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Arizona Nights

by Stewart Edward White

December, 1996  [Etext #753]


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ARIZONA NIGHTS
by
STEWART EDWARD WHITE





CHAPTER ONE 
THE OLE VIRGINIA

The ring around the sun had thickened all day long, and the
turquoise blue of the Arizona sky had filmed.  Storms in the dry
countries are infrequent, but heavy; and this surely meant storm.

We had ridden since sun-up over broad mesas, down and out of
deep canons, along the base of the mountain in the wildest
parts of the territory.  The cattle were winding leisurely toward
the high country; the jack rabbits had disappeared; the quail
lacked; we did not see a single antelope in the open.
  
"It's a case of hole up," the Cattleman ventured his opinion. "I
have a ranch over in the Double R.  Charley and Windy Bill hold
it down.  We'll tackle it.  What do you think?"
  
The four cowboys agreed.  We dropped into a low, broad
watercourse, ascended its bed to big cottonwoods and flowing
water, followed it into box canons between rim-rock carved
fantastically and painted like a Moorish facade, until at last in
a widening below a rounded hill, we came upon an adobe house, a
fruit tree, and a round corral.  This was the Double R.

Charley and Windy Bill welcomed us with soda biscuits.  We turned
our horses out, spread our beds on the floor, filled our pipes,
and squatted on our heels.  Various dogs of various breeds
investigated us.  It was very pleasant, and we did not mind the
ring around the sun.

"Somebody else coming," announced the Cattleman finally.

"Uncle Jim," said Charley, after a glance.

A hawk-faced old man with a long white beard and long white hair
rode out from the cottonwoods.  He had on a battered broad hat
abnormally high of crown, carried across his saddle a heavy
"eight square" rifle, and was followed by a half-dozen lolloping
hounds.

The largest and fiercest of the latter, catching sight of our
group, launched himself with lightning rapidity at the biggest of
the ranch dogs, promptly nailed that canine by the back of the
neck, shook him violently a score of times, flung him aside, and
pounced on the next.  During the ensuing few moments that hound
was the busiest thing in the West.  He satisfactorily whipped
four dogs, pursued two cats up a tree, upset the Dutch oven and
the rest of the soda biscuits, stampeded the horses, and raised a
cloud of dust adequate to represent the smoke of battle.  We
others were too paralysed to move.  Uncle Jim sat placidly on his
white horse, his thin knees bent to the ox-bow stirrups, smoking.
 
In ten seconds the trouble was over, principally because there
was no more trouble to make.  The hound returned leisurely,
licking from his chops the hair of his victims.  Uncle Jim shook
his head.
 
"Trailer," said he sadly, "is a little severe."
 
We greed heartily, and turned in to welcome Uncle Jim with a
fresh batch of soda biscuits.
 
The old man was ne of the typical"long hairs." He had come to
the Galiuro Mountains in '69, and since '69 he had remained in
the Galiuro Mountains, spite of man or the devil.  At present he
possessed some hundreds of cattle, which he was reputed to water,
in a dry season, from an ordinary dishpan.  In times past he had
prospected.
 
That evening, the severe Trailer having dropped to slumber, he
held forth on big-game hunting and dogs, quartz claims and
Apaches.
 
"Did you ever have any very close calls?" I asked.

He ruminated a few moments, refilled his pipe with some awful
tobacco, and told the following experience:


In the time of Geronimo I was living just about where I do now;
and that was just about in line with the raiding.  You see,
Geronimo, and Ju [1], and old Loco used to pile out of the
reservation at Camp Apache, raid south to the line, slip over
into Mexico when the soldiers got too promiscuous, and raid there
until they got ready to come back.  Then there was always a big
medicine talk.  Says Geronimo:
 
[1] Pronounced "Hoo."


"I am tired of the warpath.  I will come back from Mexico with
all my warriors, if you will escort me with soldiers and protect
my people."
 
"All right," says the General, being only too glad to get him
back at all.
 
So, then, in ten minutes there wouldn't be a buck in camp, but
next morning they shows up again, each with about fifty head of
hosses. 

"Where'd you get those hosses?" asks the General, suspicious. 

"Had 'em pastured in the hills," answers Geronimo. 

"I can't take all those hosses with me; I believe they're
stolen!" says the General. 

"My people cannot go without their hosses," says Geronimo.  

So, across the line they goes, and back to the reservation.  In
about a week there's fifty-two frantic Greasers wanting to know
where's their hosses.  The army is nothing but an importer of
stolen stock, and knows it, and can't help it.  

Well, as I says, I'm between Camp Apache and the Mexican line, so
that every raiding party goes right on past me.  The point is
that I'm a thousand feet or so above the valley, and the
renegades is in such a devil of a hurry about that time that they
never stop to climb up and collect me.  Often I've watched them
trailing down the valley in a cloud of dust.  Then, in a day or
two, a squad of soldiers would come up, and camp at my spring for
a while.  They used to send soldiers to guard every water hole in
the country so the renegades couldn't get water.  After a while,
from not being bothered none, I got thinking I wasn't worth while
with them.   

Me and Johnny Hooper were pecking away at the old Virginia mine
then.  We'd got down about sixty feet, all timbered, and was
thinking of cross-cutting.  One day Johnny went to town, and that
same day I got in a hurry and left my gun at camp.

I worked all the morning down at the bottom of the shaft, and
when I see by the sun it was getting along towards noon, I put in
three good shots, tamped 'em down, lit the fusees, and started to
climb out.
 
It ain't noways pleasant to light a fuse in a shaft, and then
have to climb out a fifty-foot ladder, with it burning behind
you.  I never did get used to it.  You keep thinking, "Now
suppose there's a flaw in that fuse, or something, and she goes
off in six seconds instead of two minutes?  where'll you be
then?"  It would give you a good boost towards your home on high,
anyway.  

So I climbed fast, and stuck my head out the top without
looking--and then I froze solid enough.  There, about
fifty feet away, climbing up the hill on mighty tired hosses, was
a dozen of the ugliest Chiricahuas you ever don't want to meet,
and in addition a Mexican renegade named Maria, who was worse
than any of 'em.  I see at once their bosses was tired out, and
they had a notion of camping at my water hole, not knowing
nothing about the Ole Virginia mine.  

For two bits I'd have let go all holts and dropped backwards,
trusting to my thick head for easy lighting.  Then I heard a
little fizz and sputter from below.  At that my hair riz right up
so I could feel the breeze blow under my bat.  For about six
seconds I stood there like an imbecile, grinning amiably.  Then
one of the Chiricahuas made a sort of grunt, and I sabed that
they'd seen the original exhibit your Uncle Jim was making of
himself.  

Then that fuse gave another sputter and one of the Apaches said
"Un dah."  That means "white man."  It was harder to turn my head
than if I'd had a stiff neck; but I managed to do it, and I see
that my ore dump wasn't more than ten foot away.  I mighty near
overjumped it; and the next I knew I was on one side of it and
those Apaches on the other.  Probably I flew; leastways I don't
seem to remember jumping.

That didn't seem to do me much good.  The renegades were grinning
and laughing to think how easy a thing they had; and I couldn't
rightly think up any arguments against that notion--at least from
their standpoint.  They were chattering away to each other in  
Mexican for the benefit of Maria.  Oh, they had me all
distributed, down to my suspender buttons!  And me squatting
behind that ore dump about as formidable as a brush rabbit!
 
Then, all at once, one of my shots went off down in the shaft.

"Boom!" says she, plenty big; and a slather of rock, and stones
come out of the mouth, and began to dump down promiscuous on the
scenery.  I got one little one in the shoulder-blade, and found
time to wish my ore dump had a roof.  But those renegades
caught it square in the thick of trouble.  One got knocked out
entirely for a minute, by a nice piece of country rock in the
head. 

"Otra vez!" yells I, which means "again."  

"Boom!" goes the Ole Virginia prompt as an answer.  

I put in my time dodging, but when I gets a chance to look, the
Apaches has all got to cover, and is looking scared.

"Otra vez!" yells I again.

"Boom!" says the Ole Virginia.

This was the biggest shot of the lot, and she surely cut loose. 
I ought to have been half-way up the bill watching things from a
safe distance, but I wasn't.  Lucky for me the shaft was a little
on the drift, so she didn't quite shoot my way.  But she
distributed about a ton over those renegades.  They sort of half
got to their feet uncertain.

"Otra vez!" yells I once more, as bold as if I could keep her
shooting all day.

It was just a cold, raw blazer; and if it didn't go through I
could see me as an Apache parlour ornament.  But it did.  Those
Chiricahuas give one yell and skipped.  It was surely a funny
sight, after they got aboard their war ponies, to see them trying
to dig out on horses too tired to trot.

I didn't stop to get all the laughs, though.  In fact, I give one
jump off that ledge, and I lit a-running.  A quarter-hoss
couldn't have beat me to that shack. There I grabbed old
Meat-in-the-pot and made a climb for the tall country, aiming to
wait around until dark, and then to pull out for Benson.  Johnny
Hooper wasn't expected till next day, which was lucky.  From
where I lay I could see the Apaches camped out beyond my
draw, and I didn't doubt they'd visited the place.  Along about
sunset they all left their camp, and went into the draw, so
there, I thinks, I sees a good chance to make a start before
dark.  I dropped down from the mesa, skirted the butte, and
angled down across the country.  After I'd gone a half mile from
the cliffs, I ran across Johnny Hooper's fresh trail headed
towards camp!  

My heart jumped right up into my mouth at that. Here was poor old
Johnny, a day too early, with a pack-mule of grub, walking
innocent as a yearling, right into the bands of those hostiles. 
The trail looked pretty fresh, and Benson's a good long day with
a pack animal, so I thought perhaps I might catch him before he
runs into trouble.  So I ran back on the trail as fast as I could
make it.  The sun was down by now, and it was getting dusk.  

I didn't overtake him, and when I got to the top of the canon I
crawled along very cautious and took a look.  Of course, I
expected to see everything up in smoke, but I nearly got up and
yelled when I see everything all right, and old Sukey, the
pack-mule, and Johnny's hoss hitched up as peaceful as
babies  to the corral.  

"THAT'S all right!" thinks I, "they're back in their camp, and
haven't discovered Johnny yet.  I'll snail him out of there."  

So I ran down the hill and into the shack.  Johnny sat in his
chair--what there was of him.  He must have got in about two
hours before sundown, for they'd had lots of time to put in on
him.  That's the reason they'd stayed so long up the draw.  Poor
old Johnny!  I was glad it was night, and he was dead.  Apaches
are the worst Injuns there is for tortures.  They cut off the
bottoms of old man Wilkins's feet, and stood him on an 
ant-hill--.  

In a minute or so, though, my wits gets to work.

"Why ain't the shack burned?" I asks myself, "and why is the hoss
and the mule tied all so peaceful to the corral?"  

It didn't take long for a man who knows Injins to answer THOSE
conundrums.  The whole thing was a trap--for me--and I'd walked
into it, chuckle-headed as a prairie-dog!

With that I makes a run outside--by now it was dark--and listens.
Sure enough, I hears hosses.  So I makes a rapid sneak back over
the trail.

Everything seemed all right till I got up to the rim-rock.  Then
I heard more hosses--ahead of me.  And when I looked back I could
see some Injuns already at the shack, and starting to build a
fire outside.

In a tight fix, a man is pretty apt to get scared till all hope
is gone.  Then he is pretty apt to get cool and calm.  That was
my case.  I couldn't go ahead--there was those hosses coming
along the trail.  I couldn't go back--there was those Injins
building the fire.  So I skirmished around till I got a bright
star right over the trail head, and I trained old Meat-in-the-
pot to bear on that star, and I made up my mind that when the
star was darkened I'd turn loose.  So I lay there a while
listening.  By and by the star was blotted out, and I cut loose,
and old Meat-in-the-pot missed fire--she never did it before nor
since; I think that cartridge--

Well, I don't know where the Injins came from, but it seemed as
if the hammer had hardly clicked before three or four of them
bad piled on me.  I put up the best fight I could, for I wasn't
figuring to be caught alive, and this miss-fire deal had fooled
me all along the line.  They surely had a lively time.  I
expected every minute to feel a knife in my back, but when I
didn't get it then I knew they wanted to bring me in alive, and
that made me fight harder.  First and last, we rolled and plunged
all the way from the rim-rock down to the canon-bed.  Then one
of the Injins sung out:

"Maria!"

And I thought of that renegade Mexican, and what I'd heard bout
him, and that made me fight harder yet.  

But after we'd fought down to the canon-bed, and had lost most of
our skin, a half-dozen more fell on me, and in less than no time
they had me tied.  Then they picked me up and carried me over to
where they'd built a big fire by the corral."


Uncle Jim stopped with an air of finality, and began lazily to
refill his pipe.  From the open mud fireplace he picked a coal.
Outside, the rain, faithful to the prophecy of the wide-ringed
sun, beat fitfully against the roof.

"That was the closest call I ever had," said he at last. 

"But, Uncle Jim," we cried in a confused chorus, "how did you get
away?  What did the Indians do to you?  Who rescued you?"

