THE COMPROMISE
It was night and on the H2 sickly, yellow lights gleamed from the
ranch houses. From the bunk house came occasional bursts of song, the
swinging choruses thundering out on the night air, deep-toned and
strong. In the foreman's quarters the clatter of dishes was soon
stilled and shortly afterward the light in the kitchen could be seen
no more. A girl stood in the kitchen door for a moment and then,
singing, went inside and the door closed. The strumming of a guitar
and much laughter came from Antonio's shack, for now he had Juan and
Sanchez to help him pass the time.
Meeker emerged from a corral, glanced above him for signs of the
morrow's weather, and then stood and gazed at the Mexican's shack.
Turning abruptly on his heel he strode to the bunk house and smiled
grimly as the chorus roared out, for he had determined upon measures
which might easily change the merriment to mourning before another day
passed. He had made up his mind to remain inactive no longer, but to
put things to the test--his outfit and himself against the Bar-20.
He entered the building and slamming the door shut behind him, waited
until the chorus was finished. When the last note died away he issued
his orders for the next day, orders which pleased his men, who had
chafed even more than he under the galling inaction, since they did
not thoroughly understand the reasons for it.
"I had them cows herded up north for th' last three days so they'd be
ready for us when we wanted 'em," he said, and then leaped at the door
and jerked it open, peering about outside. The guitar was still
strumming in the Mexican's shack and he recognized the voices of three
in the singing. Turning, he beckoned Doc Riley to him and the two
stepped outside, closing the door behind them. Great noise broke out
within the house as his orders were repeated and commented on. Meeker
and Doc moved to the corner of the building and consulted earnestly
for several minutes, the foreman gesticulating slowly.
"But Juan said they had a man to guard it," Doc replied.
"Yes; he told me," Meeker responded. "I'm going to fix that before I
go to bed--we've got to coax him out on some excuse. Once we get him
out of th' house we can cover him, an' th' rest'll be easy. I won't be
able to be with you--I'll have to stay outside where I can move around
an' look out for th' line trouble, an' where they can see me. But you
an' Jack can hold it once you get in. By G-d, you _must_ get in, an'
you _must_ hold it!"
"We'll do it if it's possible."
"That's th' way to talk. Th' boys seem pleased about it," Meeker
laughed, listening to the joy loose in the house.
"Pleased! They're tickled plumb to death," Doc cried. "They've got so
sore about having to keep their guns quiet that when they cut
loose--well, something's due to happen."
"I don't want that if there's any other way," Meeker replied
earnestly. "If this thing can be done without wholesale slaughter
we've got to do it that way. Remember, Doc, this whole country is
backing Peters. He's got thirteen men now, an' he can call on thirty
more in two days. Easy is th' way, easy."
"I'll spend th' next hour pounding that into their hot heads," Doc
replied. "They're itching for a chance to square up for everything.
They're some sore, been so for a couple of days, about that line house
being guarded--they get sore plumb easy now, you know."
"Well, good-night, Doc."
"Good-night, Jim."
Meeker went towards his own house and as he neared the kitchen door a
deep-throated wolf-hound bayed from the kennels, inciting a clamorous
chorus from the others. Meeker shouted and the noise changed to low,
deep, rumbling growls which soon became hushed. Chains rattled over
wood and the fierce animals returned to their grass beds to snarl at
each other. The frightened crickets took up their song again and
poured it on the silence of the night.
The foreman opened the door and strode through the kitchen and into
the living room, his eyes squinting momentarily because of the light.
His daughter was sitting in a rocking chair, sewing industriously, and
she looked up, welcoming him. He replied to her and, dexterously
tossing his sombrero on a peg in the wall where it caught and hung
swinging, walked heavily to the southern window and stood before it,
hands clasped behind his back, staring moodily into the star-stabbed
darkness. Down the wind came the faint, wailing howl of a wolf,
quavering and distant, and the hounds again shattered the peaceful
quiet. But he heard neither, so absorbed was he by his thoughts. Mary
looked at him for a moment and then took up her work again and resumed
sewing, for he had done this before when things had gone wrong, and
frequently of late.
He turned suddenly and in response to the movement she looked up,
again laying her sewing aside. "What it is?" she asked.
"Trouble, Mary. I want to talk to you."
