The Hall brothers were a small pest to be stamped out and forgotten in the prosperity of multiplying flocks. As for Swan Carlson, poor savage, there might be some way of reaching him without further violence between them. Wild and unfeeling as he seemed, there must be a sense of justice in him, reading him by his stern, immobile face.
As he sat and weighed the argument for and against the sheep business, the calling of flockmaster began to take on the color of romantic attraction which had not been apparent to him before. In his way, every flockmaster was a hero, inflexible against the unreckoned forces which rose continually to discourage him. This was true, as he long had realized, of a man who plants in the soil, risking the large part of his capital of labor year by year. But the sheepman’s risks were greater, his courage immensely superior, to that of the tiller of the soil. One storm might take his flock down to the last head, leaving him nothing to start on again but his courage and his hope.
It appeared to Mackenzie to be the calling of a proper man. A flockmaster need not be a slave to the range, as most of them were. He might sit in his office, as a few of them did, and do the thing like a gentleman. There were possibilities of dignity in it heretofore overlooked; Joan would think better of it if she could see it done that way. Surely, it was a business that called for a fight to build and a fight to hold, but it was the calling of a proper man.
Mackenzie was immensely cheered by his reasoning the sheep business into the romantic and heroic class. Here were allurements of which he had not dreamed, to be equaled only by the calling of the sea, and not by any other pursuit on land at all. A man who appreciated the subtle shadings of life could draw a great deal of enjoyment and self-pride out of the business of flockmaster. It was one of the most ancient pursuits of man. Abraham was a flockmaster; maybe Adam.
But for all of the new comfort he had found in the calling he had adopted, Mackenzie was plagued by a restless, broken sleep when he composed himself among the hillside shrubs above the sheep. A vague sense of something impending held him from rest. It was present over his senses like a veil of drifting smoke through his shallow sleep. Twice he moved his bed, with the caution of some haunted beast; many times he started in his sleep, clutching like a falling man, to sit up alert and instantly awake.
There was something in the very tension of the night-silence that warned him to be on the watch. It was not until long after midnight that he relaxed his straining, uneasy vigil, and stretched himself to unvexed sleep. He could steal an hour or two from the sheep in the early morning, he told himself, as he felt the sweet restfulness of slumber sweeping over him; the helpless creatures would remain on the bedding-ground long after sunrise if he did not wake, waiting for him to come and set them about the great business of their lives. They hadn’t sense enough to range out and feed themselves without the direction of man’s guiding hand.
Mackenzie had dipped but a little way into his refreshing rest when the alarmed barking of his dogs woke him with such sudden wrench that it ached. He sat up, senses drenched in sleep for a struggling moment, groping for his rifle. The dogs went charging up the slope toward the wagon, the canvas top of which he could see indistinctly on the hillside through the dark.
As Mackenzie came to his feet, fully awake and on edge, the dogs mouthed their cries as if they closed in on the disturber of the night at close quarters. Mackenzie heard blows, a yelp from a disabled dog, and retreat toward him of those that remained unhurt. He fired a shot, aiming high, running toward the wagon.
Again the dogs charged, two of them, only, out of the three, and again there was the sound of thick, rapid blows. One dog came back to its master, pressing against his legs for courage. Mackenzie shouted, hoping to draw the intruder into revealing himself, not wanting the blood of even a rascal such as the night-prowler on his hands through a chance shot into the dark. There was no answer, no sound from the deep blackness that pressed like troubled waters close to the ground.
The dog clung near to Mackenzie’s side, his growling deep in his throat. Mackenzie could feel the beast tremble as it pressed against him, and bent to caress it and give it confidence. At his reassuring touch the beast bounded forward to the charge again, only to come yelping back, and continue on down the hill toward the flock.
Mackenzie fired again, dodging quickly behind a clump of bushes after the flash of his gun. As he crouched there, peering and straining ahead into the dark, strong hands laid hold of him, and tore his rifle away from him and flung him to the ground. One came running from the wagon, low words passed between the man who held Mackenzie pinned to the ground, knees astride him, his hands doubled back against his chin in a grip that was like fetters. This one who arrived in haste groped around until he found Mackenzie’s rifle.