Uncle Jim chuckled. 

"The first man I saw sitting at that fire," said he, "was
Lieutenant Price of the United States Army, and by
him was Tom Horn."

"'What's this?' he asks, and Horn talks to the Injins in Apache.

"'They say they've caught Maria,' translates Horn back again. 

"'Maria-nothing!' says Lieutenant Price. 'This is Jim Fox. I know
him.'"

"So they turned me loose.  It seems the troops had driven off
the renegades an hour before."

"And the Indians who caught you, Uncle Jim?  You said they were
Indians."

"Were Tonto Basin Apaches," explained the old  man--"government
scouts under Tom Horn."



CHAPTER TWO

THE EMIGRANTS

After the rain that had held us holed up at the Double R over one
day, we discussed what we should do next.  

"The flats will be too boggy for riding, and anyway the cattle
will be in the high country," the Cattleman summed up the
situation.  "We'd bog down the chuck-wagon if we tried to get
back to the J. H.  But now after the rain the weather ought to be
beautiful.  What shall we do?" 

"Was you ever in the Jackson country?" asked Uncle Jim.  "It's
the wildest part of Arizona.  It's a big country and rough, and
no one lives there, and there's lots of deer and mountain lions
and bear.  Here's my dogs.  We might have a hunt."

"Good!" said we.  

We skirmished around and found a condemned army pack saddle with
aparejos, and a sawbuck saddle with kyacks.  On these, we managed
to condense our grub and utensils.  There were plenty of horses,
so our bedding we bound flat about their naked barrels by means
of the squaw-hitch.  Then we started.  

That day furnished us with a demonstration of what Arizona horses
can do.  Our way led first through a canon-bed filled with
rounded boulders and rocks, slippery and unstable.  Big
cottonwoods and oaks grew so thick as partially to conceal
the cliffs on either side of us.  The rim-rock was mysterious
with caves; beautiful with hanging gardens of tree ferns and
grasses growing thick in long transverse crevices; wonderful in
colour and shape.  We passed the little canons fenced off by the
rustlers as corrals into which to shunt from the herds their 
choice of beeves.  

The Cattleman shook his head at them.  "Many  a man has come from
Texas and established a herd with no other asset than a couple of
horses and a branding-iron," said he.

Then we worked up gradually to a divide, whence we could see a
range of wild and rugged mountains on our right.  They rose by
slopes and ledges, steep and rough, and at last ended in the
thousand-foot cliffs of the buttes, running sheer and unbroken
for  many miles.  During all the rest of our trip they were to be
our companions, the only constant factors in the tumult of lesser
peaks, precipitous canons, and twisted systems in which we were
constantly involved. 

The sky was sun-and-shadow after the rain.  Each and every
Arizonan predicted clearing.  

"Why, it almost never rains in Arizona," said Jed Parker.  "And
when it does it quits before it begins."   

Nevertheless, about noon a thick cloud gathered about the tops of
the Galiuros above us.  Almost immediately it was dissipated by
the wind, but when the peaks again showed, we stared with
astonishment to see that they were white with snow.  It was as
though a magician had passed a sheet before them the brief
instant necessary to work his great transformation.  Shortly the
sky thickened again, and it began to rain.  

Travel had been precarious before; but now its difficulties were
infinitely increased.  The clay sub-soil to the rubble turned
slippery and adhesive.  On the sides of the mountains it was
almost impossible to keep a footing.  We speedily became wet, our
hands puffed and purple, our boots sodden with the water that had
trickled from our clothing into them.

"Over the next ridge," Uncle Jim promised us, "is an old shack
that I fixed up seven years ago.  We can all make out to get in
it."   

Over the next ridge, therefore, we slipped and slid, thanking the
god of luck for each ten feet gained.  It was growing cold.  The
cliffs and palisades near at hand showed dimly behind the falling
rain; beyond them waved and eddied the storm mists through which
the mountains revealed and concealed proportions exaggerated into
unearthly grandeur.  Deep in the clefts of the box canons the
streams were filling.  The roar of their rapids echoed from
innumerable precipices.  A soft swish of water usurped the world
of sound.  

Nothing more uncomfortable or more magnificent could be imagined. 
We rode shivering.  Each said to himself, "I can stand
this--right now--at the present moment.  Very well; I will do so,
and I will refuse to look forward even five minutes to what I may
have to stand," which is the true philosophy of tough times and
the only effective way to endure discomfort.  

By luck we reached the bottom of that canon without a fall.  It
was wide, well grown with oak trees, and belly deep in rich horse
feed--an ideal place to camp were it not for the fact that a thin
sheet of water a quarter of an inch deep was flowing over the
entire surface of the ground.  We spurred on desperately,
thinking of a warm fire and a chance to steam.


The roof of the shack had fallen in, and the floor was six inches
deep in adobe mud.  

We did not dismount--that would have wet our saddles--but sat on
our horses taking in the details.  Finally Uncle Jim came to the
front with a suggestion. 

"I know of a cave," said he, "close under a butte.  It's a big
cave, but it has such a steep floor that I'm not sure as we could
stay in it; and it's back the other side of that ridge."

"I don't know how the ridge is to get back over--it was slippery
enough coming this way--and the cave may shoot us out into space,
but I'd like to LOOK at a dry place anyway," replied the
Cattleman.  

We all felt the same about it, so back over the ridge we went. 
About half way down the other side Uncle Jim turned sharp to the
right, and as the "hog back" dropped behind us, we found
ourselves out on the steep side of a mountain, the perpendicular
cliff over us to the right, the river roaring savagely far down
below our left, and sheets of water glazing the footing we could
find among the boulders and debris.  Hardly could the ponies keep
from slipping sideways on the slope, as we proceeded farther and
farther from the solidity of the ridge behind us, we experienced
the illusion of venturing out on a tight rope over abysses of
space.  Even the feeling of danger was only an illusion, however,
composite of the falling rain, the deepening twilight, and the
night that had already enveloped the plunge of the canon below.  
Finally Uncle Jim stopped just within the drip from the cliffs. 

"Here she is," said he.  

We descended eagerly.  A deer bounded away from the base of the
buttes.  The cave ran steep, in the manner of an inclined tunnel,
far up into the dimness.  We had to dig our toes in and scramble
to make way up it at all, but we found it dry, and after a little
search discovered a foot-ledge of earth sufficiently broad for a
seat.  

"That's all right," quoth Jed Parker. "Now, for sleeping places."

We scattered.  Uncle Jim and Charley promptly annexed the slight
overhang of the cliff whence the deer had jumped.  It was dry at
the moment, but we uttered pessimistic predictions if the wind
should change.  Tom Rich and Jim Lester had a little tent, and
insisted on descending to the canon-bed.  

"Got to cook there, anyways," said they, and departed with the
two pack mules and their bed horse.  

That left the Cattleman, Windy Bill, Jed Parker, and me.  In a
moment Windy Bill came up to us whispering and mysterious.  

"Get your cavallos and follow me," said he.  

We did so.  He led us two hundred yards to another cave, twenty
feet high, fifteen feet in diameter, level as a floor. 

"How's that?" he cried in triumph. "Found her just now while I
was rustling nigger-heads for a fire." 

We unpacked our beds with chuckles of joy, and spread them
carefully within the shelter of the cave.  Except for the very
edges, which did not much matter, our blankets and "so-guns,"
protected by the canvas "tarp," were reasonably dry.  Every once
in a while a spasm of conscience would seize one or the other of
us. 

"It seems sort of mean on the other fellows," ruminated Jed
Parker.

"They had their first choice," cried we all. 

"Uncle Jim's an old man," the Cattleman pointed out.  

But Windy Bill had thought of that.  "I told him of this yere
cave first.  But he allowed he was plumb satisfied."  

We finished laying out our blankets.  The result looked good to
us.  We all burst out laughing. 

"Well, I'm sorry for those fellows," cried the Cattleman.  We
hobbled our horses and descended to the gleam of the fire, like
guilty conspirators.  There we ate hastily of meat, bread and
coffee, merely for the sake of sustenance.  It certainly amounted
to little in the way of pleasure.  The water from the direct
rain, the shivering trees, and our hat brims accumulated in our
plates faster than we could bail it out.  The dishes were thrust
under a canvas.  Rich and Lester decided to remain with their
tent, and so we saw them no more until morning.

We broke off back-loads of mesquite and toiled up the hill,
tasting thickly the high altitude in the severe labour.  At the
big cave we dumped down our burdens, transported our fuel
piecemeal to the vicinity of the narrow ledge, built a good fire,
sat in a row, and lit our pipes.  In a few moments, the blaze was
burning high, and our bodies had ceased shivering.  Fantastically
the firelight revealed the knobs and crevices, the ledges and the
arching walls.  Their shadows leaped, following the flames,
receding and advancing like playful beasts.  Far above us was a
single tiny opening through which the smoke was sucked as through
a chimney.  The glow ruddied the men's features.  Outside was
thick darkness, and the swish and rush and roar of rising
waters.  Listening, Windy Bill was reminded of a story.  We
leaned back comfortably against the sloping walls of the cave,
thrust our feet toward the blaze, smoked, and hearkened to the
tale of Windy Bill.
 

There's a tur'ble lot of water running loose here, but I've seen
the time and place where even what is in that drip would be
worth a gold mine.   That was in the emigrant days.  They used
to come over south of here, through what they called Emigrant
Pass, on their way to Californy. I was a kid then, about eighteen
year old, and what I didn't know about Injins and Agency cattle
wasn't a patch of alkali.  I had a kid outfit of h'ar bridle,
lots of silver and such, and I used to ride over and be the
handsome boy before such outfits as happened along.

They were queer people, most of 'em from Missoury and
such-like southern seaports, and they were tur'ble sick of
travel by the time they come in sight of Emigrant Pass.  Up to
Santa Fe they mostly hiked along any old way, but once there they
herded up together in bunches of twenty wagons or so, 'count of
our old friends, Geronimo and Loco.  A good many of 'em had
horned cattle to their wagons, and they crawled along about two
miles an hour, hotter'n hell with the blower on, nothin' to
look at but a mountain a week way, chuck full of alkali, plenty
of sage-brush and rattlesnakes--but mighty little water.

Why, you boys know that country down there.  Between the
Chiricahua Mountains and Emigrant Pass it's maybe a three or four
days' journey for these yere bull-slingers.

Mostly they filled up their bellies and their kegs, hoping to
last through, but they sure found it drier than cork legs, and
generally long before they hit the Springs their tongues was
hangin' out a foot.  You see, for all their plumb nerve in comin'
so far, the most of them didn't know sic'em.  They were plumb
innocent in regard to savin' their water, and Injins, and such;
and the long-haired buckskin fakes they picked up at Santa Fe for
guides wasn't much better. 

That was where Texas Pete made his killing.  

Texas Pete was a tough citizen from the Lone Star.  He was about
as broad as he was long, and wore all sorts of big whiskers and
black eyebrows.  His heart was very bad.  You never COULD tell
where Texas Pete was goin' to jump next.  He was a side-winder
and a diamond-back and a little black rattlesnake all rolled
into one.  I believe that Texas Pete person cared about as little
for killin' a man as for takin' a drink--and he shorely drank
without an effort.  Peaceable citizens just spoke soft and minded
their own business; onpeaceable citizens Texas Pete used to plant
out in the sagebrush. 

Now this Texas Pete happened to discover a water hole right out
in the plumb middle of the desert.  He promptly annexed said
water hole, digs her out, timbers her up, and lays for emigrants.

He charged two bits a head--man or beast--and nobody got a
mouthful till he paid up in hard coin.  

Think of the wads he raked in!  I used to figure it up, just for
the joy of envyin' him, I reckon.  An average twenty-wagon
outfit, first and last, would bring him in somewheres about fifty
dollars--and besides he had forty-rod at four bits a glass.  And
outfits at that time were thicker'n spatter.  

We used all to go down sometimes to watch them come in.  When
they see that little canvas shack and that well, they begun to
cheer up and move fast.  And when they see that sign, "Water, two
bits a head," their eyes stuck out like two raw oysters.  

Then come the kicks.  What a howl they did raise, shorely.  But
it didn't do no manner of good.  Texas Pete didn't do nothin' but
sit there and smoke, with a kind of sulky gleam in one corner of
his eye.  He didn't even take the trouble to answer, but his
Winchester lay across his lap.  There wasn't no humour in the
situation for him.

"How much is your water for humans?" asks one emigrant.

"Can't you read that sign?" Texas Pete asks him.

"But you don't mean two bits a head for HUMANS!" yells the man.
"Why, you can get whisky for that!"

"You can read the sign, can't you?" insists Texas Pete.

"I can read it all right?" says the man, tryin' a new deal, "but
they tell me not to believe more'n half I read."

But that don't go; and Mr. Emigrant shells out with the rest.  

I didn't blame them for raisin' their howl.  Why, at that time
the regular water holes was chargin' five cents a head from the
government freighters, and the motto was always "Hold up Uncle
Sam," at that.  Once in a while some outfit would get mad and go
chargin' off dry; but it was a long, long way to the Springs, and
mighty hot and dusty.  Texas Pete and his one lonesome water hole
shorely did a big business.

