A Stampede
Clanton took his turn at night herding for the first time the day of
Warren's visit to the camp. Under a star-strewn sky he circled the
sleeping herd, humming softly a stanza of a cowboy song. Occasionally he
met Billie Prince or Tim McGrath circling in the opposite direction. The
scene was peaceful as old age and beautiful as a fairy tale. For under
the silvery light of night the Southwest takes on a loveliness foreign to
it in the glare of the sun. The harsh details of day are lost in a
luminous glow of mystic charm.
Jim had just ridden past Billie when the silence was shattered by a
sudden fury of sound. The popping of revolvers, the clanging of cow
bells, the clash of tin boilers--all that medley of discord which lends
volume to the horror known as a charivari--tore to shreds the harmony of
the night.
"What's that?" called Billie.
The hideous dissonance came from the side of the herd farthest from the
camp. Together the two riders galloped toward it.
"Peg-Leg Warren's work," guessed Clanton.
"Sure," agreed Billie. "Trying to stampede the herd."
Already the cattle were bawling in wild terror, surging toward the camp
to escape this unknown danger. Both of the punchers drew their revolvers
and fired rapidly into the herd. It was impossible to check the rush, but
they succeeded in deflecting it from the sleeping men. Before the weapons
were empty, the ground shook with a thunder of hoofs as the herd fled
into the darkness.
Billie found himself in the van of the stampede. He was caught in the
rush and to save himself from being trampled down was forced to join the
flight. He was the center of a moving sea of backs, so hemmed in that if
his pony stumbled life would be trodden out of him in an instant. Except
for occasional buffalo wallows the ground was level, but at any moment
his mount might break a leg in a prairie-dog hole.
For the first mile or two the cattle were packed in a dense mass,
shoulder to shoulder, all lumbering forward in wild-eyed panic. The noise
of their hoofs was like the continuous roll of thunder and the cloud of
dust so thick that the throat of Prince was swollen with it. It was only
after the stampeded cattle had covered several miles that the formation
of their aimless charge grew looser. The pace slackened as the steers
became leg-weary. Now and again small bunches dropped from the drag or
from one of the flanks. Gradually Billie was able to work toward the
outskirts. His chance came when the herd poured into a swale and from it
emerged into a more broken terrain. Directly in front of the leaders was
a mesa with a sharp incline. Instead of taking the hill, the stampede
split, part flowing to the right and part to the left. The cow-puncher
urged his flagged horse straight up the hill.
He had escaped with his life, but the bronco was completely exhausted.
Billie unsaddled and freed the cowpony. He knew it would not wander far
now. Stretched out at full length on the buffalo grass, the cowboy drank
into his lungs the clean, cold night air. His tongue was swollen, his
lips cracked and bleeding. The alkali dust, sifting into His eyes, had
left them red and sore. Every inch of his unshaven face, his hands, and
his clothes was covered with a fine, white powder. For a long drink of
mountain water he would gladly have given a month's pay.
Within the hour Billie resaddled and took the back trail. There was no
time to lose. He must get back to camp, notify Webb where the stampede
was moving, and join the other riders in an all-night and all-day
round-up of the scattered herd. Since daybreak he had been in the saddle,
and he knew that for at least twenty-four hours longer he would not leave
it except to change from a worn-out horse to a fresh one.
When Prince reached camp shortly after midnight he found that the
stampede of the cattle had for the moment fallen into second place in the
minds of his companions. They were digging a grave for the body of Tim
McGrath. The young Irishman had been shot down just as the attack on the
herd began. It was a reasonable guess to suppose that he had come face to
face with the raiders, who had shot him on the theory that dead men tell
no tales.
But the cowpuncher had lived till his friends reached him. He had told
them with his dying breath that Mysterious Pete had shot him without a
word of warning and that after he fell from his horse Peg-Leg Warren rode
up and fired into his body.
Jim Clanton called his friend to one side. "I'm goin' to sneak out an'
take a lick at them fellows, Billie. Want to go along?"
"What's yore notion? How're you goin' to manage it?"
"Me, I'm goin' to bushwhack Warren or some of his killers from the
chaparral."
Prince had seen once before that cold glitter in the eyes of the hill
man. It was the look that comes into the face of the gunman when he is
intent on the kill.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you, Jim," Billie advised. "This ain't our
personal fight. We're under orders. We'd better wait an' see what the
old man wants us to do. An? I don't reckon I would shoot from ambush
anyhow."
"Wouldn't you? I would," The jaw of the younger man snapped tight.
