The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  "No, they wouldn't! That horse-faced —— —— got right fond of Association rules, then an' there! They slapped th' CA Circle Star onto every last one of 'em. What th' hell: with me there they didn't dare do anythin' else!"

  "Where'd you turn yore little bunch of strays loose?" asked the sheriff, suddenly, hoping for a misplay.

  "None of yore damn' business!" snapped Slade, his face crinkling with anger. He had already told them that.

  "Mebby yo're right, Slade," said the straw boss, calmly. "It mebby ain't none of his business, but shore as hell it's some of mine. Where'd you turn 'em loose?"

  "I've told you that," growled the rider. "Just this side of Brown Canyon."

  "You drove a herd of cows an' calves all th' way from our wagon, up th' Kiowa, through Brown Canyon, an' turned 'em loose there, in th' time you had?" asked Corson, crisply.

  "Said so, didn't I?" snapped Slade, his eyes glowing with anger.

  "You sayin' so don't mean a damn' thing to me!" retorted the sheriff.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah!" snapped Corson, and continued his inquisition. "An' then, after doin' all that, instead of ridin' on to yore own home ranch, less than five miles away, or of comin' on in to this wagon," persisted Corson, "you had time enough left to ride over to Packers Gap, ride down Lucas Arroyo, an' reach this wagon in time to eat dinner here today?"

  "You been eatin' loco!" snapped Slade, slowly getting to his feet. "I ain't been over Packers Gap in weeks!"

  Corson glanced swiftly at the straw boss and back to the angry puncher, watching him narrowly.

  "Jerry," said the sheriff, very slowly. "Slade was ridin' a bay geldin' when he went down through Lucas Arroyo. There are four, five places, in there, where its shoes show up right plain in th' clay. Have one of th' boys cut that hoss out of th' cavvy, an' we'll take it back there, an' match them prints. I know what I'm talkin' about when it comes to tracks."

  "What you mean?" shouted Slade, tense and set.

  "Don't you know?" asked the sheriff, ironically. He, too, was set and tense.

  "No, I don't know!" shouted Slade.

  "All right, then: I'll tell you," said the sheriff, grimly. "I mean that no man livin', ridin' th' horse you was ridin', can drive a bunch of cows an' calves th' sixty miles you said you drove 'em, over that kinda range, turn 'em loose where you said you did, go down th' Carson road, up over th' Gap, down Lucas Arroyo, an' then hit this wagon when you did. I mean that those cattle were not turned loose near Brown Canyon. Where's yore remuda?"

  "An' that's none of yore damn' business!" shouted Slade.

  "But it's a hell of a lot of my business," said the straw boss, suddenly taking part in the conversation. "What'd you do with yore hosses?"

  "Throwed 'em up onto our range!" snapped Slade. "I knowed that we was all through th' hard work, an' wouldn't need 'em out here."

  "You pull their shoes before you turned 'em loose?" asked the straw boss, coldly.

  "No!" snapped Slade. "I didn't have a tool on me, an' I didn't have th' time. I wanted to get to this wagon an' go to work."

  "You was so damn' anxious to get here an' go to work that instead of comin' here, you went foolin' down th' Kiowa, an' over th' Gap?" asked the straw boss.

  "I didn't do nothin' of th' kind!" retorted Slade. "I come on right straight here. You saw me ride in from th' ranch trail!"

  "How'd that geldin's tracks get into th' clay in Lucas Arroyo?" asked the straw boss.

  "They never got there a-tall!" yelled Slade.

  "I saw him ridin' down th' arroyo," said the sheriff, shortly.

  "You know —— —— well you didn't!" cried the harassed puncher. "You goin' to stand for talk like that, boss?"

  "Me?" inquired the straw boss, slowly. "Me stand for it? I got nothin' to do with it. Instead of talkin' to me, you better listen to what Corson has to say to you, because you might be able to get a job with him. Yo're all through here. Yo're fired."

  "Yo're all through here, an' on this whole range, Slade," said the sheriff. "Me an' you'll go off an' find that little bunch of cattle that you turned loose near Brown Canyon, an' we'll hunt up th' hosses so you can pull them shoes. First thing in th' mornin'."

  "I'll see you in hell first!" snapped the enraged puncher.

