The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  He stood quietly and watched his boss ride away, straight for the great ridge along Coppermine Canyon, in a line with Jackson Canyon beyond. Shorty scratched his scalp: Corson could leave Jackson Canyon at its head and take his choice of the Gap trail or the Saddlehorn Pass wagon road. Both led to Bentley, but the road was better.

  He glanced at the green hides draining on the corral wall, hides which he was going to work on until they were fit for cutting the strands so cunningly worked into hackamores and lariats by Bludsoe; but he did not really see them. His thoughts were elsewhere. He swung on his heel and walked rapidly back to the bunkhouse, finding the lazy cook lazily draped on the long washbench. That worthy was idly watching the sheriff lope down the slope toward Willow Creek, and he now put his thoughts into words.

  "Shore is a damn' easy life, sheriffin'," he said, looking up at his squat friend. "Nothin' a-tall but paper work these days."

  "Yeah?" inquired Shorty, an eyebrow moving upward. "Tell me where I'll find me some gun rags, you —— —— fool!"

  CHAPTER XVI

  BY THE wagon road it was sixteen miles to the mouth of Jackson Canyon; by rounding the butte just west of the JC ranch houses, crossing Coppermine Canyon, climbing the high ridge behind it, and then following down an unnamed canyon on the far side, the distance was cut down by a third. In his impatience to cover ground and keep to straight lines, the sheriff did not stop to realize that he would save but little actual time; but at the present moment directness was a fetish. The agile bay was better at this sort of going than the roan, and broke through its rider's preoccupation to awaken admiration for its goat-like abilities. The road through Jackson Canyon was a fair one, and the bay swept up its almost gentle slope, crossed the Carson road, and then followed along the old trail to the Gap. For miles the peculiar beat of its hoofs had hammered at its rider, keening him to tension and expectancy. When the Gap finally lay behind, and the test of the soundness of his reasoning drew near, the Corson calmness was a reputation undeserved in this case, at least. He fairly squirmed in the saddle and grudged the slowness of his progress, which was not at all slow.

  The arroyo suddenly deepened as the trail pitched down, and the clamor of the hoofs was like hammer blows. The shoulder of the side draw lay just ahead, and then he had passed it. Now came the moment. Standing up in the stirrups, he eagerly looked up the draw and saw the upper edge of the door. It was open. He sighed with relief, dropped back into the saddle, and sent the willing bay up the little JM home trail. He was surprised to find himself trembling a little.

  She was standing in the doorway, watching him through every yard of his progress, fighting to retain her composure, to maintain her bitter decision; to balance that decision against the hurt it would give to him. Against her better judgment, against her expressed wish to the contrary, she had allowed him to do what she had forbidden; she had yielded this concession; but in the far graver matter she would be adamant, unshakable. She would not go to the man she loved as the daughter of a thief, as the sister of thieves.

  The bay whirled against the edge of the porch, and its rider leaped halfway across the little platform before his boots touched it. She started to raise a hand, but she was too late. After a long moment she freed herself, and gently pushed him away, to hold him off and look at him.

  "Dear boy, what are we going to do?" she asked him, her brown eyes moist.

  "I can tell you, Alice! I have told you, but you asked me not to tell you that again. Tell me, dear: is there anything in all th' world that matters so much to us as this? I can solve this puzzle, and all other puzzles that bother us, if you will only let me."

  "I know that you think so, boy. It is not you who are helpless, but myself. I should not have opened the door, but surely I am entitled to just a little happiness; surely I am entitled to see you once in a while, to speak with you. And even in that I am unfair to you. Right now there is no one on the ranch but you and me; but there is no telling when the others may return. And the time will surely come, unless I keep this door tight closed, when they will return; and then I may have reason to hate myself for the rest of my life. What can we do?"

  "Do you want me to tell you that, Alice?" he blurted eagerly.

  She shook her head swiftly, emphatically; and, oh, how it hurt her!

  "No, dear: you have told me. It's something for me to treasure, to hide away deep in my heart; something to give me courage through the long, dark nights, and the dull, bleak days. I'm weak, dear: day by day, hour after hour I've listened for the hoofbeats of your horse; hoping that you would do what I've asked you not to do."

