“Run, Joseph!” Margarida warned. But the next moment the full fury of the wind struck them and knocked them down. Suddenly the air was filled with whirling sand. Great clouds of it were scooped out of the mountain and hurled at them. It cut the eyes and scourged the cheeks. Choking and half blinded, Margarida turned her back to the wind, and with Joseph in her arms staggered to her feet. The cabin was nearly a hundred yards away, and Joseph was heavy for her, but with strength she had little suspected she possessed she swung him up and went on. In spite of her efforts she sank to her knees again and again.
With every passing second the storm grew in violence. The wind was ripping out sage-brush and greasewood and hurling it into the air. Once, a piece of buckthorn struck her and drew blood. Mountain and valley were being swept clean of debris. Branches and limbs of dead willows and mahogany tress, and all the litter of the range, were in that wild maelstrom.
No cry escaped the boy’s lips and, although his mouth and eyes were closed tightly, the expression on his face was not one of fear. Even with his mother’s body to shield him from the screaming storm, the razor-edged sand seared his little face. When she fell, he snuggled to her and waited patiently for her to rise and go on again. Later—it seemed a long time—he heard her kick open the cabin door.
Once inside, Margarida let Joseph slip to the floor. The gale was rocking the cabin, the windows were rattling and the door banging back and forth as if the storm was intent on ripping it from its fastenings.
With an angry cry, Margarida hurled her body against it and forced it shut. Through every crack and cranny the fine sand was sifting in. It grated beneath her feet as she ran to the kitchen for a lamp. The light flickered fitfully as she placed it upon the table; and as she went about poking bits of rags into the crevices it cast weird shadows of herself upon the walls and ceiling.
Joseph was thrilled rather than alarmed. He hurried about believing he was helping his mother; hut Margarida soon found that it was impossible to keep the sand from coming in, and as she gave up trying, Joseph voiced the very question that was stabbing at her heart:
“Where is daddy, mother?”
“Under shelter, I hope, Joseph. He must have left the valley before the storm broke. He’d know it was coming. If he made the box cañon this side of the Circle-Z fence, he’s safe. No horse could keep a trail on such a night. I’m only afraid that he’ll be worried about us, and try to get here before the storm is over.
“Your father is a good man, Joseph. You ask God to take care of him. We wouldn’t know what to do without him. Virgen santísima!” she entreated as she sank to her knees, “don’t let him risk that trail to-night.” She crossed herself and waited for Joseph to do the same, but the boy was staring off into space. He did not arise when Margarida got to her feet. He was muttering something, and listening, she heard him say:
“Oh, God, take good care of my daddy. My mother needs him, ‘cause I ain’t old enough to be a man yet. You tell him we’re all right, and not to he scared. But if he’s going to come, You tell his horse where to go. Old Pepper is smart; he’ll understand what You tell him.”
Without further sign the boy got to his feet. His mother looked at him speechlessly. “You don’t cross yourself, Joseph?” she asked at last.
“I do when I pray, mother; but I don’t like to pray. I was just talking to God then. I often talk to Him when I’m on the mountain.”
Just why this simple statement should bring a mist to her eyes, Margarida did not know, but her voice trembled as she asked:
“And what does He say to you, my little son?”
“He tells me how to make friends with things. Guess there ain’t nuthin’ on the mountain that’s afraid of me.”
The child’s simple honesty made him a pathetic figure. Unconsciously he but emphasized his loneliness. Margarida shook her head as she set about getting supper. Joseph’s talk frightened her, and she resolved that at any cost she would see that he went to the valley in the fall.
The child was hungry, and he ate what his mother placed before him. The whining wind and the sound of the sand beating against the window panes filled the room as they sat at the table. Margarida ate but little. By the time they had finished, it was Joseph’s bedtime.
An hour later, the dishes washed, and the sand swept up again, Margarida ventured to open the door, hoping to find some sign of the storm’s passing; but the night was wilder than ever. It was nine o’clock, and as the minutes droned by and her husband did not come, she took courage; for if he had not sought shelter he would have been there by now—or else he never would come!