Late one afternoon me and Gentleman Tim was joggin' along above
Texas Pete's place.  It was a tur'ble hot day--you had to prime
yourself to spit--and we was just gettin' back from drivin' some
beef up to the troops at Fort Huachuca.  We was due to cross the
Emigrant Trail--she's wore in tur'ble deep--you can see the ruts
to-day.  When we topped the rise we see a little old outfit just
makin' out to drag along.  

It was one little schooner all by herself, drug along by two poor
old cavallos that couldn't have pulled my hat off.  Their tongues
was out, and every once in a while they'd stick in a chuck-hole. 
Then a man would get down and put his shoulder to the wheel, and
everybody'd take a heave, and up they'd come, all a-trembling and
weak.  

Tim and I rode down just to take a look at the curiosity. 

A thin-lookin' man was drivin', all humped up.

"Hullo, stranger," says I, "ain't you 'fraid of Injins?"

"Yes," says he.

"Then why are you travellin' through an Injin country all alone?"

"Couldn't keep up," says he. "Can I get water here?"

"I reckon," I answers.  

He drove up to the water trough there at Texas Pete's, me and
Gentleman Tim followin' along because our trail led that way. 
But he hadn't more'n stopped before Texas Pete was out. 

"Cost you four bits to water them hosses," says he. 

The man looked up kind of bewildered. 

"I'm sorry," says he, "I ain't got no four bits.  I got my roll
lifted off'n me."

"No water, then," growls Texas Pete back at him. 

The man looked about him helpless. 

"How far is it to the next water?" he asks me.
  
"Twenty mile," I tells him.  

"My God!" he says, to himself-like.

Then he shrugged his shoulders very tired. 

"All right.  It's gettin' the cool of the evenin'; we'll make
it."  He turns into the inside of that old schooner. 

"Gi' me the cup, Sue."  

A white-faced woman who looked mighty good to us alkalis opened
the flaps and gave out a tin cup, which the man pointed out to
fill.

"How many of you is they?" asks Texas Pete.  

"Three," replies the man, wondering.

"Well, six bits, then," says Texas Pete, "cash down."  

At that the man straightens up a little. 

"I ain't askin' for no water for my stock," says he, "but my wife
and baby has been out in this sun all day without a drop of
water.  Our cask slipped a hoop and bust just this side of Dos
Cabesas.  The poor kid is plumb dry."  

"Two bits a head," says Texas Pete.  

At that the woman comes out, a little bit of a baby in her arms. 
The kid had fuzzy yellow hair, and its face was flushed red and
shiny.
 
"Shorely you won't refuse a sick child a drink of water, sir," 
says she.  

But Texas Pete had some sort of a special grouch;  I guess he was
just beginning to get his snowshoes off after a fight with his
own forty-rod.  

"What the hell are you-all doin' on the trail without no money at
all?" he growls, "and how do you expect to get along?  Such plumb
tenderfeet drive me weary."

"Well," says the man, still reasonable, "I ain't got no money,
but I'll give you six bits' worth of flour or trade or an'thin' I
got."

"I don't run no truck-store," snaps Texas Pete, and turns square
on his heel and goes back to his chair.  

"Got six bits about you?" whispers Gentleman Tim to me.  

"Not a red," I answers.

Gentleman Tim turns to Texas Pete.  

"Let 'em have a drink, Pete.  I'll pay you next time I come
down."  

"Cash down," growls Pete.
  
"You're the meanest man I ever see," observes Tim.  "I wouldn't
speak to you if I met you in hell carryin' a lump of ice in your
hand."  

"You're the softest _I_ ever see," sneers Pete.  "Don't they have
any genooine Texans down your way?"  

"Not enough to make it disagreeable," says Tim.  

"That lets you out," growls Pete, gettin' hostile and handlin' of
his rifle.

Which the man had been standin' there bewildered, the cup hangin'
from his finger.  At last, lookin' pretty desperate, he stooped
down to dig up a little of the wet from an overflow puddle lyin'
at his feet. At the same time the hosses, left sort of to
themselves and bein' drier than a covered bridge, drug forward
and stuck their noses in the trough.  

Gentleman Tim and me was sittin' there on our hosses, a little to
one side.  We saw Texas Pete jump up from his chair, take a quick
aim, and cut loose with his rifle.  It was plumb unexpected to
us.  We hadn't thought of any shootin', and our six-shooters was
tied in, 'count of the jumpy country we'd been drivin' the steers
over.  But Gentleman Tim, who had unslung his rope, aimin' to
help the hosses out of the chuckhole, snatched her off the horn,
and with one of the prettiest twenty-foot flip throws I ever see
done he snaked old Texas Pete right out of his wicky-up, gun and
all.  The old renegade did his best to twist around for a shot at
us; but it was no go; and I never enjoyed hog-tying a critter
more in my life than I enjoyed hog-tying Texas Pete.  Then we
turned to see what damage had been done. 

We were some relieved to find the family all right, but Texas
Pete had bored one of them poor old crow-bait hosses plumb
through the head.  

"It's lucky for you you don't get the old man," says Gentleman
Tim very quiet and polite.

Which Gentleman Tim was an Irishman, and I'd been on the range
long enough with him to know that when he got quiet and polite it
was time to dodge behind something.  

"I hope, sir" says he to the stranger, "that you will give your
wife and baby a satisfying drink.  As for your hoss, pray do not
be under any apprehension.  Our friend, Mr. Texas Pete, here, has
kindly consented to make good any deficiencies from his own
corral."  

Tim could talk high, wide, and handsome when he set out to.  

The man started to say something; but I managed to herd him to
one side.  

"Let him alone," I whispers.  "When he talks that way, he's mad;
and when he's mad, it's better to leave nature to supply the
lightnin' rods."  

He seemed to sabe all right, so we built us a little fire and
started some grub, while Gentleman Tim walked up and down very
grand and fierce.

By and by he seemed to make up his mind.  He went over and untied
Texas Pete. 

"Stand up, you hound," says he.  "Now listen to me.  If you make
a break to get away, or if you refuse to do just as I tell you, I
won't shoot you, but I'll march you up country and see that
Geronimo gets you."  

He sorted out a shovel and pick, made Texas Pete carry them right
along the trail a quarter, and started him to diggin' a hole.
  
Texas Pete started in hard enough, Tim sittin' over him on his
hoss, his six-shooter loose, and his rope free.  The man and I
stood by, not darin' to say a word.  After a minute or so Texas
Pete began to work slower and slower.  By and by he stopped.

"Look here," says he, "is this here thing my grave?"  

"I am goin' to see that you give the gentleman's hoss decent
interment," says Gentleman Tim very polite.  

"Bury a hoss!" growls Texas Pete.  

But he didn't say any more.  Tim cocked his six-shooter.  

"Perhaps you'd better quit panting and sweat a little," says he. 

Texas Pete worked hard for a while, for Tim's quietness was
beginning to scare him up the worst way.  By and by he had got
down maybe four or five feet, and Tim got off his hoss.  

"I think that will do," says he.

"You may come out.  Billy, my son, cover him.  Now, Mr. Texas
Pete," he says, cold as steel, "there is the grave.  We will
place the hoss in it.  Then I intend to shoot you and put you in
with the hoss, and write you an epitaph that will be a comfort to
such travellers of  the Trail as are honest, and a warnin' to
such as are not.  I'd as soon kill you now as an hour from now,
so you may make a break for it if you feel like it."  

He stooped over to look into the hole.  I thought he looked an
extra long time, but when he raised his head his face had changed
complete. 

"March!" says he very brisk. 

We all went back to the shack.  From the corral Tim took Texas
Pete's best team and hitched her to the old schooner.  

"There," says he to the man.  "Now you'd better hit the trail. 
Take that whisky keg there for water.  Good-bye."  

We sat there without sayin' a word for some time after the
schooner had pulled out.  Then Tim says, very abrupt:

"I've changed my mind."  

He got up.  

"Come on, Billy," says he to me.  "We'll just leave our friend
tied up.  I'll be back to-morrow to turn you loose.  In the
meantime it won't hurt you a bit to be a little uncomfortable,
and hungry--and thirsty."  

We rode off just about sundown, leavin' Texas Pete lashed tight.

Now all this knocked me hell-west and crooked, and I said so, but
I couldn't get a word out of Gentleman Tim.  All the answer I
could get was just little laughs. 

We drawed into the ranch near midnight, but next mornin' Tim had
a long talk with the boss, and the result was that the whole
outfit was instructed to arm up with a pick or a shovel apiece,
and to get set for Texas Pete's.  We got there a little after
noon, turned the old boy out--without firearms--and then began to
dig at a place Tim told us to, near that grave of Texas Pete's. 
In three hours we had the finest water-hole developed you ever
want to see.  Then the boss stuck up a sign that said:
            
                PUBLIC WATER-HOLE.  WATER, FREE.

"Now you old skin," says he to Texas Pete, "charge all you want
to on your own property.  But if I ever hear of your layin' claim
to this other hole, I'll shore make you hard to catch."  

Then we rode off home.  You see, when Gentleman Tim inspected
that grave, he noted indications of water; and it struck him that
runnin' the old renegade out of business was a neater way of
gettin' even than merely killin' him.  


Somebody threw a fresh mesquite on the fire.  The flames leaped
up again, showing a thin trickle of water running down the other
side of the cave.  The steady downpour again made itself
prominent through the re-established silence.  

"What did Texas Pete do after that?" asked the Cattleman.  

"Texas Pete?" chuckled Windy Bill.  "Well, he put in a heap of
his spare time lettin' Tim alone."



CHAPTER THREE
THE REMITTANCE MAN

After Windy Bill had finished his story we began to think it time
to turn in.  Uncle Jim and Charley slid and slipped down the
chute-like passage leading from the cave and disappeared in the
direction of the overhang beneath which they had spread their
bed.  After a moment we tore off long bundles of the nigger-head
blades, lit the resinous ends at our fire, and with these torches
started to make our way along the base of the cliff to the other
cave.  

Once without the influence of the fire our impromptu links cast
an adequate light.  The sheets of rain became suddenly visible as
they entered the circle of illumination.  By careful scrutiny of
the footing I gained the entrance to our cave without mishap.  I
looked back.  Here and there irregularly gleamed and spluttered
my companions' torches.  Across each slanted the rain.  All else
was of inky blackness except where, between them and me, a faint
red reflection shone on the wet rocks.  Then I turned inside.

Now, to judge from the crumbling powder of the footing, that
cave had been dry since Noah.  In fact, its roof was nearly a
thousand feet thick.  But since we had spread our blankets, the
persistent waters had soaked down and through.  The thousand-foot
roof had a sprung a leak.  Three separate and distinct streams of
water ran as from spigots.  I lowered my torch.  The canvas
tarpaulin shone with wet, and in its exact centre glimmered a
pool of water three inches deep and at least two feet in
diameter. 

"Well, I'll be," I began.  Then I remembered those three wending
their way along a wet and disagreeable trail, happy and peaceful
in anticipation of warm blankets and a level floor.  I chuckled
and sat on my heels out of the drip.  

First came Jed Parker, his head bent to protect the fire in his
pipe.  He gained the very centre of the cave before he looked up.

Then he cast one glance at each bed, and one at me.  His grave,
hawk-like features relaxed.  A faint grin appeared under his long
moustache.  Without a word he squatted down beside me. 

Next the Cattleman.  He looked about him with a comical
expression of dismay, and burst into a hearty laugh.  

"I believe I said I was sorry for those other fellows," he
remarked.  

Windy Bill was the last.  He stooped his head to enter,
straightened his lank figure, and took in the situation without
expression.  

"Well, this is handy," said he; "I was gettin' tur'ble dry, and
was thinkin' I would have to climb way down to the creek in all
this rain."  

He stooped to the pool in the centre of the tarpaulin and drank. 

But now our torches began to run low.  A small dry bush grew near
the entrance.  We ignited it, and while it blazed we hastily
sorted a blanket apiece and tumbled the rest out of the drip.  

Our return without torches along the base of that butte was
something to remember.  The night was so thick you could feel the
darkness pressing on you; the mountain dropped abruptly to the
left, and was strewn with boulders and blocks of stone. 
Collisions and stumbles were frequent.  Once I stepped off a
little ledge five or six feet--nothing worse than a barked shin. 
And all the while the rain, pelting us unmercifully, searched out
what poor little remnants of dryness we had been able to retain.

At last we opened out the gleam of fire in our cave, and a
minute later were engaged in struggling desperately up the slant
that brought us to our ledge and the slope on which our fire
burned.

"My Lord!" panted Windy Bill, "a man had ought to have hooks on
his eyebrows to climb up here!"

We renewed the fire--and blessed the back-load of mesquite we had
packed up earlier in the evening.  Our blankets we wrapped around
our shoulders, our feet we hung over the ledge toward the blaze,
our backs we leaned against the hollow slant of the cave's
wall.  We were not uncomfortable.  The beat of the rain sprang up
in the darkness, growing louder and louder, like horsemen passing
on a hard road.  Gradually we dozed off.