“Let him up,” he said.
Mackenzie stood, his captor twisting his arms behind him with such silent ease that it was ominous of what might be expected should the sheepherder set up a struggle to break free.
“Bud, I’ve come over after my guns,” said Hector Hall, speaking close to Mackenzie’s ear.
“They’re up at the wagon,” Mackenzie told him, with rather an injured air. “You didn’t need to make all this trouble about it; I was keeping them for you.”
“Go on up and get ’em,” Hall commanded, prodding Mackenzie in the ribs with the barrel of his own gun.
The one who held Mackenzie said nothing, but walked behind him, rather shoved him ahead, hands twisted in painful rigidity behind his back, pushing him along as if his weight amounted to no more than a child’s. At the wagon Hall fell in beside Mackenzie, the barrel of a gun again at his side.
“Let him go,” he said. And to Mackenzie: “Don’t try to throw any tricks on me, bud, but waltz around and get me them guns.”
“They’re hanging on the end of the coupling-pole; get them yourself,” Mackenzie returned, resentful of this treatment, humiliated to such depths by this disgrace that had overtaken him that he cared little for the moment whether he should live or die.
Hall spoke a low, mumbled, unintelligible word to the one who stood behind Mackenzie, and another gun pressed coldly against the back of the apprentice sheepman’s neck. Hall went to the end of the wagon, found his pistols, struck a match to inspect them. In the light of the expiring match at his feet Mackenzie could see the ex-cattleman buckling on the guns.
“Bud, you’ve been actin’ kind of rash around here,” Hall said, in insolent satisfaction with the turn of events. “You had your lucky day with me, like you had with Swan Carlson, but I gave you a sneak’s chance to leave the country while the goin’ was good. If you ever leave it now the wind’ll blow you out. Back him up to that wagon wheel!”
Mackenzie was at the end of his tractable yielding to commands, seeing dimly what lay before him. He lashed out in fury at the man who pressed the weapon to his neck, twisting round in a sweep of passion that made the night seem to burst in a rain of fire, careless of what immediate danger he ran. The fellow fired as Mackenzie swung round, the flash of the flame hot on his neck.
“Don’t shoot him, you fool!” Hector Hall interposed, his voice a growl between his teeth.
Mackenzie’s quick blows seemed to fall impotently on the body of the man who now grappled with him, face to face, Hector Hall throwing himself into the tangle from the rear. Mackenzie, seeing his assault shaping for a speedy end in his own defeat, now attempted to break away and seek shelter in the dark among the bushes. He wrenched free for a moment, ducked, ran, only to come down in a few yards with Hector Hall on his back like a catamount.
Fighting every inch of the way, Mackenzie was dragged back to the wagon, where his captors backed him against one of the hind wheels and bound him, his arms outstretched across the spokes in the manner of a man crucified.
They had used Mackenzie illy in that fight to get him back to the wagon; his face was bleeding, a blow in the mouth had puffed his lips. His hat was gone, his shirt torn open on his bosom, but a wild rage throbbed in him which
lifted him above the thought of consequences as he strained at the ropes which held his arms.
They left his feet free, as if to mock him with half liberty in the ordeal they had set for him to face. One mounted the front wagon wheel near Mackenzie, and the light of slow-coming dawn on the sky beyond him showed his hand uplifted as if he sprinkled something over the wagon sheet. The smell of kerosene spread through the still air; a match crackled on the wagon tire. A flash, a sudden springing of flame, a roar, and the canvas was enveloped in fire.
Mackenzie leaned against his bonds, straining away from the sudden heat, the fast-running fire eating the canvas from the bows, the bunk within, and all the furnishings and supplies, on fire. There seemed to be no wind, a merciful circumstance, for a whip of the high-striving flames would have wrapped him, stifling out his life in a moment.