"I'm always ready to listen, Daddy," she replied. "I wish you wouldn't
worry so. That's all you've done since we left Montana."
"I know; but I can't help it," he responded, smiling faintly. "But I
don't care much as long as I've got you to talk it over with. Yo're
like yore mother that way, Mary; she allus made things easy, somehow.
An' she knew more'n most women do about things."
"Yo're my own Daddy," she replied affectionately. "Now tell me all
about it."
"Well," he began, sitting on the table, "I'm being cheated out of my
rights. I find lines where none exist. I'm hemmed in from water, th'
best grazing is held from me, my cows are driven helter-skelter, my
pride hurt, an' my men mocked. When I say I must have water I'm told
to go to th' river for it, twenty miles from my main range, an' lined
with quicksands; an' yet there is water close to me, water enough for
double th' number of cows of both ranches! It is good, clean water,
unfailing an' over a firm bottom, flowing through thirty miles of th'
best grass valley in this whole sun-cursed section. Two hundred miles
in any direction won't show another as good. An' yet, I dassn't set my
foot in it--I can't drive a cow across that line!"
He paused and then continued: "I'm good an' sick of it all. I ain't
going to swaller it no longer, not a day. Peace is all right, but not
at th' price I'm paying! I'd ruther die fighting for what's mine than
put up with what I have since I came down here."
"What are you going to do?" she asked quietly.
"I'm going to have a force on that line by to-morrow night!" he cried,
gradually working himself into a temper. "_I'm_ going to hold them
hills, an' th' springs at th' bottom of 'em. _I'm_ going to use that
valley an' I'll fight until th' last man goes under!"
"Don't say that, Daddy," she quickly objected. "There ain't no line
worth yore life. What good will it do you when yo're dead? You can get
along without it if it comes to that. An' what'll happen to me if you
get killed?"
"No, girl," he replied. "You've held me back too long. I should 'a
struck in th' beginning, before they got so set. It would 'a been
easier then. I don't like range wars any more'n anybody, but it's
come, an' I've got to hold up my end--an' my head!"
"But th' agreement?" she queried, fearful for his safety. She loved
her father with all her heart, for he had been more than a father to
her; he had always confided in her and weighed her judgment; they had
been companions since her mother died, which was almost beyond her
memory; and now he would risk his life in a range war, a vindictive,
unmerciful conflict which usually died out when the last opponent
died--and perhaps he was in the wrong. She knew the fighting ability
of that shaggy, tight-lipped breed of men that mocked Death with
derisive, profane words, who jibed whether in _melee_ or duel with as
light hearts as if engaged in nothing more dangerous than dancing. And
she had heard, even in Montana, of the fighting qualities of the
outfit that rode range for the Bar-20. If they must be fought, then
let it be for the right principles and not otherwise. And there was
Hopalong!--she knew in her heart that she loved him, and feared it and
fought it, but it was true; and he was the active leader of his
outfit, the man who was almost the foreman, and who would be in the
thickest of the fighting. She didn't purpose to have him killed if he
was in the right, or in the wrong, either.
"Agreement!" he cried, hotly. "Agreement! I hear that every time I say
anything to that crowd, an' now you give it to me! Agreement be
d----d! Nason never said nothing about any agreement when he told me
he had found a ranch for me. He wouldn't 'a dealt me a hand like that,
one that'd give me th' worst of it in a show-down! He found out all
about everything before he turned over my check to 'em."
"But they say there is one, an' from th' way they act it looks that
way."
"I don't believe anything of th' sort! It's just a trick to hog that
grass an' water!"
"Hopalong Cassidy told me there was one--he told me all about it. He
was a witness."
"Hopalong h--l!" he cried, remembering the day that Doc had been shot,
and certain hints which Antonio had let fall.
"Father!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing.
"Oh, don't mind me," he replied. "I don't know what I'm saying half
th' time. I'm all mixed up, now-a-days."
"I believe he was telling the truth--he wouldn't lie to me," she
remarked, decisively.
He looked at her sharply. "Well, am I to be tied down by something I
don't know about? Am I to swaller everything I hear? _I_ don't know
about no agreement, except what th' Bar-20 tells me. An' if there was
one it was made by th' Three Triangle, wasn't it?--an' not by Nason or
me? Am I th' Three Triangle? Am I to walk th' line on something I
didn't make? _I_ didn't make it!--oh, I'm tired arguing about it."