For a time everything was pleasant.  Dreams came fused with
realities; the firelight faded from consciousness or returned
fantastic to our half-awakening; a delicious numbness overspread
our tired bodies. The shadows leaped, became solid, monstrous. 
We fell asleep.

After a time the fact obtruded itself dimly through our stupor
that the constant pressure of the hard rock had impeded our
circulation.  We stirred uneasily, shifting to a better position.

That was the beginning of awakening.  The new position did not
suit.  A slight shivering seized us, which the drawing closer of
the blanket failed to end.  Finally I threw aside my hat and
looked out.  Jed Parker, a vivid patch-work comforter wrapped
about his shoulders, stood upright and silent by the fire.  I
kept still, fearing to awaken the others.  In a short time I
became aware that the others were doing identically the same
thing.  We laughed, threw off our blankets, stretched, and fed
the fire.

A thick acrid smoke filled the air.  The Cattleman, rising, left
a trail of incandescent footprints.  We investigated hastily, and
discovered that the supposed earth on the slant of the cave was
nothing more than bat guano, tons of it.  The fire, eating its
way beneath, had rendered untenable its immediate vicinity.  We
felt as though we were living over a volcano.  How soon our
ledge, of the same material, might be attacked, we had no means
of knowing.  Overcome with drowsiness, we again disposed our
blankets, resolved to get as many naps as possible before even
these constrained quarters were taken from us.  

This happened sooner and in a manner otherwise than we had
expected.  Windy Bill brought us to consciousness by a wild yell.

Consciousness reported to us a strange, hurried sound like the
long roll on a drum.  Investigation showed us that this cave,
too, had sprung a leak; not with any premonitory drip, but all at
once, as though someone had turned on a faucet.  In ten seconds a
very competent streamlet six inches wide had eroded a course down
through the guano, past the fire and to the outer slope.  And by
the irony of fate that one--and only one--leak in all the roof
expanse of a big cave was directly over one end of our tiny
ledge.  The Cattleman laughed. 

"Reminds me of the old farmer and his kind friend," said he.
"Kind friend hunts up the old farmer in the village.

"'John,' says he, 'I've bad news for you. Your barn has burned
up.'

"'My Lord!' says the farmer.

"'But that ain't the worst.  Your cow was burned, too.'

"'My Lord!' says the farmer.  

"'But that ain't the worst.  Your horses were burned.'  

"'My Lord!' says the farmer.  

"'But, that ain't the worst.  The barn set fire to the house, and
it was burned--total loss.'  

"'My Lord!' groans the farmer. 

"'But that ain't the worst.  Your wife and child were killed,
too.'

"'At that the farmer began to roar with laughter.

"'Good heavens, man!' cries his friend, astonished, 'what in
the world do you find to laugh at in that?'

"'Don't you see?' answers the farmer.  'Why, it's so darn
COMPLETE!'

"Well," finished the Cattleman, "that's what strikes me about
our case; it's so darn complete!"

"What time is it?" asked Windy Bill.

"Midnight," I announced.

"Lord!  Six hours to day!" groaned Windy Bill. "How'd you like to
be doin' a nice quiet job at gardenin' in the East where you
could belly up to the bar reg'lar every evenin', and drink a
pussy cafe and smoke tailor-made cigareets?"

"You wouldn't like it a bit," put in the Cattleman with decision;
whereupon in proof he told us the following story: 


Windy has mentioned Gentleman Tim, and that reminded me of the
first time I ever saw him.  He was an Irishman all right, but he
had been educated in England, and except for his accent he was
more an Englishman than anything else.  A freight outfit brought
him into Tucson from Santa Fe and dumped him down on the plaza,
where at once every idler in town gathered to quiz him.  

Certainly he was one of the greenest specimens I ever saw in this
country.  He had on a pair of balloon pants and a Norfolk jacket,
and was surrounded by a half-dozen baby trunks.  His face was
red-cheeked and aggressively clean, and his eye limpid as a
child's.  Most of those present thought that indicated
childishness; but I could see that it was only utter
self-unconsciousness.  

It seemed that he was out for big game, and intended to go after
silver-tips somewhere in these very mountains.  Of course he was
offered plenty of advice, and would probably have made
engagements much to be regretted had I not taken a strong fancy
to him.

"My friend," said I, drawing him aside, "I don't want to be
inquisitive, but what might you do when you're home?"  

"I'm a younger son," said he. I was green myself in those days,
and knew nothing of primogeniture.

"That is a very interesting piece of family history," said I,
"but it does not answer my question."  

He smiled.  

"Well now, I hadn't thought of that," said he, "but in a manner
of speaking, it does.  I do nothing."  

"Well," said I, unabashed, "if you saw me trying to be a younger
son and likely to forget myself and do something without meaning
to, wouldn't you be apt to warn me?"  

"Well, 'pon honour, you're a queer chap.  What do you mean?"  

"I mean that if you hire any of those men to guide you in the
mountains, you'll be outrageously cheated, and will be lucky if
you're not gobbled by Apaches."  

"Do you do any guiding yourself, now?" he asked, most innocent of
manner.

But I flared up.

"You damn ungrateful pup," I said, "go to the devil in your
own way," and turned square on my heel.

But the young man was at my elbow, his hand on my shoulder.

"Oh, I say now, I'm sorry.  I didn't rightly understand.  Do
wait one moment until I dispose of these boxes of mine, and then
I want the honour of your further acquaintance."

He got some Greasers to take his trunks over to the hotel, then
linked his arm in mine most engagingly. 

"Now, my dear chap," said he, "let's go somewhere for a B & S,
and find out about each other."

We were both young and expansive.  We exchanged views, names,
and confidences, and before noon we had arranged to hunt
together, I to collect the outfit.

The upshot of the matter was that the Honourable Timothy Clare
and I had a most excellent month's excursion, shot several good
bear, and returned to Tucson the best of friends.

At Tucson was Schiefflein and his stories of a big strike down
in the Apache country.  Nothing would do but that we should both
go to see for ourselves.  We joined the second expedition; crept
in the gullies, tied bushes about ourselves when monumenting 
corners, and so helped establish the town of Tombstone.  We made
nothing, nor attempted to.  Neither  of us knew anything of
mining, but we were both thirsty for adventure, and took a
schoolboy delight in playing the game of life or death with the
Chiricahuas. 

In fact, I never saw anybody take to the wild life as eagerly as
the Honourable Timothy Clare.  He wanted to attempt everything. 
With him it was no sooner see than try, and he had such an
abundance of enthusiasm that he generally succeeded.  The balloon
pants soon went.  In a month his outfit was irreproachable.  He
used to study us by the hour, taking in every detail of our
equipment, from the smallest to the most important.  Then he
asked questions.  For all his desire to be one of the country, he
was never ashamed to acknowledge his ignorance.  

"Now, don't you chaps think it silly to wear such high heels to
your boots?"  he would ask.  "It seems to me a very useless sort
of vanity."

"No vanity about it, Tim," I explained. "In the first place, it
keeps your foot from slipping through the stirrup.  In the second
place, it is good to grip on the ground when you're roping
afoot."  

"By Jove, that's true!" he cried.

So he'd get him a pair of boots.  For a while it was enough to
wear and own all these things.  He seemed to delight in his
six-shooter and his rope just as ornaments to himself and horse. 
But he soon got over that.  Then he had to learn to use them. 

For the time being, pistol practice, for instance, would absorb
all his thoughts.  He'd bang away at intervals all day, and
figure out new theories all night. 

"That bally scheme won't work," he would complain.  "I believe if
I extended my thumb along the cylinder it would help that side
jump."  

He was always easing the trigger-pull, or filing the sights.  In
time he got to be a fairly accurate and very quick shot.  

The same way with roping and hog-tying and all the rest. 

"What's the use?" I used to ask him.  "If you were going to be a
buckeroo, you couldn't go into harder training."

"I like it," was always his answer. 

He had only one real vice, that I could see.  He would gamble. 
Stud poker was his favourite; and I never saw a Britisher yet who
could play poker.  I used to head him off, when I could, and he
was always grateful, but the passion was strong.  

After we got back from founding Tombstone I was busted and had to
go to work.  

"I've got plenty," said Tim, "and it's all yours."  

"I know, old fellow," I told him, "but your money wouldn't do for
me."  

Buck Johnson was just seeing his chance then, and was preparing
to take some breeding cattle over into the Soda Springs Valley. 
Everybody laughed at him--said it was right in the line of the
Chiricahua raids, which was true.  But Buck had been in there
with Agency steers, and thought he knew.  So he collected a trail
crew, brought some Oregon cattle across, and built his home ranch
of three-foot adobe walls with portholes.  I joined the trail
crew; and somehow or another the Honourable Timothy got
permission to go along on his own hook.  

The trail was a long one.  We had thirst and heat and stampedes
and some Indian scares.  But in the queer atmospheric conditions
that prevailed that summer, I never saw the desert more
wonderful.  It was like waking to the glory of God to sit up at
dawn and see the colours change on the dry ranges.  

At the home ranch, again, Tim managed to get permission to stay
on.  He kept his own mount of horses, took care of them, hunted,
and took part in  all the cow work.  We lost some cattle from
Indians, of course, but it was too near the Reservation for them
to do more than pick up a few stray head on their way through. 
The troops were always after them full jump, and so they never
had time to round up the beef.  But of course we had to look out
or we'd lose our hair, and many a cowboy has won out to the home
ranch in an almighty exciting race.  This was nuts for the
Honourable Timothy Clare, much better than hunting silver-tips,
and he enjoyed it no limit.

Things went along that way for some time, until one evening as
I was turning out the horses a buckboard drew in, and from it
descended Tony Briggs and a dapper little fellow dressed all
in black and with a plug hat.

"Which I accounts for said hat reachin' the ranch, because it's
Friday and the boys not in town," Tony whispered to me. 

As I happened to be the only man in sight, the stranger addressed
me.  

"I am looking," said he in a peculiar, sing-song manner I have
since learned to be English, "for the Honourable Timothy Clare. 
Is he here?" 
 
"Oh, you're looking for him are you?" said I.  "And who might you
be?"  

You see, I liked Tim, and I didn't intend to deliver him over
into trouble.  

The man picked a pair of eye-glasses off his stomach where they
dangled at the end of a chain, perched them on his nose, and
stared me over.  I must have looked uncompromising, for after a
few seconds he abruptly wrinkled his nose so that the glasses
fell promptly to his stomach again, felt his waistcoat pocket,
and produced a card.  I took it, and read:  

             JEFFRIES CASE, Barrister.

"A lawyer!" said I suspiciously.  

"My dear man," he rejoined with a slight impatience, "I am not
here to do your young friend a harm.  In fact, my firm have been
his family solicitors for generations."

"Very well," I agreed, and led the way to the one-room adobe that
Tim and I occupied.

If I had expected an enthusiastic greeting for the boyhood friend
from the old home, I would have been disappointed.  Tim was
sitting with his back to the door reading an old magazine.  When
we entered he glanced over his shoulder.

"Ah, Case," said he, and went on reading.  After a moment he said
without looking up, "Sit down."

The little man took it calmly, deposited himself in a chair and
his bag between his feet, and looked about him daintily at our
rough quarters.  I made a move to go, whereupon Tim laid down his
magazine, yawned, stretched his arms over his head, and sighed.

"Don't go, Harry," he begged.  "Well, Case," he addressed the
barrister, "what is it this time?  Must be something devilish
important to bring you--how many thousand miles is it--into such
a country as this."

"It is important, Mr. Clare," stated the lawyer in his dry
sing-song tones; "but my journey might have been avoided had you
paid some attention to my letters."

"Letters!" repeated Tim, opening his eyes. "My dear chap, I've
had no letters."

"Addressed as usual to your New York bankers."

Tim laughed softly. "Where they are, with my last two quarters'
allowance.  I especially instructed them to send me no mail.  One
spends no money in  this country."  He paused, pulling his
moustache.  "I'm truly sorry you had to come so far," he
continued, "and if your business is, as I suspect, the old one of
inducing me to return to my dear uncle's arms, I assure you the
mission will prove quite fruitless.  Uncle Hillary and I could
never live in the same county, let alone the same house."  

"And yet your uncle, the Viscount Mar, was very fond of you,"
ventured Case.  "Your allowances--" 

"Oh, I grant you his generosity in MONEY affairs--" 

"He has continued that generosity in the terms of his will, and
those terms I am here to communicate to you."  

"Uncle Hillary is dead!" cried Tim.

"He passed away the sixteenth of last June."

A slight pause ensued.

"I am ready to hear you," said Tim soberly, at last.

The barrister stooped and began to fumble with his bag.

"No, not that!" cried Tim, with some impatience.  "Tell me in
your own words."

The lawyer sat back and pressed his finger points together over
his stomach.

"The late Viscount," said he, "has been graciously pleased to
leave you in fee simple his entire estate of Staghurst, together
with its buildings, rentals, and privileges.  This, besides the
residential rights, amounts to some ten thousands pounds sterling
per annum."