"What chance did they give poor Tim, I'd like to know? He was one of the
best-hearted pilgrims ever rode up the trail, an' they shot him down like
a coyote. I'm goin' to even the score."
"Don't you, Jim; don't you." Billie laid a hand on the shoulder of his
partner in adventure. "Because they don't fight in the open is no reason
for us to bushwhack too. That's no way for a white man to attack his
enemies."
But the inheritance from feudist ancestors was strong in young Clanton.
He had seen a comrade murdered in cold blood. All the training of his
primitive and elemental nature called for vengeance.
"No use beefin', Billie. You don't have to go if you don't want to. But
I'm goin'. I didn't christen myself Jimmie-Go-Get-'Em for nothin'."
"Put it up to Webb first. Let's hear what he has got to say about it,"
urged Prince. "We've all got to pull together. You can't play a lone hand
in this."
"I'll put it up to Webb when I've done the job. He won't be responsible
for it then. He can cut loose from me if he wants to. So long, Billie.
I'll sleep on Peg-Leg Warren's trail till I git him."
"Give up that fool notion, Jim. I can't let you go. It wouldn't be fair
to you or to Webb either. We're all in this together."
"What'll you do to prevent my goin'?"
"I'll tell the old man if I have to. Sho, kid! Let's not you an' me have
trouble." Billie's gentle smile pleaded for their friendship. "We've been
pals ever since we first met up. Don't go off on this crazy idea like a
half-cocked hogleg."
"We're not goin' to quarrel, Billie. Nothin' to that. But I'm goin'
through." The boyish jaw clamped tight again. The eyes that looked at his
friend might have been of tempered steel for hardness.
"No."
"Yes."
Clanton was leaning against the rump of his horse. He turned, indolently,
gathered his body suddenly, and vaulted to the saddle. Like a shot he was
off into the night.
Billie, startled at the swiftness of his going, could only stare after
him impotently. He knew that it would be impossible to find one lone
rider in the darkness.
Slowly he walked back to the grave. The riders of the Flying V Y were
gathered round in a quiet and silent group. They were burying the body of
him who had been the gayest and lightest-hearted of their circle only a
few hours before.
As soon as the last shovelful of earth had been pressed down upon the
mound, Webb turned to business. The herd scattered over thirty miles of
country must be gathered at once and he set about the round-up. He had
had bad runs on the trail before and he knew the job before his men was
no easy one.
They jogged out on a Spanish trot in the trail of the stampede. The chuck
wagon was to meet them at Spring River next morning, where the first
gather of beeves would be brought and held. All night they rode, tough as
hickory, strong as whip-cord. Into the desert sky sifted the gray light
which preceded the coming of day. Banners of mauve and amethyst and topaz
were flung across the horizon, to give place to glorious splashes of
purple and pink and crimson. The sun, a flaming ball of fire, rose big as
a washtub from the edge of the desert.
In that early morning light crept over the plain little bunches of cattle
followed by brown, lithe riders. Like spokes of a wheel each group moved
to a hub. Old Black Ned, the cook, was the focus of their travel. For at
Spring River he had waiting for them hot coffee, flaky biscuits, steaks
hot from the coals. Each rider seized a tin cup, a tin plate, a knife and
fork, and was ready for the best Uncle Ned had to offer.
The remuda had been brought up by the wranglers. While the horses milled
about in a cloud of dust, each puncher selected another mount. He
moved forward, his loop trailing, eye fixed on the one pony, out of one
hundred and fifty, that he wanted for the day's work. Suddenly a rope
would snake forward past half a dozen broncos and drop about the neck of
an animal near the heart of the herd. The twisting, dodging cowpony would
surrender instantly and submit to being cut out from the band. Saddles
were slapped on in a hurry and the riders were again on their way.
Through the mesquite they rode, slackening speed for neither gullies nor
barrancas. Webb gave orders crisply, disposed of his men in such a way
as to make of them a drag-net through which no cattle could escape, and
began to tighten the loops for the drive back to camp.
By the middle of the afternoon the chuck wagon was in sight. The ponies
were fagged, the men weary. For thirty-six hours these riders, whose
muscles seemed tough as whalebone, had been almost steadily in the
saddle. They slouched along now easily, always in a gray cloud of dust
raised by the bellowing cattle.
The new gather of cattle was thrown in with those that had been rounded
up during the night. The punchers unsaddled their worn mounts and drifted
to the camp-fire one by one. Ravenously they ate, then rolled up in their
blankets and fell asleep at once. To-night they had neither heart nor
energy for the gay badinage that usually flew back and forth.
Night was still heavy over the land when Uncle Ned's gong wakened them.