  "Well, only time will tell about that," replied the sheriff. "First thing in th' mornin'," he repeated.

  "With me an' some of th' boys," amended the straw boss, slowly.

  "Yeah?" sneered Slade, glaring at his erstwhile boss. "You just said I'm all through here. I told you where I throwed th' strays, an' th' hosses. If you want 'em, then go get 'em; but I'm through!" He was tense, hair-trigger; desperate and at bay. He had had no time to make up a better story, a story which would stand scrutiny, not dreaming that he would be called upon to explain his movements since leaving the JC wagon.

  He was thinking swiftly. Corson had followed him? Yes: the only question was, how closely? Where had he picked up his trail? He had turned the horses loose, but he had no fear on that score: they were all geldings, and had been born on the Baylor range. They would return to it. They might even have returned by now. As to the stray cut he had taken from the JC stray herd, they were ordinary cattle, and once let loose on the range could hardly be identified. If he had to, he could lead the straw boss to the western end of Brown Canyon, where cattle were thick, point out any bunch of them, and claim them to be the ones in question. He had had three days for the total of his riding. All right: he'd stay with his story. If he had driven the cattle over the shortest route, he could have cut nearly twenty miles from the sheriff's estimate of sixty.

  "You'll find that stray cut where I said I left 'em," he asserted. "They're there because I put 'em there! As to not havin' time to do all th' ridin' Corson says I did, even if I rode where he said, I had time enough."

  "You didn't if you drove them cattle up th' Kiowa an' through Brown Canyon," said the straw boss.

  "Huh! I didn't say how far up th' Kiowa I drove 'em, did I?" asked the puncher.

  "No," admitted the straw boss: "you didn't. But you can say so now."

  "I'm not sayin' anythin'!" snapped Slade. "An' you'll find th' remuda headin' for home."

  "Just where did you turn them hosses loose?" asked the sheriff thoughtfully.

  "Yo're so —— —— smart, I'm goin' to let you find that out for yoreself!"

  "Just where did you turn them hosses loose?" asked the straw boss.

  "You better ask somebody that's on yore payroll!" retorted Slade. "I would of told you that before, if you'd asked me right; but I ain't tellin' you now."

  It was an important point. It would either make or break his story, and the sheriff, knowing this, pressed it.

  "You'll take us there in th' mornin', Slade," he said, grimly. "I figger it'll tell us right close where you hit th' Kiowa."

  "It'll tell you nothin' because I won't be taken there!" snapped the puncher.

  "You'll take us there if we have to drag you at th' end of a rope!" snapped Corson, slowly getting to his feet. "We'll iron one of yore wrists to a wagon spoke tonight, so you'll be on hand in th' mornin'. You'll go if we have to drag you with a rope!" he repeated.

  Slade paled a little. He did not like to hear about ropes. How much did this so-and-so sheriff know? He knew about Packers Gap and the ride down Lucas Arroyo; and that meant that it was possible he knew that the Meadows boys rode with him. That was dangerous knowledge. The sheriff had the reputation, well earned, of being a first-class trailer. And then a new thought made him stiffen and threw him into a panic: if they searched for the remuda they would be searching ground that he did not dare let them search. He had to tell them the truth.

  "All right," he said, with a sneer. "You fellers are so damn' smart that I'm goin' to show my hand. I knowed I was all through with this outfit when I left th' JC wagon. I'd made up my mind, then, to throw up th' job. That bein' so, what a fool I would have been to be bothered with that stray cut an' th' remuda. I pushed 'em
both. As soon as I got well away from th' wagon, an' out of sight of it, I shoved up over Saddle Pass an' left 'em there. You'll find 'em all next round-up, unless they're worked over into another brand. I left 'em on th' JC range, an' not very far away from Bull Canyon. They'll be right handy for somebody to practise usin' a straight iron on."

  Corson's eyes narrowed at this indirect imputation.

  "We're not workin' over any brands into th' JC mark," he said; "an' if you've got any brains a-tall, you know that th' Baylor mark can't be worked over into anythin' else that would do anybody any good."

  "No!" snapped Slade. This man Corson knew too much about what had been going on out on the ranges. His mouth had to be closed. "No!" he repeated nastily; "but their next year's calves won't have any brand! What about that forty-two head that we found hid out in JC territory?"