Hall and the other man, who had striven with Mackenzie in such powerful silence, had drawn away from the fire beyond his sight to enjoy the thing they had done. Mackenzie, turning his fearful gaze over his shoulder, calculated his life in seconds. The fire was at his back, his hair was crinkling in the heat of it, a little moving breath of wind to fill the sudden vacuum drew a tongue of blaze with sharp threat against his cheek.
In a moment the oil-drenched canvas would be gone, the flaming contents of the wagon, the woodwork of box and running gears left to burn more slowly, and his flesh and bones must mingle ashes with the ashes, to be blown on the wind, as Hector Hall had so grimly prophesied. What a pitiful, poor, useless ending of all his calculations and plans!
A shot at the top of the hill behind the wagon, a rush of galloping hoofs; another shot, and another. Below him Hall and his comrade rode away, floundering in haste through the sleeping flock, the one poor dog left out of Mackenzie’s three tearing after them, venting his impotent defiance in sharp yelps of the chase.
Joan. Mackenzie knew it was Joan before she came riding into the firelight, throwing herself from the horse before it stopped. Through the pain of his despair––above the rebellious resentment of the thing that fate had played upon him this bitter gray morning; above the anguish of his hopeless moment, the poignant striving of his tortured soul to meet the end with resolution and calm defiance worthy a man––he had expected Joan.
Why, based on what reason, he could not have told, then nor in the years that came afterward. But always the thought of Joan coming to him like the wings of light out of the east.
And so Joan had come, as he strained on his bound arms to draw his face a few inches farther from the fire, as he stifled in the smoke and heavy gases of the burning oil; Joan had come, and her hand was cool on his forehead, her voice was tender in his ear, and she was leading him into the blessed free air, the east widening in a bar of light like a waking eye.
Joan was panting, the knife that had cut his bonds still open in her hand. They stood face to face, a little space between them, her great eyes pouring their terrified sympathy into his soul. Neither spoke, a daze over them, a numbness on their tongues, the dull shock of death’s close passing bewildering and deep.
Mackenzie breathed deeply, his brain clearing out of its racing whirl, and became conscious of Joan’s hand grasping his. Behind them the ammunition in the burning wagon began to explode, and Joan, shuddering as with cold, covered her white face with her hands and sobbed aloud.
Mackenzie touched her shoulder.
“Joan! O Joan, Joan!” he said.
Joan, shivering, her shoulders lifted as if to fend against a winter blast, only cried the harder into her hands. He stood with hand touching her shoulder lightly, the quiver of her body shaking him to the heart. But no matter how inviting the opening, a man could not speak what rose in his heart to say, standing as he stood, a debtor in such measure. To say what he would have said to Joan, he must stand clear and towering in manliness, no taint of humiliation on his soul.
Mackenzie groaned in spirit, and his words were a groan, as he said again:
“Joan! O Joan, Joan!”
“I knew they’d come tonight––I couldn’t sleep.”
“Thank God for your wakefulness!” said he.
She was passing out of the reefs of terror, calming as a wind falls at sunset. Mackenzie pressed her arm, drawing her away a little.
“That ammunition––we’d better–––”
“Yes,” said Joan, and went with him a little farther down the slope.
Mackenzie put his hand to his face where the flames had licked it, and to the back of his head where his scorched hair broke crisply under his palm. Joan looked at him, the aging stamp of waking and worry in her face, exclaiming pityingly when she saw his hurts.
“It served me right; I stumbled into their hands like a blind kitten!” he said, not sparing himself of scorn.
“It’s a cattleman’s trick; many an older hand than you has gone that way,” she said.
“But if I’d have waked and watched like you, Joan, they wouldn’t have got me. I started to watch, but I didn’t keep it up like you. When I should have been awake, I was sleeping like a sluggard.”
“The cowards!” said Joan.
“I let one of them sneak up behind me, after they’d clubbed two of the dogs to death, and grab me and get my gun! Great God! I deserve to be burned!”
“Hush!” she chided, fearfully. “Hush!”