And while she waited for him, two men—Race Eagan and Tiny Mears—squatted beside their sage-brush fire far under the protecting wall of the box cañon north of the Circle-Z fence. This fence was a line fence and, although a drift fence had been built below it, it never sufficed, in bad weather, to hold the herd.
Farther west, this line fence became the barrier for the big sheep-outfits. In fact, this Piute Meadows fence, as it was called, had been the scene of two bloody battles and numerous minor affrays. Whenever the Circle-Z was seriously annoyed the trouble was along this line.
Race and Tiny had been “riding” the fence. The storm had caught them out in the open. They had fought it for an hour before dashing to cover. They were fairly out of the gale beneath the overhanging wall, but their horses stood with heads lowered, their manes and forelocks flattened out before them in the wind.
“No use our sittin’ here,” Tiny grumbled. “Might as well turn in. This zephyr is a-goin’ to last all night.”
“Yeh, and there’ll be Circle-B steers all over hell to-morrow,” Egan agreed.
“Ain’t our fault. I’m a-goin’ to sleep.”
Tiny’s preparation for bed was limited to the unrolling of his blanket and the removal of boots and chaps. He was about to lie down when Race saw him stiffen.
“What’s the matter, Tiny?” Egan asked banteringly. “The wind scare you so to-night?”
“Didn’t yuh hear it?” Tiny whispered.
“What?”
“A shot! I heard it plain—off there to the west. The wind would carry the sound a long ways to-night.”
“Yeh, and all this stuff that’s flyin’ around in the air would kill it in a short ways. Ain’t nobody out in this storm. Kit’s over west, but that cagy boy ain’t nestin’ in a fence corner. He’s somewhere where it’s warm and—”
Race felt Tiny’s fingers close upon his ankle, and he stopped short. Their faces grim, they stared at each other.
“D’yuh hear it then?” Tiny asked anxiously.
Race nodded. “Sure did!” he muttered. “Reckon it wa’n’t far off, either. Pull on your boots, Tiny. We got to go.”
CHAPTER II.
THE STAMPEDE.
JOE GAULT could read the weather as can only a man born and bred on the range. When he rode out of Paradise at five o’clock in the afternoon of that day, he knew the storm would strike in a few hours. He spurred his horse to a sharp hand-canter as he turned eastward. Pepper’s free-swinging stride made light of the long, desert miles, but the storm came on with speed that mocked the animal’s best. Gault’s eyes swept the sky.
“Hit’s shore a-goin’ to come soon,” he muttered aloud, “an’ hit’s a-goin to be a fence twister, too. Mought a-known hit would come to-night. Reckon we’ll just about make the fence by the time she strikes.”
He had usually allowed himself four hours for the journey from Paradise to the cabin. At the speed at which he rode to-night he would lessen that by at least a full hour, but as the minutes passed he realized that even such a saving would not see him home in time. He had not yet reached the Circle-Z fence when the darkness which had settled so early upon the mountain, cloaked the valley. Within half an hour man and horse caught the first sound of that wild, high-pitched humming which was rushing toward them from the west.
The box cañon north of the fence was still some miles away, but it was not of i
t that Gault thought as he pulled his hat low over his eyes and tied his neckerchief over his mouth and nose. He had been glancing up the mountain for the light which Margarida always burned for him. He could not locate it to-night. It worried him, even though he told himself that the night was so heavy a light could not be seen so far.
He knew that nothing could have happened to Margarida or Joseph, but the very fact that he could not see their light made him more anxious than ever to be home. He knew his sheep would fret until the storm was upon them, but the dogs would hold the flock. When the sand began to fill the air, it would be hard to drive the sheep from the coulee, for they were sheltered from the wind, there.
The storm struck then with a mad rush and abruptly terminated Gault’s chain of thought. Pepper snorted and lowered his head, but he went on, his eyes half closed, preferring anything to turning about and facing the blinding sand. It was impossible to see ahead for more than ten feet, so Gault kept his horse to the fence. In this fashion they went on for an hour.
Pepper stumbled as he slid down into a little arroyo. He nickered pitifully as he straightened up. Gault reached out his hands and covered the animal’s eyes. As if grateful for the kindness, the horse broke into a canter.
