, too."
"They'll sure be hungry when they do hit camp," said the sheriff,
continuing his lead, "livin' on cold grub that way. Hello," he
exclaimed, looking up as John Upton came hurrying in, "here comes Mr.
Upton now—ganted down to a shadow."
"Oh, I don't know!" replied Upton, guardedly, "b'lieve I could eat a
little, though."
"Well, I reckon you ought to," said Morgan, "after goin' two days on
cold grub."
"Cold grub!" repeated the cowman, glancing at the cook.
"Why, sure. And that's a long, hard ride over to Carrizo, too." The
sheriff took a big mouthful and waited.
"What in hell you talkin' about?" demanded the cowman, sullenly.
"Why, wasn't you over to Carrizo yesterday?"
"Nope."
"And never eat no cold grub?" inquired the sheriff, gazing quizzically
toward Joe, the cook.
"Dam' yore heart, Joe!" burst out Upton, looking daggers at the
startled pot-tender, "have you been blabbin' already?"
"That'll be all, Mr. Upton," said Boone Morgan, quietly, "I'm up
here lookin' for the owner of this new Circle Double-cross brand. Is
that your iron? It is? Well, I'll have to ask you to go back with me
to-morrow and explain where them cows come from."
"Well, by the holy—jumpin'—" The cowman paused in his wrath and fixed
his fiery eyes on Boone Morgan. "Did Ike Crittenden put you up to
this?" he demanded, and taking silence for consent he went off into a
frenzy of indignation. "Well, what you chasin' _me_ for?" he yelled,
choking with exasperation. "Old Crit goes over into Lost Dog and runs
off every dam' one of them Monkey-wrench cows, and you come right
through his camp and jump _me_! They wasn't a critter in Lost Dog
that hadn't been burnt over my U, and you know it; but ump-um—Crit's
a friend of mine—never make him any trouble—go over and tackle
Upton—he's a _Tonto_ County man!"
The sheriff listened to this tirade with a tolerant smile, feeding
himself liberally the while. He had long ago learned that the world's
supply of self-righteousness is not held in monopoly by the truly
good—also that every horse must go to the length of his picket rope
before he will stop and eat. But when the fireworks were over he
remarked by way of conversation, "Crit's got one of your JIC cows down
there in his corral—a red three, bald-faced and kind of spotted on the
shoulders. Looks like it had been branded lately."
"Yes, an' I've got one of his ICU2's down in my corral," retorted
Upton, "and it sure has been branded lately—you could smell the burnt
hair when I picked it up five days ago. They ain't a man in my outfit
that don't know that old cow for an ICU, too."
"Um," commented Morgan, "you think he stole it, hey?"
"I know it!" replied Upton, with decision. "You can see her yoreself,
down in my headquarters corral, and I picked her up in the track of
Crit's round-up."
"Well, you better swear out a warrant, then, and we'll take the
cow down for evidence. You were hintin' that I'm standin' in with
Crittenden, but jest swear to a complaint and see how quick I'll serve
the papers."
For a moment the cowman cocked his head and regarded him shrewdly—then
he shook his head. "I've got too much loose stock runnin' on his
range," he said.
"I'll protect your property," urged the sheriff. "Come on, now—quit
your kickin' and make a complaint."
"Nope—too dangerous! I can take care of myself in the hills, but if
them Geronimo lawyers ever git holt of me I'm done for. You can take me
down to-morrer, if you want to, but I'd rather stick to my own game."
"All right," said the sheriff, "we'll see what Crit will do."
There was a big crowd around the store at Verde Crossing when Boone
Morgan and his posse rode in, and at sight of John Upton by his side
there was a general craning of necks on the part of Crittenden's
cowboys. This was the first time that a sheriff had attempted to stop
the lawless raids and counter-raids of these two cattle kings and the
gun-men looked upon him with disfavor, for even a professional bad
man is jealous of his job. An appeal to the courts would divert their
extra wages into the pockets of the lawyers—it would dock their pay and
double their work, and to a man they were against it. Yet here came
Upton with the sheriff, and Bill Todhunter had already spotted some
Spectacle cows that had drifted back to the corrals. As for Crit, his
nerve was good, for he felt the fighting courage of his men behind him,
and he went out to meet his ancient enemy with a taunting sneer.
"Well, I'm glad to see one man git what's comin' to him," he observed,
taking note of Upton's guard.
"Yes," retorted Upton, caustically, "and if I'd jest tell a half of
what I know, you'd be mixin' 'dobes down at the Pen."
"Uhr!" grunted Crittenden, turning away in scorn; but at the same time
he took his cue from the words.
"Well, Mr. Crittenden," began Morgan, "here's the man you wanted
so bad. Now if you'll jest step into the store and fill out this
complaint—"
"Nothin' like that—nothin' like that!" protested the Verde Boss,
holding up his hand. "I never said I wanted him arrested!"
"No, but you took me down and showed me that JIC cow and said he stole
it, didn't you? And you complained to me that he was in the act of
runnin' off your Wine-glass cows, didn't you? Well, that's the same
thing, when you're talkin' to an officer."
"Well, it may be all the same, but I don't want 'im arrested. That
ain't the way I do business."
"Oh, it ain't, hey? Well, what is your way of doin' business?"
"First principle is never to holler for help," replied Crittenden,
grimly. "I know dam' well that little cuss over there burnt my IC cow
and run off all my Wine-glasses—but I can't prove nothin' before the
law, so you might as well turn 'im loose. Oh, you don't need to laugh,
you little, sawed-off runt!" he yelled, addressing himself to Upton,
"I'm jest keepin' you out of jail so's I can git at you myself! I'll—"
"Aw, shut up," growled the sheriff, brushing roughly past him. "Come
on, boys, let's get out of this before they holler their heads off."
He swung angrily up on his horse, jerked its head toward the river and
took the crossing in silence, leaving the rival cattle kings to fight
it out together. The time might come when one or the other of them
would "holler for help," but just at that moment the Verde country was
not educated up to the law.