"A little less than fifty thousand dollars a year, Harry," Tim
shot over his shoulder at me.

"There is one condition," put in the lawyer.

"Oh, there is!" exclaimed Tim, his crest falling.  "Well, knowing
my Uncle Hillary--"

"The condition is not extravagant," the lawyer hastily
interposed.  "It merely entails continued residence in England,
and a minimum of nine months on the estate.  This provision is
absolute, and the estate reverts in its discontinuance, but may I
be permitted to observe that the majority of men, myself among
the number, are content to spend the most of their lives, not
merely in the confines of a kingdom, but between the four walls
of a room, for much less than ten thousand pounds a year.  Also
that England is not without its attractions for an Englishman,
and that Staghurst is a country place of many possibilities."

The Honourable Timothy had recovered from his first surprise.

"And if the conditions are not complied with?" he inquired.

"Then the estate reverts to the heirs at law, and you receive an
annuity of one hundred pounds, payable quarterly."  

"May I ask further the reason for this extraordinary condition?" 

"My distinguished client never informed me," replied the lawyer,
"but"--and a twinkle appeared in his eye--"as an occasional
disburser of funds--Monte Carlo--"  

Tim burst out laughing.

"Oh, but I recognise Uncle Hillary there!" he cried. "Well, Mr.
Case, I am sure Mr. Johnson, the owner of this ranch, can put you
up, and to-morrow we'll start back."

He returned after a few minutes to find me sitting' smoking a
moody pipe.  I liked Tim, and I was sorry to have him go.  Then,
too, I was ruffled, in the senseless manner of youth, by the
sudden  altitude to which his changed fortunes had lifted him. 
He stood in the middle of the room, surveying me, then came
across and laid his arm on my shoulder.

"Well," I growled, without looking up, "you're a very rich man
now, Mr. Clare."

At that he jerked me bodily out of my seat and stood me up in the
centre of the room, the Irish blazing out of his eyes.

"Here, none of that!" he snapped. "You damn little fool!  Don't
you 'Mr. Clare' me!"

So in five minutes we were talking it over.  Tim was very much
excited at the prospect.  He knew Staghurst well, and told me all
about the big stone house, and the avenue through the trees; and
the hedge-row roads, and the lawn with its peacocks, and the
round green hills, and the labourers' cottages.

"It's home," said he, "and I didn't realise before how much I
wanted to see it.  And I'll be a man of weight there, Harry, and
it'll be mighty good."

We made all sorts of plans as to how I was going to visit him
just as soon as I could get together the money for the passage.  
He had the delicacy not to offer to let me have it; and that
clinched my trust and love of him.

The next day he drove away with Tony and the dapper little
lawyer.  I am not ashamed to say that I watched the buckboard
until it disappeared in the mirage.  

I was with Buck Johnson all that summer, and the following
winter, as well.  We had our first round-up, found the natural
increase much in excess of the loss by Indians, and extended our
holdings up over the Rock Creek country.  We witnessed the start
of many Indian campaigns, participated in a few little brushes
with the Chiricahuas, saw the beginning of the cattle-rustling. 
A man had not much opportunity to think of anything but what he
had right on hand, but I found time for a few speculations on
Tim.  I wondered how he looked now, and what he was doing, and
how in blazes he managed to get away with fifty thousand a year.

And then one Sunday in June, while I was lying on my bunk, Tim
pushed open the door and walked in.  I was young, but I'd seen a
lot, and I knew the expression of his face.  So I laid low and
said nothing.  

In a minute the door opened again, and Buck Johnson himself came
in. 

"How do," said he; "I saw you ride up."  

"How do you do," replied Tim.  

"I know all about you," said Buck, without any preliminaries;
"your man, Case, has wrote me.  I don't know your reasons, and I
don't want to know--it's none of my business--and I ain't goin'
to tell you just what kind of a damn fool I think you are--that's
none of my business, either.  But I want you to understand
without question how you stand on the ranch."  

"Quite good, sir," said Tim very quietly. 

"When you were out here before I was glad to have you here as a
sort of guest.  Then you were what I've heerd called a gentleman
of leisure.  Now you're nothin' but a remittance man.  Your
money's nothin' to me, but the principle of the thing is.  The
country is plumb pestered with remittance men, doin' nothin', and
I don't aim to run no home for incompetents.  I had a son of a
duke drivin' wagon for me; and he couldn't drive nails in a
snowbanks.  So don't you herd up with the idea that you can come
on this ranch and loaf."  

"I don't want to loaf," put in Tim, "I want a job."  

"I'm willing to give you a job," replied Buck, "but it's jest an
ordinary cow-puncher's job at forty a month.  And if you don't
fill your saddle, it goes to someone else."

"That's satisfactory," agreed Tim.  

"All right," finished Buck, "so that's understood.  Your friend
Case wanted me to give you a lot of advice.  A man generally has
about as much use for advice as a cow has for four hind legs."  

He went out.  

"For God's sake, what's up?" I cried, leaping  from my bunk.  

"Hullo, Harry," said he, as though he had seen me the day before,
"I've come back."

"How come back?" I asked.  "I thought you couldn't leave the
estate.  Have they broken the will?"  

"No," said he.

"Is the money lost?"
  
"No."  

"Then what?"  

"The long and short of it is, that I couldn't afford that estate
and that money." 

"What do you mean?"  

"I've given it up."  

"Given it up!  What for?"  

"To come back here."  

 I took this all in slowly.  

"Tim Clare," said I at last, "do you mean to say that you have
given up an English estate and fifty thousand dollars a year to
be a remittance man at five hundred, and a cow-puncher on as much
more?"  

"Exactly," said he.  

"Tim," I adjured him solemnly, "you are a damn fool!"  

"Maybe," he agreed.  

"Why did you do it?" I begged. 

He walked to the door and looked out across the desert to where
the mountains hovered like soap-bubbles on the horizon.  For a
long time he looked; then whirled on me. 

"Harry," said he in a low voice, "do you remember the camp we
made on the shoulder of the mountain that night we were caught
out?  And do you remember how the dawn came up on the big snow
peaks across the way--and all the canon below us filled with
whirling mists--and the steel stars leaving us one by one?  Where
could I find room for that in English paddocks?  And do you
recall the day we trailed across the Yuma deserts, and the sun
beat into our skulls, and the dry, brittle hills looked like
papier-mache, and the grey sage-bush ran off into the rise of the
hills; and then came sunset and the hard, dry mountains grew
filmy, like gauze veils of many colours, and melted and glowed
and faded to slate blue, and the stars came out?  The English
hills are rounded and green and curried, and the sky is near, and
the stars only a few miles up.  And do you recollect that dark
night when old Loco and his warriors were camped at the base of
Cochise's Stronghold, and we crept down through the velvet dark
wondering when we would be discovered, our mouths sticky with
excitement, and the little winds blowing?"  

He walked up and down a half-dozen times, his breast heaving.

"It's all very well for the man who is brought up to it, and
who has seen nothing else.  Case can exist in four walls; he
has been brought up to it and knows nothing different.  But a
man like me--

"They wanted me to canter between hedge-row,--I who have ridden
the desert where the sky over me and the plain under me were
bigger than the Islander's universe!  They wanted me to oversee
little farms--I who have watched the sun rising over half a
world!  Talk of your ten thou' a year and what it'll buy!  You
know, Harry, how it feels when a steer takes the slack of your
rope, and your pony sits back!  Where in England can I buy that? 
You know the rising and the falling of days, and the boundless
spaces where your heart grows big, and the thirst of the desert
and the hunger of the trail, and a sun that shines and fills
the sky, and a wind that blows fresh from the wide places! 
Where in parcelled, snug, green, tight little England could I
buy that with ten thou'--aye, or an hundred times ten thou'? 
No, no, Harry, that fortune would cost me too dear.  I have
seen and done and been too much.  I've come back to the Big
Country, where the pay is poor and the work is hard and the
comfort small, but where a man and his soul meet their Maker face
to face."


The Cattleman had finished his yarn.  For a time no one spoke. 
Outside, the volume of rain was subsiding.  Windy Bill reported
a few stars shining through rifts in the showers.  The chill that
precedes the dawn brought us as close to the fire as the
smouldering guano would permit.

"I don't know whether he was right or wrong," mused the 
Cattleman, after a while.  "A man can do a heap with that much
money.  And yet an old 'alkali' is never happy anywhere else. 
However," he concluded emphatically, "one thing I do know:  rain,
cold, hunger, discomfort, curses, kicks, and violent deaths
included, there isn't one of you grumblers who would hold that
gardening job you spoke of three days!"



CHAPTER FOUR 
THE CATTLE RUSTLERS

Dawn broke, so we descended through wet grasses to the canon. 
There, after some difficulty, we managed to start a fire, and
so ate breakfast, the rain still pouring down on us.  About
nine o'clock, with miraculous suddenness, the torrent stopped. 
It began to turn cold.  The Cattleman and I decided to climb to
the top of the butte after meat, which we entirely lacked.  

It was rather a stiff ascent, but once above the sheer cliffs we
found ourselves on a rolling meadow tableland a half-mile broad
by, perhaps, a mile and a half in length.  Grass grew high;
here and there were small live oaks planted park-like; slight and
rounded ravines accommodated brooklets.  As we walked back, the
edges blended in the edges of the mesa across the canon.  The
deep gorges, which had heretofore seemed the most prominent
elements of the scenery, were lost.  We stood, apparently, in
the middle of a wide and undulating plain, diversified by little
ridges, and running with a free sweep to the very foot of the
snowy Galiuros.  It seemed as though we should be able to ride
horseback in almost any given direction.  Yet we knew that ten
minutes' walk would take us to the brink of most stupendous
chasms--so deep that the water flowing in them hardly seemed to
move; so rugged that only with the greatest difficulty could a
horseman make his way through the country at all; and yet so
ancient that the bottoms supported forests, rich grasses, and
rounded, gentle knolls.  It was a most astonishing set of double
impressions.

We succeeded in killing a nice, fat white-tail buck, and so
returned to camp happy.  The rain, held off.  We dug ditches,
organised shelters, cooked a warm meal.  For the next day we
planned a bear hunt afoot, far up a manzanita canon where
Uncle Jim knew of some "holing up" caves.

But when we awoke in the morning we threw aside our coverings
with some difficulty to look on a ground covered with snow; trees
laden almost to the breaking point with snow, and the air filled
with it.

"No bear today" said the Cattleman. 

"No," agreed Uncle Jim drily.  "No b'ar.  And what's more, unless
yo're aimin' to stop here somewhat of a spell, we'll have to make
out to-day."  

We cooked with freezing fingers, ate while dodging avalanches
from the trees, and packed reluctantly.  The ropes were frozen,
the hobbles stiff, everything either crackling or wet.  Finally
the task was finished.  We took a last warming of the fingers and
climbed on.  

The country was wonderfully beautiful with the white not yet
shaken from the trees and rock ledges.  Also it was wonderfully
slippery.  The snow was soft enough to ball under the horses'
hoofs, so that most of the time the poor animals skated and
stumbled along on stilts.  Thus we made our way back over ground
which, naked of these difficulties, we had considered bad enough.

Imagine riding along a slant of rock shelving off to a bad
tumble, so steep that your pony has to do more or less expert
ankle work to keep from slipping off sideways.  During the
passage of that rock you are apt to sit very light.  Now cover it
with several inches of snow, stick a snowball on each hoof of
your mount, and try again.  When you have ridden it--or its
duplicate--a few score of times, select a steep mountain side,
cover it with round rocks the size of your head, and over that
spread a concealing blanket of the same sticky snow.  You are
privileged to vary these to the limits of your imagination.

Once across the divide, we ran into a new sort of trouble.  You
may remember that on our journey over we had been forced to
travel for some distance in a narrow stream-bed.  During our
passage we had scrambled up some rather steep and rough slopes,
and hopped up some fairly high ledges.  Now we found the
heretofore dry bed flowing a good eight inches deep.  The steep
slopes had become cascades; the ledges, waterfalls.  When we
came to them, we had to "shoot the rapids" as best we could,
only to land with a PLUNK in an indeterminately deep pool at the
bottom.  Some of the pack horses went down, sousing again our
unfortunate bedding, but by the grace of fortune not a saddle
pony lost his feet.

After a time the gorge widened.  We came out into the box canon
with its trees.  Here the water spread and shoaled to a depth of
only two or three inches.  We splashed along gaily enough, for,
with the exception of an occasional quicksand or boggy spot, our
troubles were over.  

Jed Parker and I happened to ride side by side, bringing up the
rear and seeing to it that the pack animals did not stray or
linger.  As we passed the first of the rustlers' corrals, he
called my attention to them.

"Go take a look," said he. "We only got those fellows out of
here two years ago."

