CHAPTER ONE
THE PASSING OF THE COLT'S FORTY-FIVE
The man of whom I am now to tell you came to Arizona in the early daysof Chief Cochise. He settled in the Soda Springs Valley, and therepersisted in spite of the devastating forays of that Apache. After atime he owned all the wells and springs in the valley, and so,naturally, controlled the grazing on that extensive free range. Once aday the cattle, in twos and threes, in bands, in strings, could be seenwinding leisurely down the deep-trodden and converging trails to thewater troughs at the home ranch, there leisurely to drink, and thenleisurely to drift away into the saffron and violet and amethystdistances of the desert. At ten other outlying ranches this dailyscene was repeated. All these cattle belonged to the man, great byreason of his priority in the country, the balance of his evencharacter, and the grim determination of his spirit.
When he had first entered Soda Springs Valley his companions had calledhim Buck Johnson. Since then his form had squared, his eyes hadsteadied to the serenity of a great authority, his mouth, shadowed bythe moustache and the beard, had closed straight in the line of powerand taciturnity. There was about him more than a trace of the Spanish.So now he was known as Senor Johnson, although in reality he wasstraight American enough.
Senor Johnson lived at the home ranch with a Chinese cook, and Parker,his foreman. The home ranch was of adobe, built with loopholes like afort. In the obsolescence of this necessity, other buildings hadsprung up unfortified. An adobe bunkhouse for the cow-punchers, anadobe blacksmith shop, a long, low stable, a shed, a windmill andpond-like reservoir, a whole system of corrals of different sizes, awalled-in vegetable garden--these gathered to themselves cottonwoodsfrom the moisture of their being, and so added each a little to thegreen spot in the desert. In the smallest corral, between the stableand the shed, stood a buckboard and a heavy wagon, the only wheeledvehicles about the place. Under the shed were rows of saddles, riatas,spurs mounted with silver, bits ornamented with the same metal, curvedshort irons for the range branding, long, heavy "stamps" for the corralbranding. Behind the stable lay the "pasture," a thousand acres ofdesert fenced in with wire. There the hardy cow-ponies sought out thesparse, but nutritious, bunch grass, sixty of them, beautiful asantelope, for they were the pick of Senor Johnson's herds.
And all about lay the desert, shimmering, changing, many-tinted,wonderful, hemmed in by the mountains that seemed tenuous and thin,like beautiful mists, and by the sky that seemed hard and polished likea turquoise.
Each morning at six o'clock the ten cow-punchers of the home ranchdrove the horses to the corral, neatly roped the dozen to be "kept up"for that day, and rewarded the rest with a feed of grain. Then theyrode away at a little fox trot, two by two. All day long theytravelled thus, conducting the business of the range, and at night,having completed the circle, they jingled again into the corral.
At the ten other ranches this programme had been duplicated. Thehalf-hundred men of Senor Johnson's outfit had covered the area of aEuropean principality. And all of it, every acre, every spear ofgrass, every cactus prickle, every creature on it, practically belongedto Senor Johnson, because Senor Johnson owned the water, and withoutwater one cannot exist on the desert.
This result had not been gained without struggle. The fact could beread in the settled lines of Senor Johnson's face, and the great calmof his grey eye. Indian days drove him often to the shelter of theloopholed adobe ranch house, there to await the soldiers from the Fort,in plain sight thirty miles away on the slope that led to the foot ofthe Chiricahuas. He lost cattle and some men, but the profits weregreat, and in time Cochise, Geronimo, and the lesser lights hadflickered out in the winds of destiny. The sheep terror merelythreatened, for it was soon discovered that with the feed of SodaSprings Valley grew a burr that annoyed the flocks beyond reason, sothe bleating scourge swept by forty miles away. Cattle rustling sonear the Mexican line was an easy matter. For a time Senor Johnsoncommanded an armed band. He was lord of the high, the low, and themiddle justice. He violated international ethics, and for the laws ofnations he substituted his own. One by one he annihilated the thievesof cattle, sometimes in open fight, but oftener by surprise anddeliberate massacre. The country was delivered. And then, withindefatigable energy, Senor Johnson became a skilled detective. Alone,or with Parker, his foreman, he rode the country through, gatheringevidence. When the evidence was unassailable he brought offenders tobook. The rebranding through a wet blanket he knew and could prove;the ear-marking of an unbranded calf until it could be weaned heunderstood; the paring of hoofs to prevent travelling he could tell asfar as he could see; the crafty alteration of similar brands--as when aMexican changed Johnson's Lazy Y to a Dumb-bell Bar--he saw through ata glance. In short, the hundred and one petty tricks of thesneak-thief he ferreted out, in danger of his life. Then he sent toPhoenix for a Ranger--and that was the last of the Dumb-bell Bar brand,or the Three Link Bar brand, or the Hour Glass Brand, or a half dozenothers. The Soda Springs Valley acquired a reputation for good order.
Senor Johnson at this stage of his career found himself dropping into aroutine. In March began the spring branding, then the corralling andbreaking of the wild horses, the summer range-riding, the great fallround-up, the shipping of cattle, and the riding of the winter range.This happened over and over again.
You and I would not have suffered from ennui. The roping and throwingand branding, the wild swing and dash of handling stock, the mad racesto head the mustangs, the fierce combats to subdue these raging wildbeasts to the saddle, the spectacle of the round-up with its brutishmultitudes and its graceful riders, the dust and monotony andexcitement and glory of the Trail, and especially the hundreds ofincidental and gratuitous adventures of bears and antelope, of thirstand heat, of the joy of taking care of one's self--all these would havefilled our days with the glittering, changing throng of the unusual.
But to Senor Johnson it had become an old story. After the days ofconstruction the days of accomplishment seemed to him lean. His mendid the work and reaped the excitement. Senor Johnson never thoughtnow of riding the wild horses, of swinging the rope coiled at hissaddle horn, or of rounding ahead of the flying herds. His inspectionswere business inspections. The country was tame. The leather chapswith the silver conchas hung behind the door. The Colt's forty-fivedepended at the head of the bed. Senor Johnson rode in mufti. Of hiscowboy days persisted still the high-heeled boots and spurs, the broadStetson hat, and the fringed buckskin gauntlets.
The Colt's forty-five had been the last to go. Finally one eveningSenor Johnson received an express package. He opened it before theundemonstrative Parker. It proved to contain a pocket "gun"--anickel-plated, thirty-eight calibre Smith & Wesson "five-shooter."Senor Johnson examined it a little doubtfully. In comparison with thesix-shooter it looked like a toy.
"How do you, like her?" he inquired, handing the weapon to Parker.
Parker turned it over and over, as a child a rattle. Then he returnedit to its owner.
"Senor," said he, "if ever you shoot me with that little old gun, AND Ifind it out the same day, I'll just raise hell with you!"
"I don't reckon she'd INJURE a man much," agreed the Senor, "butperhaps she'd call his attention."
However, the "little old gun" took its place, not in Senor Johnson'ship pocket, but inside the front waistband of his trousers, and the oldshiny Colt's forty-five, with its worn leather "Texas style" holster,became a bedroom ornament.
Thus, from a frontiersman dropped Senor Johnson to the status of aproperty owner. In a general way he had to attend to his interestsbefore the cattlemen's association; he had to arrange for the buyingand shipping, and the rest was leisure. He could now have gone awaysomewhere as far as time went. So can a fish live in trees--as far astime goes. And in the daily riding, riding, riding over the range hefound the opportunity for abstract thought which the frontier life hadcrowded aside.
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