  "Meanin' that we're on th' rustle?" coldly demanded the sheriff and owner of the JC ranch.

  "Reckon you know what I mean!" retorted Slade. "Somebody's throwin' a wide loop down here. An' who would gain anythin' by holin' up Baylor yearlin' mavericks on yore own range?"

  "Make it plain, Slade," said the sheriff. "You might as well, because you've gone too far now to be backin' out."

  "Plain?" jeered the puncher, slouching a little. "Ain't I done that?"

  "Fill yore hand!" said the sheriff clearly but softly.

  Slade's reply was motion, motion as swift as the striking head of a snake. The two heavy roars seemed to come together. Slade fell backward as Corson staggered, his gun falling from his hand. The sheriff tossed his own gun into his left hand, and recovered his balance, ready to shoot again if the need arose. Men were bending over the Baylor rider. One of them raised his head and looked slowly around.

  "Hole through his shoulder," he said, and explained the fall. "He must have been a mite off balance."

  "Put him in th' wagon an' take him down to Bentley," said the straw boss, coldly, as he strode toward the sheriff. "Get you bad, Corson?" he asked, a little anxiously.

  "No. Just grazed my elbow. My arm's numb. Be all right in a few minutes. Touched th' funny bone, I reckon. I didn't want to kill him, Jerry," he said, in a low voice. "I want him to get well, an' stay loose. He's worth a lot more to me, that way."

  "Where you figger he left that cut, an' them hosses?" asked the straw boss in tones so low that Corson barely heard them.

  "Where he said he did, th' last time. Every animal carries th' BLR mark, an' it can't be changed. They're all right. None of 'em are worth a lead two-bit piece to a rustler. As a matter of fact, they'd just braid a rope for his hangin', an' he'd know it."

  "Then why did you push him so hard?" asked the straw boss, curiously.

  "Two or three reasons, Jerry," slowly answered the sheriff. "One of 'em was that I figgered that you an' Baylor would be a whole lot better off if Slade got through workin' for you. Th' other reasons are th' sheriff's business."

  "Yo're dead shore he was over Packers Gap way?" persisted the straw boss. "Yo're right shore of them prints?"

  Corson watched the work horses being hitched to the wagon. Slade already was inside the vehicle.

  "Yes; but that ain't all, Jerry. I saw him, myself; an' I saw some other things. Yo're dead shore that you cleaned that ridge, an' cleaned it good?"

  "Yeah; nothin' was overlooked, Corson. We'd been a little lazy, up there, other round-ups; but this year I made up my mind that there wouldn't be a square yard of that whole slope that was overlooked. An', by G—, there wasn't!"

  "All right: that's good," replied the sheriff. "That's a right big section for one man to comb, an' I'll have enough country to ride over without addin' that stretch to it."

  The JC representative rode up and stopped.

  "I'm goin' in with th' wagon, Bob, so that —— —— won't get away from us after he's doctored up."

  Corson turned a surprised face to the rider.

  "He ain't under arrest. Don't start workin' up no lather. Strip yore saddle off, an' take things easy."

  "Ain't you figgerin' on makin' him take you to where he left them cattle an' turned loose his string?" asked the puncher in surprise.

  "Don't need to do that now," answered the sheriff, and then he laughed as he saw his puncher's face fall. "There's an old sayin' about skinnin' cats. Strip off yore saddle."

  CHAPTER IX

  WHEN one closes one's eyes and thinks of Western streams, the mental picture will most often show one type—steep, barren banks rising perpendicularly from ten to fifty feet, broken here and there by dry gullies, and twisting like a snake's course. The bottoms, in the summer months, are usually dry or, at best, a mere trickle of water running over and under a bed of sand and gravel from ten to twenty times the width of the stream.

  If they are dry it is possible in many cases to dig down into the sand, wait for a few minutes, and then scoop up a few handfuls of roiled and unpleasant water. The surrounding country, usually being innocent of trees and other retainers of water, and being long, rolling slopes with nothing to check and hold a surface flow, turns these arid gashes into swift death traps when heavy rains fall higher up on the watersheds. The result very often is a wall of water roaring down these open pipes without warning. A cloudburst miles away will here work its greatest havoc. Many travelers have been overwhelmed, horses, wagons, and all, by a seething flood which lasted perhaps ten minutes. An hour later and the stream would be as dry as usual. All Western streams are not this kind; but because of the striking characteristics of this one type, it is the picture which most often will come to mind.