I rode over.  At this point the rim-rock broke to admit the
ingress of a ravine into the main canon.  Riding a short
distance up the ravine, I could see that it ended abruptly in a
perpendicular cliff.  As the sides also were precipitous, it
became necessary only to build a fence across the entrance into
the main canon to become possessed of a corral completely
closed in.  Remembering the absolute invisibility of these
sunken canons until the rider is almost directly over them, and
also the extreme roughness and remoteness of the district, I
could see that the spot was admirably adapted to concealment.

"There's quite a yarn about the gang that held this hole," said
Jed Parker to me, when I had ridden back to him  "I'll tell you
about it sometime."
 
We climbed the hill, descended on the Double R, built a fire in
the stove, dried out, and were happy.  After a square meal--and a
dry one--I reminded Jed Parker of his promise, and so, sitting
cross-legged on his "so-gun" in the middle of the floor, he told
us the following yarn:

There's a good deal of romance been written about the "bad man,"
and there's about the same amount of nonsense.  The bad man is
justa plain murderer, neither more nor less.  He never does get
into a real, good, plain, stand-up gunfight if he can possibly
help it.  His killin's are done from behind a door, or when he's
got his man dead to rights.  There's Sam Cook.  You've all heard
of him.  He had nerve, of course, and when he was backed into a
corner he made good; he was sure sudden death with a gun.  But
when he went for a man deliberate, he didn't take no special
chances.  For a while he was marshal at Willets.  Pretty soon it
was noted that there was a heap of cases of resisting arrest,
where Sam as marshal had to shoot, and that those cases almost
always happened to be his personal enemies.  Of course, that
might be all right, but it looked suspicious.  Then one day he
killed poor old Max Schmidt out behind his own saloon.  Called
him out and shot him in the stomach.  Said Max resisted arrest on
a warrant for keepin' open out of hours!  That was a sweet
warrant to take out in Willets, anyway!  Mrs. Schmidt always
claimed that she say that deal played, and that, while they were
talkin' perfectly peacable, Cook let drive from the hip at about
two yards' range.  Anyway, we decided we needed another marshal. 
Nothin' else was ever done, for the Vigilantes hadn't been
formed, and your individual and decent citizen doesn't care to be
marked by a gun of that stripe.  Leastwise, unless he wants to go
in for bad-man methods and do a little ambusheein' on his own
account.

The point is, that these yere bad men are a low-down, miserable
proposition, and plain, cold-blood murderers, willin' to wait for
a sure thing, and without no compunctions whatsoever.  The bad
man takes you unawares, when you're sleepin', or talkin', or
drinkin', or lookin' to see what for a day it's goin' to be,
anyway.  He don't give you no show, and sooner or later he's
goin' to get you in the safest and easiest way for himself. 
There ain't no romance about that.  

And, until you've seen a few men called out of their shacks for a
friendly conversation, and shot when they happen to look away; or
asked for a drink of water, and killed when they stoop to the
spring; or potted from behind as they go into a room, it's pretty
hard to believe that any man can he so plumb lackin' in fair play
or pity or just natural humanity.  

As you boys know, I come in from Texas to Buck Johnson's about
ten year back.  I had a pretty good mount of ponies that I knew,
and I hated to let them go at prices they were offerin' then, so
I made up my mind to ride across and bring them in with me.  It
wasn't so awful far, and I figured that I'd like to take in what
New Mexico looked like anyway.  

About down by Albuquerque I tracked up with another outfit headed
my way.  There was five of them, three men, and a woman, and a
yearlin' baby.  They had a dozen hosses, and that was about all I
could see.  There was only two packed, and no wagon.  I suppose
the whole outfit--pots, pans, and kettles--was worth five
dollars.  It was just supper when I run across them, and it
didn't take more'n one look to discover that flour, coffee,
sugar, and salt was all they carried.  A yearlin' carcass,
half-skinned, lay near, and the fry-pan was, full of meat. 

"Howdy, strangers," says I, ridin' up.  

They nodded a little, but didn't say nothin'.  My hosses fell to
grazin', and I eased myself around in my saddle, and made a
cigareet.  The men was tall, lank fellows, with kind of sullen
faces, and sly, shifty eyes; the woman was dirty and generally
mussed up.  I knowed that sort all right.  Texas was gettin' too
many fences for them.
 
"Havin' supper?" says I, cheerful.  

One of 'em grunted "Yes" at me; and, after a while, the biggest
asked me very grudgin' if I wouldn't light and eat, I told them
"No," that I was travellin' in the cool of the evenin'. 

"You seem to have more meat than you need, though," says I.  "I
could use a little of that."  

"Help yourself," says they.  "It's a maverick we come across."  

I took a steak, and noted that the hide had been mighty well cut
to ribbons around the flanks and that the head was gone.

"Well," says I to the carcass, "No one's going to be able to
swear whether you're a maverick or not, but I bet you knew the
feel of a brandin' iron all right."

I gave them a thank-you, and climbed on again.  My hosses acted
some surprised at bein' gathered up again, but I couldn't help
that.

"It looks like a plumb imposition, cavallos," says I to them,
"after an all-day, but you sure don't want to join that outfit
any more than I do the angels, and if we camp here we're likely
to do both." 

I didn't see them any more after that until I'd hit the Lazy Y,
and had started in runnin' cattle in the Soda Springs Valley. 
Larry Eagen and I rode together those days, and that's how I got
to know him pretty well.  One day, over in the Elm Flat, we ran
smack on this Texas outfit again, headed north.  This time I was
on my own range, and I knew where I stood, so I could show a
little more curiosity in the case. 

"Well, you got this far," says I.

"Yes," says they.

"Where you headed?"

"Over towards the hills."

"What to do?"

"Make a ranch, raise some truck; perhaps buy a few cows." 

They went on. 

"Truck" says I to Larry, "is fine prospects in this country." 

He sat on his horse looking after them. 

"I'm sorry for them" says he. "It must he almighty hard
scratchin'." 

Well, we rode the range for upwards of two year.  In that time we
saw our Texas friends--name of Hahn--two or three times in
Willets, and heard of them off and on.  They bought an old brand
of Steve McWilliams for seventy-five dollars, carryin' six or
eight head of cows.  After that, from time to time, we heard of
them buying more--two or three head from one man, and two or
three from another.  They branded them all with that McWilliams
iron--T 0--so, pretty soon, we began to see the cattle on the
range. 

Now, a good cattleman knows cattle just as well as you know
people, and he can tell them about as far off.  Horned critters
look alike to you, but even in a country supportin' a good many
thousand head, a man used to the business can recognise most
every individual as far as he can see him.  Some is better than
others at it.  I suppose you really have to be brought up to it. 
So we boys at the Lazy Y noted all the cattle with the new T 0,
and could estimate pretty close that the Hahn outfit might own,
maybe, thirty-five head all told.  

That was all very well, and nobody had any kick comin'.  Then one
day in the spring, we came across our first "sleeper." 

What's a sleeper?  A sleeper is a calf that has been ear-marked,
but not branded.  Every owner has a certain brand, as you know,
and then he crops and slits the ears in a certain way, too.  In
that manner he don't have to look at the brand, except to
corroborate the ears; and, as the critter generally sticks his
ears up inquirin'-like to anyone ridin' up, it's easy to know the
brand without lookin' at it, merely from the ear-marks.  Once in
a great while, when a man comes across an unbranded calf, and it
ain't handy to build a fire, he just ear-marks it and let's the
brandin' go till later.  But it isn't done often, and our outfit
had strict orders never to make sleepers.

Well, one day in the spring, as I say, Larry and me was ridin',
when we came across a Lazy Y cow and calf.  The little fellow was
ear-marked all right, so we rode on, and never would have
discovered nothin' if a bush rabbit hadn't jumped and scared the
calf right across in front of our hosses.  Then we couldn't help
but see that there wasn't no brand.

Of course we roped him and put the iron on him.  I took the
chance to look at his ears,, and saw that the marking had been
done quite recent, so when we got in that night I reported to
Buck Johnson that one of the punchers was gettin' lazy and
sleeperin'.  Naturally he went after the man who had done it;
but every puncher swore up and down, and back and across, that
he'd branded every calf he'd had a rope on that spring.  We put
it down that someone was lyin', and let it go at that.  

And then, about a week later, one of the other boys reported a
Triangle-H sleeper.  The Triangle-H was the Goodrich brand, so we
didn't have nothin' to do with that.  Some of them might be
sleeperin' for all we knew.  Three other cases of the same kind
we happened across that same spring.

So far, so good.  Sleepers runnin' in such numbers was a little
astonishin', but nothin' suspicious.  Cattle did well that
summer, and when we come to round up in the fall, we cut out
maybe a dozen of those T 0 cattle that had strayed out of that
Hahn country.  Of the dozen there was five grown cows, and seven
yearlin's.  

"My Lord, Jed," says Buck to me, "they's a heap of these
youngsters comin' over our way."  

But still, as a young critter is more apt to stray than an old
one that's got his range established, we didn't lay no great
store by that neither.  The Hahns took their bunch, and that's
all there was to it.  

Next spring, though, we found a few more sleepers, and one day we
came on a cow that had gone dead lame.  That was usual, too, but
Buck, who was with me, had somethin' on his mind.  Finally he
turned back and roped her, and threw her. 

"Look here, Jed," says he, "what do you make of this?"  

I could see where the hind legs below the hocks had been burned.

"Looks like somebody had roped her by the hind feet," says I.

"Might be," says he, "but her heels lame that way makes it look
more like hobbles."

So we didn't say nothin' more about that neither, until just by
luck we came on another lame cow.  We threw her, too.

"Well, what do you think of this one?" Buck Johnson asks me.

"The feet is pretty well tore up," says I, "and down to the
quick, but I've seen them tore up just as bad on the rocks when
they come down out of the mountains."

You sabe what that meant, don't you?  You see, a rustler will
take a cow and hobble her, or lame her so she can't follow, and
then he'll take her calf a long ways off and brand it with his
iron.  Of course, if we was to see a calf of one brand followin'
of a cow with another, it would be just too easy to guess what
had happened.

We rode on mighty thoughtful.  There couldn't be much doubt that
cattle rustlers was at work.  The sleepers they had ear-marked,
hopin' that no one would discover the lack of a brand.  Then,
after the calf was weaned, and quit followin' of his mother, the
rustler would brand it with his own iron, and change its ear-mark
to match.  It made a nice, easy way of gettin' together a bunch
of cattle cheap.

But it was pretty hard to guess off-hand who the rustlers might
be.  There were a lot of renegades down towards the Mexican
line who made a raid once in a while, and a few oilers [2] livin'
near had water holes in the foothills, and any amount of little
cattle holders, like this T 0 outfit, and any of them wouldn't
shy very hard at a little sleeperin' on the side.  Buck Johnson
told us all to watch out, and passed the word quiet among the big
owners to try and see whose cattle seemed to have too many calves
for the number of cows.

[2] "Oilers"--Greasers--Mexicans.


The Texas outfit I'm tellin' you about had settled up above in
this Double R canon where I showed you those natural corrals
this morning.  They'd built them a 'dobe, and cleared some land,
and planted a few trees, and made an irrigated patch for alfalfa.
Nobody never rode over his way very much, 'cause the country was
most too rough for cattle, and our ranges lay farther to the
southward.  Now, however, we began to extend our ridin' a little.

I was down towards Dos Cabesas to look over the cattle there, and
they used to send Larry up into the Double R country.  One
evenin' he took me to one side.

"Look here, Jed," says he, "I know you pretty well, and I'm not
ashamed to say that I'm all new at this cattle business--in fact,
I haven't been at it more'n a year.  What should be the
proportion of cows to calves anyhow?"

"There ought to be about twice as many cows as there're calves,"
I tells him.

"Then, with only about fifty head of grown cows, there ought not
to be an equal number of yearlin's?"

"I should say not," says I.  "What are you drivin' at?"

"Nothin' yet," says he.

A few days later he tackled me again.

"Jed," says he, "I'm not good, like you fellows are, at knowin'
one cow from another, but there's a calf down there branded T 0
that I'd pretty near swear I saw with an X Y cow last month.  I
wish you could come down with me."

We got that fixed easy enough, and for the next month rammed
around through this broken country lookin' for evidence.  I saw
enough to satisfy me to a moral certainty, but nothin' for a
sheriff; and, of course, we couldn't go shoot up a peaceful
rancher on mere suspicion.  Finally, one day, we run on a
four-months' calf all by himself, with the T 0 iron onto him--a
mighty healthy lookin' calf, too.

"Wonder where HIS mother is!" says I.

"Maybe it's a 'dogie,'" says Larry Eagen--we calls calves whose
mothers have died "dogies."

"No," says I, "I don't hardly think so.  A dogie is always under
size and poor, and he's layin' around water holes, and he always
has a big, sway belly onto him.  No, this is no dogie; and, if
it's an honest calf, there sure ought to be a T 0 cow around
somewhere."

So we separated to have a good look.  Larry rode up on the edge
of a little rimrock.  In a minute I saw his hoss jump back,
dodgin' a rattlesnake or somethin', and then fall back out of
sight.  I jumped my hoss up there tur'ble quick, and looked
over, expectin' to see nothin' but mangled remains.  It was only
about fifteen foot down, but I couldn't see bottom 'count of some
brush.