"Well, even if there wasn't no agreement you can't blame them for
trying to keep their land, can you?" she asked, idly fingering her
sewing. "The land is theirs, ain't it?"
"Did you ever hear of free grass an' free water?"
"I never heard of nothing else till I came down here," she admitted.
"But it may be different here."
"Well, it ain't different!" he retorted. "An' if it is it won't stay
so. What goes in Montanny will go down here. Anyhow, I don't want
their land--all I want is th' use of it, same as they have. But
they're hogs, an' want it all."
"They say it ain't big enough for their herds."
"Thirty-five miles long, and five miles wide, in th' valley alone, an'
it ain't big enough! Don't talk to me like that! You know better."
"I'm only trying to show it to you in every light," she responded.
"Mebby yo're right, an' mebby you ain't; that's what we've got to find
out. I don't want to think of you fightin', 'specially if yo're wrong.
Suppose yo're killed,--an' you might be. Ain't there some other way to
get what you want, if yo're determined to go ahead?"
"Yes, I might be killed, but I won't go alone!" he cried savagely.
"Fifty years, man an' boy, I've lived on th' range, taking every kick
of fortune, riding hard an' fightin' hard when I had to. I ain't no
yearling at any game about cows, girl."
"But can't you think of some other way?" she repeated.
"I've got to get that line house on th' hill," he went on, not
heeding her question. "Juan told me three days ago, that they've put a
guard in it now--but I'll have it by noon to-morrow, for I've been
thinking hard since then. An' once in it, they can't take it from me!
With that in my hands I can laugh at 'em, for I can drive my cows over
th' line close by it, down th' other side of th' hill, an' into th'
valley near th' springs. They'll be under my guns in th' line house,
an' let anybody try to drive 'em out again! Two men can hold that
house--it was built for defence against Indians. Th' top of th' hill
is level as a floor an' only two hundred yards to th' edge. Nobody can
cross that space under fire an' live."
"If they can't cross it an' live, how can _you_ cross it, when th'
house is guarded? An' when th' first shot is fired you'll have th'
whole outfit down on you from behind like wild fire. Then what'll you
do? You can't fight between two fires."
"By G-d, yo're right! Yo're th' brains of this ranch," he cried, his
eyes squinting to hide his elation. He paced back and forth, thinking
deeply. Five minutes passed, then ten, and he suddenly turned and
faced her, to unfold the plan he had worked out the day before. He had
been leading up to it and now he knew how to propose it. "I've got it.
I've got it! Not a shot, not a single shot!"
"Tell me," she said smiling.
He slowly unfolded it, telling her of the herds waiting to be driven
across the line to draw the Bar-20 men from the Peak, and of the part
she was to play. She listened quietly, a troubled frown on her face,
and when he had finished and asked her what she thought of it she
looked at him earnestly and slowly replied:
"Do you think that's fair? Do you want _me_ to do that?"
"What's unfair about it? They're yore enemies as much as they are
mine, ain't they? Ain't everything fair in love an' war, as th' books
say?"
"In war, perhaps; but not in love," she replied in a low voice,
thinking of the man who wore her flower.
"Now look here!" he cried, leaning forward. "Don't you go an' get soft
on any of that crowd! Do you hear?"
"We won't mix love an' war, Daddy," she said, decisively. "You take
care of yore end, that's war; an' let me run my part. I'll do what I
want to when it comes to falling in love; an' I'll help you to-morrow.
I don't want to do it, but I will; you've got to have th' line house,
an' without getting between two fires. I'll do it, Daddy."
"Good girl! Yo're just like yore mother--all grit!" he cried, going
towards the door. "An' I reckon I won't have to take no hand in _yore_
courting," he said, grabbing his sombrero. "Yo're shore able to run
yore own."
"But _promise_ me you won't interfere," she said, calmly, hiding her
triumph.
"It's a go. I'll keep away from th' sparking game," he promised. "I'm
going out to see th' boys for a minute," and the door slammed,
inciting the clamor of the kennels again, which he again hushed.
"D--n 'em!" he muttered, exultantly. "They tried to hog th' range, an'
then they want my girl! But they _won't_ hog th' range no more, an'
I'll put a stop to th' courting when she plays her cards to-morrow,
an' without having any hand in it. Lord, I win, every trick!" he
laughed.