Hidden Water Part 30

"You are mistaken, Mr. Swope," he said quietly. "Jeff hasn't shot up any camps--he hasn't even packed a gun for the last three days."

"Oh, he hain't, hey?" sneered the sheepman, showing his jagged teeth.

"He seems to have one now."

"You betcher neck I have," cried Creede, flaring up at the implication, "and if you're lookin' for trouble, Jasp Swope, you can open up any time."

"W'y what's the matter with you?" protested Swope righteously. "You must have somethin' on your mind, the way you act."

Then without waiting for a reply to this innuendo he turned his attention to Hardy.

"He hain't shot up any camps," he repeated, "ner packed a gun for three days, hey? Now here's where I prove you a liar, Mr. Smarty. I seen him with my own eyes take six shots at one of my herders this very mornin'--_and you was there!_"

He punctuated his speech by successive downward jabs of his grimy forefinger as if he were stabbing his adversary to the heart, and Hardy turned faint and sick with chagrin. Never had he hated a man as he hated this great, overbearing brute before him--this man-beast, with his hairy chest and freckled hands that clutched at him like an ape's. Something hidden, a demon primordial and violent, rose up in him against this crude barbarian with his bristling beard and gloating pig eyes, and he forgot everything but his own rage at being trapped.

"You lie!" he cried pa.s.sionately; and then in his anger he added a word which he had never used, a word which goes deep under the skin and makes men fight.

For a moment the sheepman sat staring, astounded by his vehemence; but before he could move the sudden silence was split by the yelp of a dog--a wild, gibbering yelp that made them jump and bristle like hounds that are a.s.sailed from behind--and, mingling stridently with it, was the harsh snarl of a cat. There was a swift scramble in the dust by the door, an oath from the sheepman, and the yellow dog dashed away again, with Tommy at his heels.

Creede was the first man to regain his nerve and, seeing his pet triumphant, he let out a whoop of derisive laughter.

"Ah-hah-hah!" he hollered, pointing with his pistol hand, "look at that, will ye--_look_ at 'im--_yee-pah_--go after 'im, Tommy--we'll show the--"

The fighting blood of the sheepman sided in as quickly with his dog.

"I'll kill that dam' cat!" he yelled, swinging down from his saddle, "if you don't let up! Hey, Nip! Sick 'im!" He turned and motioned to his other dog, which had been standing dumbly by, and instantly he joined in the chase. "Sick 'em, boy, _sick 'em_!" he bellowed, urging him on, and before Creede could get his face straight the long, rangy brindle had dashed up from behind and seized Tommy by the back.

"Git out o' that!" thundered the cowman; and then, without waiting on words, he threw his gun down on the dog and fired.

"Here--none of that, now!" shouted Swope, whipping out his own pistol, and as he leapt forward he held it out before him like a sabre, pointed straight for the cowman's ribs. His intentions may have been of the best, but Hardy did not wait to see. The brindle dog let out a surprised yelp and dropped. Before Creede could turn to meet his enemy his partner leapt in between them and with a swift blow from the shoulder, struck the sheepman to the ground.

It was a fearful blow, such as men deal in anger without measuring their strength or the cost, and it landed on his jaw. Creede had seen men slugged before, in saloon rows and the rough fights that take place around a town, but never had he seen a single blow suffice--the man's head go back, his knees weaken, and his whole body collapse as if he had been shot. If he had been felled like a bull in the shambles that goes down in spite of his great strength, Jasper Swope could not have been more completely stunned. He lay sprawling, his legs turned under him, and the hand that grasped the six-shooter relaxed slowly and tumbled it into the dust.

For a minute the two partners stood staring at each other, the one still planted firmly on his feet like a boxer, the other with his smoking pistol in his hand.

"By Joe, boy," said Creede slowly, "you was just in time that trip."

He stepped forward and laid the fallen man out on his back, pa.s.sing his gun up to Hardy as he did so.

"I wonder if you killed him," he muttered, feeling Jasp's bull neck; and then, as Hardy ran for some water, he remembered Tommy. But there was no Tommy--only a little heap of fur lying very still out in the open.

"My G.o.d!" he cried, and leaving the man he ran out and knelt down beside it.

"p.u.s.s.y!" he whispered, feeling hopelessly for his heart; and then, gathering the forlorn little wisp of fur in his arms, he hurried into the house without a word.

He was still in hiding when Jasper Swope came to and sat up, his hair drenched with water and matted with dirt. Staring doubtfully at the set face of Hardy he staggered to his feet; then the memory of the fight came back to him and he glared at him with a drunkard's insolence.

"Where's my gun?" he demanded, suddenly clapping his hand upon the empty holster.

"I'll take care of that for you," answered Hardy pointedly. "Now you pile onto that mule of yours and pull your freight, will you?" He led the black mule up close and boosted its master into the saddle, but Swope was not content.