“One of them was Hector Hall––he came after his guns. If I’d been a man, the shadow of a man, I’d made him swallow them the day I took––the time he left them here.”
“Matt was with him,” said Joan. “You couldn’t do anything; no man could do anything, against Matt Hall.”
“They handled me like a baby,” said he, bitterly, “and I, and I, wanting to be a sheepman! No wonder they think I’m a soft and simple fool up here, that goes on the reputation of a lucky blow!”
“There’s a man on a horse,” said Joan. “He’s coming this way.”
The rider broke down the hillside as she spoke, riding near the wreckage of the burning wagon, where he halted a moment, the strong light of the fire on his face: Swan Carlson, hatless, his hair streaming, his great mustache pendant beside his stony mouth. He came on toward them at once. Joan laid her hand on her revolver.
“You got a fire here,” said Swan, stopping near them, leaning curiously toward them as if he peered at them through smoke.
“Yes,” Mackenzie returned.
“I seen it from over there,” said Swan. “I come over to see if you needed any help.”
“Thank you, not now. It’s gone; nothing can be done.”
“I smelt coal oil,” said Swan, throwing back his head, sniffing the air like a buck. “Who done it?”
“Some of your neighbors,” said Mackenzie.
“I knowed they would,” Swan nodded. “Them fellers don’t fight like me and you, they don’t stand up like a man. When I seen you take that feller by the leg that day and upset him off of his horse and grab his guns off of him, I knowed he’d burn you out.”
Joan, forgetting her fear and dislike of Swan Carlson in her interest of what he revealed, drew a little nearer to him.
“Were you around here that day, Swan?” she asked.
“Yes, I saw him upset that feller, little bird,” Swan said, leaning again from his saddle, his long neck stretched to peer into her face. “He’s a good man, but he ain’t as good a man as me.”
Swan was barefooted, just as he had leaped from his bunk in the sheep-wagon to ride to the fire. There was a wild, high pride in his cold, handsome face as he sat up in the saddle as if to show Joan his mighty bulk, and he stretched out his long arms like an eagle on its crag flexing its pinions in the morning sun.
“Did he––did Hector Hall sling a gun on Mr. Mackenzie that time?” she asked, pressing forward eagerly.
“Never mind, Joan––let that go,” said Mackenzie, putting his arm before her to stay her, speaking hastily, as if to warn her back from a danger.
“He didn’t have time to sling a gun
on him,” said Swan, great satisfaction in his voice as he recalled the scene. “Your man he’s like a cat when he jumps for a feller, but he ain’t got the muscle in his back like me.”
“There’s nobody in this country like you, Swan,” said Joan, pleased with him, friendly toward him, for his praise of the one he boldly called her man.
“No, I can roll ’em all,” Swan said, as gravely as if he would be hung on the testimony. “You ought to have me for your man; then you’d have somebody no feller on this range would burn out.”
“You’ve got a wife, Swan,” Joan said, with gentle reproof, but putting the proposal from her as if she considered it a jest.
“I’m tired of that one,” Swan confessed, frankly. Then to Mackenzie: “I’ll fight you for her.” He swung half way out of the saddle, as if to come to the ground and start the contest on the moment, hung there, looking Mackenzie in the face, the light of morning revealing the marks of his recent battle. “Not now, you’ve had a fight already,” said Swan, settling back into the saddle. “But when you brace up, then I’ll fight you for her. What?”
“Any time,” Mackenzie told him, speaking easily, as if humoring the whim of some irresponsible person.
With a sudden start of his horse Swan rode close to Joan, Mackenzie throwing himself between them, catching the bridle, hurling the animal back. Swan did not take notice of the interference, only leaned far over, stretching his long neck, his great mustaches like the tusks of an old walrus, and strained a long look into Joan’s face. Then he whirled his horse and galloped away, not turning a glance behind.
Joan watched him go, saying nothing for a little while. Then:
“I think he’s joking,” she said.
“I suppose he is,” Mackenzie agreed, although he had many doubts.
The Flockmaster of Poison Creek Page 10