"Are you all right?" I yells.

"Yes, yes!" cries Larry, "but for the love of God, get down here
as
quick as you can."

I hopped off my hoss and scrambled down somehow.

"Hurt?" says I, as soon as I lit.

"Not a bit--look here."

There was a dead cow with the Lazy Y on her flank.

"And a bullet-hole in her forehead," adds Larry.  "And, look
here, that T 0 calf was bald-faced, and so was this cow."

"Reckon we found our sleepers," says I.

So, there we was.  Larry had to lead his cavallo down the
barranca to the main canon.  I followed along on the rim, waitin'
until a place gave me a chance to get down, too, or Larry a
chance to get up.  We were talkin' back and forth when, all at
once, Larry shouted again.

"Big game this time," he yells. "Here's a cave and a mountain
lion squallin' in it."

I slid down to him at once, and we drew our six-shooters and went
up to the cave openin', right under the rim-rock.  There, sure
enough, were fresh lion tracks, and we could hear a little faint
cryin' like woman.  

"First chance," claims Larry, and dropped to his hands and knees
at the entrance.  

"Well, damn me!" he cries, and crawls in at once, payin' no
attention to me tellin' him to be more cautious.  In a minute he
backs out, carryin' a three-year-old goat. 
 
"We seem to he in for adventures to-day," says he.  "Now, where
do you suppose that came from, and how did it get here?" 

"Well," says I, "I've followed lion tracks where they've carried
yearlin's across their backs like a fox does a goose.  They're
tur'ble strong."

"But where did she come from?" he wonders.

"As for that," says I, "don't you remember now that T 0 outfit
had a yearlin' kid when it came into the country?"

"That's right," says he. "It's only a mile down the canon.  I'll
take it home.  They must be most distracted about it."

So I scratched up to the top where my pony was waitin'.  It was a
tur'ble hard climb, and I 'most had to have hooks on my eyebrows
to get up at all.  It's easier to slide down than to climb back. 
I dropped my gun out of my holster, and she went way to the
bottom, but I wouldn't have gone back for six guns.  Larry picked
it up for me.

So we went along, me on the rim-rock and around the barrancas,
and Larry in the bottom carryin' of the kid.

By and by we came to the ranch house, stopped to wait.  The
minute Larry hove in sight everybody was out to once, and in two
winks the woman had that baby.  Thy didn't see me at all, but I
could hear, plain enough, what they said.  Larry told how he had
found her in the cave, and all about the lion tracks, and the
woman cried and held the kid close to her, and thanked him about
forty times.  Then when she'd wore the edge off a little, she
took the kid inside to feed it or somethin'.

"Well," says Larry, still laughin', "I must hit the trail."

"You say you found her up the Double R?" asks Hahn. "Was it that
cave near the three cottonwoods?"

"Yes," says Larry.

"Where'd you get into the canyon?" 

"Oh, my hoss slipped off into the barranca just above." 

"The barranca just above," repeats Hahn, lookin' straight at him.

Larry took one step back.  

"You ought to be almighty glad I got into the canyon at all,"
says he.  

Hahn stepped up, holdin' out his hand.  

"That's right," says he. "You done us a good turn there."   

Larry took his hand.  At the same time Hahn pulled his gun and
shot him through the middle.  

It was all so sudden and unexpected that I stood there paralysed.

Larry fell forward the way a man mostly will when he's hit in the
stomach, but somehow he jerked loose a gun and got it off twice. 
He didn't hit nothin', and I reckon he was dead before he hit the
ground.  And there he had my gun, and I was about as useless as a
pocket in a shirt!  

No, sir, you can talk as much as you please, but the killer is a
low-down ornery scub, and he don't hesitate at no treachery or
ingratitude to keep his carcass safe.


Jed Parker ceased talking.  The dusk had fallen in the little
room, and dimly could be seen the recumbent figures lying at
ease on their blankets.  The ranch foreman was sitting bolt
upright, cross-legged.  A faint glow from his pipe barely
distinguished his features.  

"What became of the rustlers?" I asked him.  

"Well, sir, that is the queer part.  Hahn himself, who had done
the killin', skipped out.  We got out warrants, of course, but
they never got served.  He was a sort of half outlaw from that
time, and was killed finally in the train hold-up of '97.  But
the others we tried for rustling.  We didn't have much of a case,
as the law went then, and they'd have gone free if the woman
hadn't turned evidence against them.  The killin' was too much
for her.  And, as the precedent held good in a lot of other
rustlin' cases, Larry's death was really the beginnin' of law and
order in the cattle business."

We smoked.  The last light suddenly showed red against the grimy
window.  Windy Bill arose and looked out the door.

"Boys," said he, returning. "She's cleared off.  We can get back
to the ranch tomorrow."

                 

CHAPTER FIVE
THE DRIVE

A cry awakened me.  It was still deep night.  The moon sailed
overhead, the stars shone unwavering like candles, and a chill
breeze wandered in from the open spaces of the desert.  I raised
myself on my elbow, throwing aside the blankets and the canvas
tarpaulin.  Forty other indistinct, formless bundles on the
ground all about me were sluggishly astir.  Four figures passed
and repassed between me and a red fire.  I knew them for the two
cooks and the horse wranglers.  One of the latter was grumbling.
    
"Didn't git in till moon-up last night," he growled.  "Might as
well trade my bed for a lantern and be done with it."
     
Even as I stretched my arms and shivered a little, the two
wranglers threw down their tin plates with a clatter, mounted
horses and rode away in the direction of the thousand acres or so
known as the pasture.

I pulled on my clothes hastily, buckled in my buckskin shirt, and
dove for the fire.  A dozen others were before me.  It was
bitterly cold.  In the east the sky had paled the least bit in
the world, but the moon and stars shone on bravely and
undiminished.  A band of coyotes was shrieking desperate
blasphemies against the new day, and the stray herd, awakening,
was beginning to bawl and bellow. 

Two crater-like dutch ovens, filled with pieces of fried beef,
stood near the fire; two galvanised water buckets, brimming
with soda biscuits, flanked them; two tremendous coffee pots
stood guard at either end.  We picked us each a tin cup and a tin
plate from the box at the rear of the chuck wagon; helped
ourselves from a dutch oven, a pail, and a coffee pot, and
squatted on our heels as close to the fire as possible.  Men who
came too late borrowed the shovel, scooped up some coals, and so
started little fires of their own about which new groups formed.
       
While we ate, the eastern sky lightened.  The mountains under the
dawn looked like silhouettes cut from slate-coloured paper; those
in the west showed faintly luminous.  Objects about us became
dimly visible.  We could make out the windmill, and the adobe of
the ranch houses, and the corrals.  The cowboys arose one by one,
dropped their plates into the dishpan, and began to hunt out
their ropes.  Everything was obscure and mysterious in the faint
grey light.  I watched Windy Bill near his tarpaulin.  He stooped
to throw over the canvas.  When he bent, it was before daylight;
when he straightened his back, daylight had come.  It was just
like that, as though someone had reached out his hand to turn on
the illumination of the world.
     
The eastern mountains were fragile, the plain was ethereal, like
a sea of liquid gases.  From the pasture we heard the shoutings
of the wranglers, and made out a cloud of dust.  In a moment the
first of the remuda came into view, trotting forward with the
free grace of the unburdened horse.  Others followed in
procession: those near sharp and well defined, those in the
background more or less obscured by the dust, now appearing
plainly, now fading like ghosts.  The leader turned
unhesitatingly into the corral.  After him poured the stream of
the remuda--two hundred and fifty saddle horses--with an
unceasing thunder of hoofs.

Immediately the cook-camp was deserted.  The cowboys entered the
corral.  The horses began to circle around the edge of the
enclosure as around the circumference of a circus ring.  The men,
grouped at the centre, watched keenly, looking for the mounts
they had already decided on.  In no time each had recognised   
his choice, and, his loop trailing, was walking toward that part
of the revolving circumference where his pony dodged.  Some few
whirled the loop, but most cast it with a quick flip.  It was
really marvellous to observe the accuracy with which the noose
would fly, past a dozen tossing heads, and over a dozen backs, to
settle firmly about the neck of an animal perhaps in the very
centre of the group.  But again, if the first throw failed, it
was interesting to see how the selected pony would dodge, double
back, twist, turn, and hide to escape second cast.  And it was
equally interesting to observe how his companions would help him.

They seemed to realise that they were not wanted, and would push
themselves between the cowboy and his intended mount with the
utmost boldness.  In the thick dust that instantly arose, and
with the bewildering thunder of galloping, the flashing change of
grouping, the rush of the charging animals, recognition alone
would seem almost impossible, yet in an incredibly short time
each had his mount, and the others, under convoy of the
wranglers, were meekly wending their way out over the plain. 
There, until time for a change of horses, they would graze in a
loose and scattered band, requiring scarcely any supervision. 
Escape?  Bless you, no, that thought was the last in their minds.
     
In the meantime the saddles and bridles were adjusted.  Always in
a cowboy's "string" of from six to ten animals the boss assigns
him two or three broncos to break in to the cow business.  
Therefore, each morning we could observe a half dozen or so men
gingerly leading wicked looking little animals out to the sand
"to take the pitch out of them."  One small black, belonging to a
cowboy called the Judge, used more than to fulfil expectations of
a good time.
    
"Go to him, Judge!" someone would always remark.
    
"If he ain't goin' to pitch, I ain't goin' to make him", the
Judge would grin, as he swung aboard.
     
The black would trot off quite calmly and in a most matter of
fact way, as though to shame all slanderers of his lamb-like
character.  Then, as the bystanders would turn away, he would
utter a squeal, throw down his head, and go at it.  He was a very
hard bucker, and made some really spectacular jumps, but the
trick on which he based his claims to originality consisted in
standing on his hind legs at so perilous an approach to the
perpendicular that his rider would conclude he was about to fall
backwards, and then suddenly springing forward in a series of
stiff-legged bucks. The first manoeuvre induced the rider to
loosen his seat in order to be ready to jump from under, and the
second threw him before he could regain his grip.
     
"And they say a horse don't think!" exclaimed an admirer.
      
But as these were broken horses--save the mark!--the show was all
over after each had had his little fling.  We mounted and rode
away, just as the mountain peaks to the west caught the rays of a
sun we should not enjoy for a good half hour yet.
      
I had five horses in my string, and this morning rode "that C S
horse, Brown Jug."  Brown Jug was a powerful and well-built
animal, about fourteen two in height, and possessed of a vast
enthusiasm for cow-work.  As the morning was frosty, he felt
good.
     
At the gate of the water corral we separated into two groups. 
The smaller, under the direction of Jed Parker, was to drive the
mesquite in the wide flats.  The rest of us, under the command of
Homer, the round-up captain, were to sweep the country even as
far as the base of the foothills near Mount Graham.  Accordingly
we put our horses to the full gallop.
    
Mile after mile we thundered along at a brisk rate of speed. 
Sometimes we dodged in and out among the mesquite bushes,
alternately separating and coming together again; sometimes we
swept over grassy plains apparently of illimitable extent, 
sometimes we skipped and hopped and buck-jumped through and over
little gullies, barrancas, and other sorts of malpais--but always
without drawing rein.  The men rode easily, with no thought to
the way nor care for the footing.  The air came back sharp
against our faces.  The warm blood stirred by the rush flowed
more rapidly.  We experienced a delightful glow.  Of the morning
cold only the very tips of our fingers and the ends of our noses
retained a remnant.  Already the sun was shining low and level
across the plains.  The shadows of the canons modelled the
hitherto flat surfaces of the mountains.

After a time we came to some low hills helmeted with the outcrop
of a rock escarpment.  Hitherto they had seemed a termination of
Mount Graham, but now, when we rode around them, we discovered
them to be separated from the range by a good five miles of
sloping plain.  Later we looked back and would have sworn them
part of the Dos Cabesas system, did we not know them to be at
least eight miles' distant from that rocky rampart.  It is always
that way in Arizona.  Spaces develop of whose existence you had
not the slightest intimation.  Hidden in apparently plane
surfaces are valleys and prairies.  At one sweep of the eye you
embrace the entire area of an eastern State; but nevertheless the
reality as you explore it foot by foot proves to be infinitely
more than the vision has promised.
     
Beyond the hill we stopped.  Here our party divided again, half
to the right and half to the left.  We had ridden, up to this
time, directly away from camp, now we rode a circumference of
which headquarters was the centre.  The country was pleasantly
rolling and covered with grass.  Here and there were clumps of
soapweed.  Far in a remote distance lay a slender dark line
across the plain.  This we knew to be mesquite; and once entered,
we knew it, too, would seem to spread out vastly.  And then this 
grassy slope, on which we now rode, would show merely as an
insignificant streak of yellow.  It is also like that in Arizona.

I have ridden in succession through grass land, brush land,
flower land, desert.  Each in turn seemed entirely to fill the
space of the plains between the mountains.
    