Later, they dropped into a dry-wash. For a brief minute they were out of the full sweep of the wind. Gault recognized the place and knew that they had only two miles to go before reaching the draw where they were to turn off on the trail which led up the mountain. For some time, subconsciously, he had been calculating the chance of being able to climb Buckskin.
Pepper knew the trail well enough, but in places it was steep and dangerous, a misstep in the dark would plunge them to death. But this weighing of difficulties amounted to less than nothing, for Gault knew that he would make the attempt.
Not long after they came out of the wash he fancied he heard the barking of dogs. He listened carefully, but he did not catch the sound again. As far as he knew, his own dogs were the only ones within miles. If they were with the flock in the coulee the wind was against his hearing them; still, he would have sworn he had heard the baying of dogs, and directly ahead of him, too. It made him uneasy, and he urged his horse on. He had not gone more than a hundred yards before a shot, deep and muffled, boomed in his ears.
The horse heard it, too, and tossed up his head. Gault stopped him in his tracks and listened intently. It seemed that the noise of the storm would drown the sound of a shot, unless it were near. Gault admitted that he might have been mistaken about having heard dogs barking—a coyote would have accounted for it—but there was no mistaking that shot.
And then, as he waited, it came again—the deep-toned bark of a high-powered gun! Gault thought he caught a flash of spurting flame almost simultaneously with the second shot. The Circle-Z fence turned south here, and it was where it came back to the north, less than a quarter of a mile away, that he believed the streak of flame had stabbed the darkness. He had his gun in his hand by now and, in spite of the storm, Pepper dashed ahead as Gault raked him with the spurs.
Gault swung himself to the ground as he came abreast the corner of the fence, and with the reins in his hands he stumbled toward it, dragging Pepper after him. A gasp of astonishment ·was rung from him as he saw that the fence was down. Hand over hand he went along it until he came to the place where it had been cut. He ran his fingers over the sharp ends of the wire. “God!” he muttered. “Ain’t no sheep nor cattle done hit. That’s nippers!”
Pepper almost pulled the rein out of Gault’s hand as the herder bent again to examine the fence. When the horse came down he stood stiff legged, snorting with fear. Gault raised his voice to speak to the horse when a confusion of sounds which rose above the bellowing of the storm struck him. The next instant the barking of dogs and the mad bleating and baaing of sheep reached his ears.
“God A’mighty!” he cried out, and his voice shook, “how am I a-goin’ turn ’em?”
He was in his saddle already and dashing toward the oncoming flock. Instinctively he sensed that they were his own sheep. From the direction from which they came there could be no doubt of it. . . . There were no sheep but his on Buckskin!
But what had happened? It wasn’t sheep nature to fight dogs and storm. If the flock had started to drift it would have gone the other way. But the answer was not far to seek. Gault shook his head grimly; he knew !
It was not coincidence that found the Circle-Z fence down in the flock’s very path. Things didn’t happen that way on the range. Whoever had cut the wire had known that the sheep were being stampeded. Once through the fence, the Rock certainly would turn to the east. There the deep cañon of the North Fork of the Little Humboldt cut across the Circle-Z country.
Gault's sheep would not be the first ones that had been swept over the rim-rocks to their death. If they missed that fate, they still would be trespassing on Circle-Z range, and they would be put off—and the manner of their ejection would not be pretty to see. The fence-cutting would have to be explained, too. The evidence was only circumstantial, but it was damning; range law had convicted men on less.
Gault knew that the Circle-Z waddies rode this fence every night. The shooting which he had heard had undoubtedly occurred when one of them had found the wire cut. Storm or no storm, they would be back before long. Trouble would ride with them.
Gault felt trapped. Who had done this thing to him? Not the Circle-Z; Thad Taylor was no friend of his, but this game was a cut beneath anything the old cattleman would lend himself to. Besides, he had nothing that Taylor wanted.
This blow had been aimed by some one who hoped to drive him out. It had been tried before, in other ways; but the Basque gente had not succeeded with the organized discouragement which they had doled out so adroitly. In back of this stampede was hatred, revenge! Gault recognized it for what it was. It aroused his fighting-blood.