  Crooked Creek was such a stream, and it was characteristic of nine-tenths of the streams in this section of the country. A man might ride along on its bottom for forty miles and never once show his head above the perpendicular banks. The Bentley trail followed along its east bank at varying distances from it and never once crossed it. This was in strong contrast to the trail along the Kiowa, which crossed the latter stream twenty-six times in forty-odd miles, and had been hated for this reason by every man who had ever taken a wagon along it. Sandy river bottoms are often treacherous. The Kiowa was the principal exception to the type of stream just described.

  Corson left the Baylor wagon right after breakfast the following morning and rode back the way he had come until the shoulder of a ridge put him out of sight of the camp and the men out riding on circle. He had been shot at the day before, and he had not forgotten the incident. He was returning to the general vicinity of that unpleasant episode, but he was not going back by way of the trail. He was going to return by following along over the sunken bed of the creek, not only for the purpose of keeping out of sight, but also to pick up more quickly and easily the tracks of the distant marksmen.

  Crooked Creek lay about a third of a mile west of the old adobe trading post, and the shots must have come from points west of that. If the shooters had belonged to the country east of the creek, which he strongly suspected to be the case, then they must have crossed the creek at some place or other in order to get home. Nothing that walked on hoofs could cross that ribbon of sand and gravel without leaving some sign of its passing. And when he came to those signs he believed that they would lead him to or in the direction of the JM ranch, if he could follow them that far on the hard range soil.

  The reasons for his belief have already been given, if they can be called reasons. In Western parlance "he had a feeling" that Black Jack Meadows and his boys had played the parts of riflemen on that occasion. It was just his luck, he bitterly reflected, to be opposed to the menfolk of her family; but there was no thought in his mind of abandoning the trail or of dodging the issues as they arose. A cattle thief was a cattle thief, and a sniper was a sniper, no matter whose father or brothers they might be.

  He came to the precipitous bank of the creek and rode along it, looking for a way down. He could have reached the bottom by spectacular riding, but his first thought, in matters of this kind, was for the welfare of his horse. The way down was soon provid
ed by a gully, and he gained the bottom easily, and instinctively thought of the trap he was in if heavy rain should fall on the upper end of the watershed. He thought of it, and put it out of his mind with the same ease with which a dweller of California might shelve thoughts of earthquakes. The odds were so great against a flood at any particular time that it became almost absurd.

  He also thought of the trap he was in if one or all of the long-range riflemen of the day before should be lying in wait on the top of the bank in anticipation of this move on his part; but this, also, was a necessary risk; to ride along the plain would be as risky, and would advertise his presence and purpose as far as a man could see. He had to make a choice of going on, or of giving up the attempt; and he had already made it.

  It was noon by the sun when he took advantage of another gully and rode up out of the stream bed. He had seen no tracks, and he had long since passed the vicinity of the adobe ruins, and Bentley, as well. He pushed eastward in the direction of the Old California Trail and reached it after a six-mile ride, which told him that he had been right in believing himself to have passed the town. Two hours later he rode into Bentley from the north and swung down in front of the so-called hotel. He had long since thrown away the stale food provided by the Bar W cook, and he was hungry, despite the fact that range riders are more or less accustomed to go without a noon meal. The hotel dining room was closed, but he found a restaurant run by a Mexican.

  As he slowly chewed his food he was debating what to do next. It was too late in the day to ride on to the JC or the Bar W. He would drop in for a moment at the marshal's office and then return to the Baylor wagon and spend the night there. He would much rather roll up in his blankets out in the open than to sleep in a comfortable bed under a roof.

  Apparently the marshal had not moved since the day before, for his legs were crossed on the chair, with the same careful allowance made for spur clearance. Just why the marshal should wear spurs in town, when he seldom did any riding, was nobody's business but his own, but the sheriff could not help asking himself the question. The answer was somewhat obvious: he might be too lazy to remove them.