"Where's that dastard, Jeff Creede?" he demanded. "Well, I wanter see him, that's all. And say, Mr. Smart Alec, I want that gun, too, see?"

"Well, you won't get it," said Hardy.

"I will that," declared Swope, "'nd I'll git you, too, Willie, before I git through with you. I've had enough of this monkey business. Now gimme that gun, I tell ye, or I'll come back with more of 'em and take it!"

He raised his voice to a roar, m.u.f.fled to a beast-like hoa.r.s.eness by his swollen jaws, and the _ramada_ reverberated like a cavern as he bellowed out his challenge. Then the door was s.n.a.t.c.hed violently open and Jefferson Creede stepped forth, looking black as h.e.l.l itself. In one hand he held the sheepman's pistol and in the other his own.

"Here!" he said, and striding forward he thrust Swope's gun into his hand. "It's loaded, too," he added. "Now, you--if you've got any shootin' to do, go to it!"

He stepped back quickly and stood ready, his masterful eyes bent upon his enemy in a scowl of unquenchable hate. Once before they had faced each other, waiting for that mysterious psychic prompting without which neither man nor beast can begin a fight, and Jim had stepped in between--but Hardy stood aside without a word. It was a show-down and, bulldog fighter though he was, Jasper Swope weakened. The anger of his enemy overcame his hostile spirit without a blow, and he turned his pistol away.

"That's all I wanted," he said, shoving the gun sullenly into its holster. "They's two of you, and--"

"And you're afraid," put in Creede promptly. He stood gazing at the downcast sheepman, his lip curling contemptuously.

"I've never seen a sheepman yet," he said, "that would fight. You've listened to that blat until it's a part of ye; you've run with them Mexicans until you're kin to 'em; you're a coward, Jasp Swope, and I always knowed it." He paused again, his eyes glowing with the hatred that had overmastered his being. "My G.o.d," he said, "if I could only git you to fight to-day I'd give everything I've got left!"

The sheepman's gaze was becoming furtive as he watched them. He glanced sidewise, edging away from the door; then, p.r.i.c.king his mule with his spurs, he galloped madly away, ducking his head at every jump as if he feared a shot.

"Look at the cowardly dastard!" sneered Creede bitterly. "D'ye know what he would do if that was me? He'd shoot me in the back. Ah, G.o.d A'mighty, and that dog of his got Tommy before I could pull a gun!

Rufe, I could kill every sheepman in the Four Peaks for this--every dam' one of 'em--and the first dog that comes in sight of this ranch will stop a thirty-thirty." He stopped and turned away, cursing and muttering to himself.

"G.o.d A'mighty," he moaned, "I can't keep _nothin'_!" And stumbling back into the house he slammed the door behind him.

A gloom settled down over the place, a gloom that lasted for days. The cowboys came back from driving the town herd and, going up on the mesa, they gathered a few head more. Then the heat set in before its time and the work stopped short. For the steer that is roped and busted in the hot weather dies suddenly at the water; the flies buzz about the ears of the new-marked calves and poison them, and the mother cows grow gaunt and thin from overheating. Not until the long Summer had pa.s.sed could the riding continue; the steers must be left to feed down the sheeped-out range; the little calves must run for sleepers until the fall _rodeo_. Sheep and the drought had come together, and the round-up was a failure. Likewise the cowmen were broke.

As they gathered about the fire on that last night it was a silent company--the _rodeo_ boss the gloomiest of them all. Not since the death of Tommy had his eyes twinkled with the old mischief; he had no bets to offer, no news to volunteer; a dull, sombre abstraction lay upon him like a pall. Only when Bill Lightfoot spoke did he look up, and then with a set sneer, growing daily more saturnine. The world was dark to Creede and Bill's fresh remarks jarred on him--but Bill himself was happy. He was of the kind that runs by opposites, taking their troubles with hilarity under the impression that they are philosophers. His pretext for this present happiness was a professed interview with Kitty Bonnair on the evening that the town herd pulled into Moreno's. What had happened at this interview was a secret, of course, but it made Bill happy; and the more morose and ugly Jeff became about it the more it pleased Lightfoot to be gay. He sat on a box that night and sang _risque_ ditties, his enormous Colt's revolver dangling bravely at his hip; and at last, casting his weather eye upon Creede, he began a certain song.

"Oh, my little girl, she lives in the town--"

And then he stopped.

"Bill," said the _rodeo_ boss feelingly, "you make me tired."

"Lay down an' you'll git rested, then," suggested Lightfoot.

"_A toodle link, a toodle link, a too-oodle a day._"

"I'll lay you down in a minute, if you don't shut up," remarked Creede, throwing away his cigarette.

"The h.e.l.l you say," commented Lightfoot airily.

"And last time I seen her she ast me to come down."

At this raw bit of improvisation the boss rose slowly to his feet and stalked away from temptation.

"And if anybody sees her you'll know her by this sign,"