He had always beaten them. The thought stiffened his lip, and wheeling his horse, he swung the animal broadside to the sheep which were swarming against him. Rising in his saddle he bellowed to the dogs. They recognized him and ran toward him. As they came on Gault fanned his gun. The sheep began to mill as the leaders shied back from the barking gun and the flashing teeth of the dogs.
Gault forced his horse into the flock as he saw the leaders checked. For an instant, the billowing sea of wool appeared to rock back and forth. Gault saw that the storm aided him, for as the flock lost momentum the sheep turned their heads away from the biting sand.
It was the advantage he hoped to gain, and he crowded them back step by step. His dogs, almost as wise as he in the ways of sheep, followed his lead. Gault began bawling in a singsong tone:
“Coo-sheep ! C’ sh’p ! Coo-o-o- — sheep ! Co—she’, coo—she’, coo-o—sheep !”
The next second or two would bring the decision. The sheep in the center of the flock were wavering already. If they got away now, it would be caused by the sheep in the rear pouring around the edge of the flock. Gault kept on calling, but he held his hands to his eyes and tried to see what was happening to the left and right of him.
He cursed as he saw an old ram break free. His gun leaped out and he pulled, but the pistol was empty. He was about to hurl it at the ram when one of the dogs leaped into the air and knocked the animal end over end. In less than a minute the flock was flowing up the mountain !
One of the dogs hung back and howled. Gault rode over to him, expecting to find a sheep with a broken leg. Even from his saddle he saw that there was something on the ground. He loaded his gun before he got down, intending to shoot the animal if it were badly hurt; but as he got to his knees and reached out to turn it over, his blood turned cold. The thing before him, half buried in the drifting sand, was the body of a man !
It was still warm. Gault struck a light four or five times before he managed to get a glimpse of the man’s face.
“Kit Dorr !” he gasped as he recognized him. Gault’s eyes bulged from their sockets as he caught another look at the man b
efore his match flared out. “Dead—! He’s shore dead!” he muttered. “God A’mighty, this is a-goin’ to be terrible bad for me, Kit! Hit shore is!”
Gault got to his feet and stood looking down at the dead man, his head shaking wearily.
“They shore got me this time,” he drawled. “Folks all know we had words; and the wire cut; my sheep stampedin’ around, and one or two got through the fence, like as not—God A’mighty! Ain’t no man a-goin’ to believe I didn’t kill you, Kit; ain’t but one or two even a-goin’ to try to believe hit. Reckon things couldn’t be worse for me. And them who killed you is a-goin’ free; most likely they’ll never be caught. The law or the Circle-Z’ll git me, and that’ll be the end of hit.”
Common sense told him he gained nothing by standing there, but the thought that there might be some way out of the net stayed him. He seemed to have lost the ability to think clearly. A dozen plans which suggested themselves were dismissed immediately. Not one of them held a possibility of success. What good would it do to hide Dorr’s body? He’d be missed, and the fence would tell its own story. Buckskin would be combed as soon as the storm was over.
Gault even considered taking the body to the Cirde-Z; but such a course seemed hopeless.
“That would jest save my neck for the law,” he argued to himself; “an’ the law’s all stacked ag’in me. Ain’t no jury in Paradise would believe anythin’ I said.”
His hand flashed to his gun as he heard a man call to another, off to his right. It was Egan calling to Tiny Mears.
“I knew they wouldn’t be long a-comin’,” Gault muttered. “Ain’t nuthin’ for me to do but go. An’ I guess I’ll have to keep on a-goin’. They won’t take me alive!”
CHAPTER III.
FLIGHT.
GAULT was a mile away by the time Race Eagan stumbled over Kit Dorr’s lifeless body. The storm showed no sign of abating. Gault mumbled his thanks for that. The storm was to his liking, now, erasing his trail almost instantly. His sheep were still ahead of him. He caught up with them in the next ten minutes. They were going along without causing the dogs any further trouble. Soon the trail began to swing around the mountain into the very teeth of the wind; for over half a mile, they were a fair target for the full force of the storm, and as they climbed higher and higher, it seemed that the gale must sweep them off their feet.
Following the Grass Page 3