From time to time Homer halted us and detached a man.  The
business of the latter was then to ride directly back to camp,
driving all cattle before him.  Each was in sight of his right- 
and left-hand neighbour.  Thus was constructed a drag-net whose
meshes contracted as home was neared.
    
I was detached, when of our party only the Cattleman and Homer
remained.  They would take the outside.  This was the post of
honour, and required the hardest riding, for as soon as the
cattle should realise the fact of their pursuit, they would
attempt to "break" past the end and up the valley.  Brown
Jug and I congratulated ourselves on an exciting morning in
prospect.
     
Now, wild cattle know perfectly well what a drive means, and they
do not intend to get into a round-up if they can help it.  Were
it not for the two facts, that they are afraid of a mounted man,
and cannot run quite so fast as a horse, I do not know how the
cattle business would be conducted.  As soon as a band of them
caught sight of any one of us, they curled their tails and away
they went at a long, easy lope that a domestic cow would stare at
in wonder.  This was all very well; in fact we yelled and
shrieked and otherwise uttered cow-calls to keep them going, to
"get the cattle started," as they say.  But pretty soon a little
band of the many scurrying away before our thin line, began to
bear farther and farther to the east.  When in their judgment
they should have gained an opening, they would turn directly back
and make a dash for liberty.  Accordingly the nearest cowboy
clapped spurs to his horse and pursued them.
      
It was a pretty race.  The cattle ran easily enough, with long,
springy jumps that carried them over the ground faster than
appearances would lead one to believe.  The cow-pony, his nose
stretched out, his ears slanted, his eyes snapping with joy of
the chase, flew fairly "belly to earth."  The rider sat slightly
forward, with the cowboy's loose seat.  A whirl of dust,
strangely insignificant against the immensity of a desert
morning, rose from the flying group.  Now they disappeared in a
ravine, only to scramble out again the next instant, pace
undiminished.  The rider merely rose slightly and threw up his
elbows to relieve the jar of the rough gully.  At first the
cattle seemed to hold their, own, but soon the horse began to
gain.  In a short time he had come abreast of the leading animal.

The latter stopped short with a snort, dodged back, and set out
at right angles to his former course.  From a dead run the pony
came to a stand in two fierce plunges, doubled like a shot, and
was off on the other tack.  An unaccustomed rider would here have
lost his seat.  The second dash was short.  With a final shake of
the head, the steers turned to the proper course in the direction
of the ranch.  The pony dropped unconcernedly to the shuffling
jog of habitual progression.

Far away stretched the arc of our cordon.  The  most distant
rider was a speck, and the cattle ahead of him were like maggots
endowed with a smooth, swift onward motion.  As yet the herd had
not taken form; it was still too widely scattered.  Its units, in
the shape of small bunches, momently grew in numbers.  The
distant plains were crawling and alive with minute creatures
making toward a common tiny centre.
    
Immediately in our front the cattle at first behaved very well. 
Then far down the long gentle slope I saw a break for the upper
valley.  The manikin that represented Homer at once became even
smaller as it departed in pursuit.  The Cattleman moved down to
cover Homer's territory until he should return--and I in turn
edged farther to the right.  Then another break from another
bunch.  The Cattleman rode at top speed to head it.  Before long
he disappeared in the distant mesquite.  I found myself in sole
charge of a front three miles long.

The nearest cattle were some distance ahead, and trotting along
at a good gait.  As they had not yet discovered the chance left
open by unforeseen circumstance, I descended and took in on my
cinch while yet there was time.  Even as I mounted, an impatient
movement on the part of experienced Brown Jug told me that the
cattle had seen their opportunity.
    
I gathered the reins and spoke to the horse.  He needed no
further direction, but set off at a wide angle, nicely
calculated, to intercept the truants.   Brown Jug was a powerful
beast.  The spring of his leap was as whalebone.  The yellow
earth began to stream past like water.  Always the pace increased
with a growing thunder of hoofs.  It seemed that nothing could
turn us from the straight line, nothing check the headlong
momentum of our rush.  My eyes filled with tears from the wind of
our going.  Saddle strings streamed behind.  Brown Jug's mane
whipped my bridle band.  Dimly I was conscious of soapweed,
sacatone, mesquite, as we passed them.  They were abreast and
gone before I could think of them or how they were to be dodged. 
Two antelope bounded away to the left; birds rose hastily from
the grasses.  A sudden chirk, chirk, chirk, rose all about me. 
We were in the very centre of a prairie-dog town, but before I
could formulate in my mind the probabilities of holes and broken
legs, the chirk, chirk, chirking had fallen astern.  Brown Jug
had skipped and dodged successfully.

We were approaching the cattle.  They ran stubbornly and well,
evidently unwilling to be turned until the latest possible
moment.  A great rage at their obstinacy took possession of us
both.  A broad shallow wash crossed our way, but we plunged
through its rocks and boulders recklessly, angered at even the
slight delay they necessitated.  The hardland on the other side
we greeted with joy.  Brown Jug extended himself with a snort.
    
Suddenly a jar seemed to shake my very head loose.  I found
myself staring over the horse's head directly down into a
deep and precipitous gully, the edge of which was so cunningly
concealed by the grasses as to have remained invisible to my
blurred vision.  Brown Jug, however, had caught sight of it at
the  last instant, and had executed one of the wonderful stops
possible only to a cow-pony.
    
But already the cattle had discovered a passage above, and were
scrambling down and across.  Brown Jug and I, at more sober pace,
slid off the almost perpendicular bank, and out the other side.
    
A moment later we had headed them.  They whirled, and without the
necessity of any suggestion on my part Brown Jug turned after
them, and so quickly that my stirrup actually brushed the ground.

After that we were masters.  We chased the cattle far enough to
start them well in the proper direction, and then pulled down to
a walk in order to get a breath of air.
    
But now we noticed another band, back on the ground over which we
had just come, doubling through in the direction of Mount
Graham.  A hard run set them to rights.  We turned.  More had
poured out from the hills.  Bands were crossing everywhere,
ahead and behind.  Brown Jug and I went to work.
   
Being an indivisible unit, we could chase only one bunch at a
time; and, while we were after one, a half dozen others would be
taking advantage of our preoccupation.  We could not hold our
own.  Each run after an escaping bunch had to be on a longer
diagonal.  Gradually we were forced back, and back, and back; but
still we managed to hold the line unbroken.  Never shall I forget
the dash and clatter of that morning.  Neither Brown Jug nor I
thought for a moment of sparing horseflesh, nor of picking a
route.  We made the shortest line, and paid little attention to
anything that stood in the way.  A very fever of resistance
possessed us.  It was like beating against a head wind, or
fighting fire, or combating in any other of the great forces of
nature.  We were quite alone.  The Cattleman and Homer had
vanished.  To our left the men were fully occupied in marshalling
the compact brown herds that had gradually massed--for these
antagonists of mine were merely outlying remnants.
   
I suppose Brown Jug must have run nearly twenty miles with only
one check.  Then we chased a cow some distance and into the dry
bed of a stream, where she whirled on us savagely.  By luck her
horn hit only the leather of my saddle skirts, so we left her;
for when a cow has sense enough to "get on the peck," there is no
driving her farther.  We gained nothing, and had to give ground,
but we succeeded in holding a semblance of order, so that the
cattle did not break and scatter far and wide.  The sun had by
now well risen, and was beginning to shine hot.  Brown Jug still
ran gamely and displayed as much interest as ever, but he was
evidently tiring. We were both glad to see Homer's grey showing
in the fringe of mesquite.
   
Together we soon succeeded in throwing the cows into the main
herd.  And, strangely enough, as soon as they had joined a
compact band of their fellows, their wildness left them and,
convoyed by outsiders, they set themselves to plodding
energetically toward the home ranch.
   
As my horse was somewhat winded, I joined the "drag" at the rear. 
Here by course of natural sifting soon accumulated all the lazy,
gentle, and sickly cows, and the small calves.  The difficulty
now was to prevent them from lagging and dropping out.  To that
end we indulged in a great variety of the picturesque cow-calls
peculiar to the cowboy.  One found an old tin can which by the
aid of a few pebbles he converted into a very effective rattle.
   
The dust rose in clouds and eddied in the sun.  We slouched
easily in our saddles.  The cowboys compared notes as to the
brands they had seen.  Our ponies shuffled along, resting, but
always ready for a dash in chase of an occasional bull calf or
yearling with independent ideas of its own.
   
Thus we passed over the country, down the long gentle slope to
the "sink" of the valley, whence another long gentle slope ran to
the base of the other ranges.  At greater or lesser distances we
caught the dust, and made out dimly the masses of the other herds
collected by our companions, and by the party under Jed Parker. 
They went forward toward the common centre, with a slow
ruminative movement, and the dust they raised went with them.
   
Little by little they grew plainer to us, and the home ranch,
hitherto merely a brown shimmer in the distance, began to take on
definition as the group of buildings, windmills,and corrals we
knew.  Miniature horsemen could be seen galloping forward to the
open white plain where the herd would be held.  Then the mesquite
enveloped us; and we knew little more, save the anxiety lest we
overlook laggards in the brush, until we came out on the edge of
that same white plain.
   
Here were more cattle, thousands of them, and billows of dust,
and a great bellowing, and slim, mounted figures riding and
shouting ahead of the herd.  Soon they succeeded in turning the
leaders back.  These threw into confusion those that followed. 
In a few moments the cattle had stopped.  A cordon of horsemen
sat at equal distances holding them in.
   
"Pretty good haul," said the man next to me; "a good five
thousand head."



CHAPTER SIX
CUTTING OUT

It was somewhere near noon by the time we had bunched and held
the herd of some four or five thousand head in the smooth, wide
flat, free from bushes and dog holes.  Each sat at ease on his
horse facing the cattle, watching lazily the clouds of dust and
the shifting beasts, but ready at any instant to turn back the
restless or independent individuals that might break for liberty.
   
Out of the haze came Homer, the round-up captain, on an easy
lope.  As he passed successively the sentries he delivered to
each a low command, but without slacking pace.  Some of those
spoken to wheeled their horses and rode away.  The others settled
themselves in their saddles and began to roll cigarettes.

"Change horses; get something to eat," said he to me; so I swung
after  the file traveling at a canter over the low swells beyond
the plain.

The remuda had been driven by its leaders to a corner of the
pasture's wire fence, and there held.  As each man arrived he
dismounted, threw off his saddle, and turned his animal loose. 
Then he flipped a loop in his rope and disappeared in the eddying
herd.  The discarded horse, with many grunts, indulged in a
satisfying roll, shook himself vigorously, and walked slowly
away.  His labour was over for the day, and he knew it, and took
not the slightest trouble to get out of the way of the men with
the swinging ropes.
   
Not so the fresh horses, however.  They had no intention of being
caught, if they could help it, but dodged and twisted, hid and
doubled behind the moving screen of their friends.  The latter,
seeming as usual to know they were not wanted, made no effort to
avoid the men, which probably accounted in great measure for the
fact that the herd as a body remained compact, in spite of the
cowboys threading it, and in spite of the lack of an enclosure.
    
Our horses caught, we saddled as hastily as possible; and then at
the top speed of our fresh and eager ponies we swept down on the
chuck wagon.  There we fell off our saddles and descended on the
meat and bread like ravenous locusts on a cornfield.  The ponies
stood where we left them, "tied to the ground", the
cattle-country fashion.
   
As soon as a man had stoked up for the afternoon he rode away. 
Some finished before others, so across the plain formed an
endless procession of men returning to the herd, and of those
whom they replaced coming for their turn at the grub.
   
We found the herd quiet.  Some were even lying down, chewing
their cuds as peacefully as any barnyard cows. Most, however,
stood ruminative, or walked slowly to and fro in the confines
allotted by the horsemen, so that the herd looked from a distance
like a brown carpet whose pattern was constantly changing--a
dusty brown carpet in the process of being beaten.  I relieved
one of the watchers, and settled myself for a wait.
    
At this close inspection the different sorts of cattle showed
more distinctly their characteristics.  The cows and calves
generally rested peacefully enough, the calf often lying down
while the mother stood guard over it.  Steers, however, were more
restless.  They walked ceaselessly, threading their way in and
out among the standing cattle, pausing in brutish amazement at
the edge of the herd, and turning back immediately to endless
journeyings.  The bulls, excited by so much company forced on
their accustomed solitary habit, roared defiance at each other
until the air fairly trembled.  Occasionally two would clash
foreheads.  Then the powerful animals would push and wrestle,
trying for a chance to gore.  The decision of supremacy was a
question of but a few minutes, and a bloody topknot the worst
damage.  The defeated one side-stepped hastily and clumsily out
of reach, and then walked away.
     
Most of the time all we had to do was to sit our horses and watch
these things, to enjoy the warm bath of the Arizona sun, and to
converse with our next neighbours.  Once in a while some
enterprising cow, observing the opening between the men, would
start to walk out.  Others would fall in behind her until the
movement would become general.  Then one of us would swing his
leg off the pommel and jog his pony over to head them off.  They
would return peacefully enough.
      
But one black muley cow, with a calf as black and muley as
herself, was more persistent.  Time after time, with infinite