The moon was disappearing behind a scudding cloud, but stars could be
seen by thousands. Across the open plain a chill wind blew.
All was bustle and confusion, but out of the turmoil emerged order. The
wranglers, already fed, moved into the darkness to bring up the remuda.
Tin cups and plates rattled merrily. Tongues wagged. Bits of repartee,
which are the salt of the cowpuncher's life, were flung across the fire
from one; to another. Already the death of Tim McGrath was falling into
the background of their swift, turbulent lives. After all the cowboy dies
young. Tim's soul had wandered out across the great divide only a few
months before that of others among them.
Out of the mist emerged the desert, still gray and vague and without
detail. The day's work was astir once more. With the nickering of horses,
the bawling of cattle, and the shouts of men as an orchestral
accompaniment, light filtered into the valley for the drama of the new
sunrise. Once more the tireless riders swept into the mesquite through
the clutching cholla to comb another segment of country in search of the
beeves not yet reclaimed.
That day's drive brought practically the entire herd together again. A
few had not been recovered, but Webb set these down to profit and loss.
What he regretted most was that the cattle were not in as good condition
as they had been before the stampede.
The drover spent the next day cutting out the animals that did not belong
to him. Of these a good many had been collected in the round-up. It was
close to evening before the job was finished and the outfit returned to
camp.
Billie rode up to the wagon with the old man. Leaning against a saddle on
the ground, a flank steak in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other,
lounged Jim Clanton.
Webb, hard-eyed and stiff, looked at the young man, "Had a pleasant
vacation, Clanton?"
"I don't know as I would call it a vacation, Mr. Webb. I been attending
to some business," explained Jim.
"Yours or mine?"
"Yours an' mine."
"You've been gone forty-eight hours. The rest of us have worked our heads
off gettin' together the herd. I reckon you can explain why you weren't
with us."
Yellow with dust, unshaven, mud caked in his hair, hands torn by the
cat-claw, Homer Webb was red-eyed from lack of sleep and from the
irritation of the alkali powder. This young rider had broken the first
law of the cowpuncher, to be on the job in time of trouble and to stay
there as long as he could back a horse. The owner of the Flying V Y was
angry clear through at his desertion and he intended to let the boy know
it.
"I went out to look for Peg-Leg Warren" said Clanton apologetically.
Webb stopped in his stride. "You did? Who told you to do that?"
"I didn't need to be told. I've got horse sense myself." Jim spoke a
little sulkily. He knew that he ought to have stayed with his employer.
"Well, what did you do when you found Peg-Leg--make him a visit for a
couple of days?" demanded the drover with sarcasm.
"No, I don't know him well enough to visit--only well enough to shoot
at."
"What's that?" asked Webb sharply.
"Think I was goin' to let 'em plug Tim McGrath an' get away with it?"
snapped Jim.
"That's my business--not yours. What did you do? Come clean."
"Laid out in the chaparral till I got a chance to gun him," the young
fellow answered sullenly.
"And then?"
"Plugged a hole through him an' made my get-away."
"You mean you've killed Peg-Leg Warren?"
"He'll never be any deader," said Clanton coolly.
The dark blood flushed into Webb's face. He wasted no pity on Warren. The
man was a cold-hearted murderer and had reaped only what he had sowed.
But this was no excuse for Clanton, who had deliberately dragged the
Flying V Y into trouble without giving its owner a chance to determine
what form retribution should take. The cowpuncher had gone back to
primitive instincts and elected the blood feud as the necessary form of
reprisal. He had plunged Webb and the other drovers into war without even
a by-your-leave. His answer to murder had been murder. To encourage
this sort of thing would be subversive of all authority and would lead to
anarchy.
"Get yore time from Yankie, Clanton," said his employer harshly. "Sleep
in camp to-night if you like, but hit the trail in the mornin'. I can't
use men like you."
He turned away and left the two friends alone.
Prince was sick at heart. He had warned the young fellow and it had done
no good. His regret was for Jim, not for Warren. He blamed himself for
not having prevented the killing of Peg-Leg. Yet he knew he had done all
that he could.
"I'm sorry, Jim," he said at last.
"Oh, well! What's done is done."
But Billie could not dismiss the matter casually. He saw clearly that
Clanton had come to the parting of the ways and had unconsciously made
his choice for life. From this time he would be known as a bad man. The
brand of the killer would be on him and he would have to make good his
reputation. He would have to live without friends, without love, in the
dreadful isolation of one who is watched and feared by all. Prince felt a
great wave of sympathy for him, of regret for so young a soul gone so
totally astray. Surely the cards had been marked against Jim Clanton.