  "I was a fool! A blind, blind fool! I didn't realize until this mornin' that it was th' bay's hoofs you listened for; th' half-shod bay! I had to do some hard ridin', an' its forefeet were gettin' tender. I had him shod all round. I rode home this way, a few days later, an' was disappointed because th' door didn't open. Then I was a bigger, blinder fool than ever. I turned th' bay out on th' range, shod as it was, an' rode th' roan. I passed here again. Then a third time. Th' door did not open. Then, this mornin' I realized what I had done, why th' door stayed shut. I rode in to th' ranch, swapped th' roan for th' bay, an' ripped th' shoes off his forefeet. An' I call myself a tracker, a trailer, a plainsman!" He stopped and caught his breath at the expression on her face, and moved forward hotly, eagerly; but she held him off.

  "I'm glad, dear," she said in a voice so low he barely heard her. "I'm glad! Boy, I feared that you— that you had forgotten me."

  She merited punishment for that statement, and she received it; but it was the kind of punishment that she could thrive on for the rest of her days. Again she freed herself and pushed him away.

  "What can we do, dear; what can we do?" she again asked, hopelessly, and this time the tears were plain to be seen. "It isn't fair to you, no matter what I do. I'm helpless. If I tell you to stay away, if I keep the door closed, it is not fair to you; if I let you come, it is even more unfair. It is even worse than that: it is very, very dangerous."

  "You love me, Alice?"

  "Must you ask me that? Don't you know?"

  "Yes! But I want to hear you say it!"

  "I should not say it. I should deny it if I was honest and fair with you; but I can't hurt you, boy. You know I love you."

  "Then come away, an' marry me!"

  "No. I can't. I can't marry, ever. I won't! Oh, please, dear! Please don't urge me, don't torture me. I can't stand much more. Please don't, if you love me."

  He was not as strongly intrenched in his stronghold of love as he well might have been: the day would come, and soon, he feared, when he would be obliged to shoot it out with this woman's father, this woman's brothers. But close as that day might be, inexorable as he knew it was, he would hold it off, up here, in this matter, as long as he could. He would not recognize it until he was squarely face to face with it; he would close his eyes and pretend that it was not so. But it was so, damnably so. It was so true and so close that he involuntarily stepped back to look quickly about the ranch.

  The bay was squarely in his way, and he spoke to it. The knowing animal moved forward a few steps and stopped, like a curtain drawn aside. Corson examined the corral and the blacksmith shack with searching eyes, one hand instinctively resting on the butt of a gun. In all this mental welter, this emotional chaos, he knew that he was acting like a fool; and he forthwith proved it by leading the bay off to one side, out of possible gunfire, and dropped the reins down before its eyes. The horse was well trained, and by this simple act became as firmly anchored as if picketed. Corson turned slowly and walked back to the porch, his face set and grim and determined.

  "What are you going to do, Bob?" she asked him, a note of fear and alarm in her voice.

  "I'm goin' to camp on th' edge of this porch, an' get acquainted with th' menfolk of th' family when they come back. I'm right tired of playin' stranger!"

  "Dear, do you want me to tell you never to come here again? Don't you want me to open the door�
� sometimes?"

  "What you mean?"

  "You can't stay here. You can't meet the men. You must ride on. Once in a while, when it is safe, I'll let you see me for a few minutes. But now you must ride on."

  The argument climbed swiftly, and Sheriff Corson soon learned that the less logic a woman employs in matters of this kind, the more certain she is to win out. It was so in this case. He could have demolished her logic with better; he could have if his own entrenchments were not wide open and damnably vulnerable ; why in hell hadn't Black Jack and his worthless cubs stayed honest, or at least limited their dishonesty to cheating at cards? But logic or no logic, he found that he had no weapons shaped to combat her appeals and her tears successfully. He was whipped, and he knew it. He must do nothing that would keep that door forever closed. He was whipped from the front, the rear, and the flanks.

  He reluctantly got to his feet, strode savagely to the bay, and led it back to the porch. There seemed to be but one thing for him to do: to do as he had been told. It was a new experience for him, and one which he did not relish: but he did it.

  And then he suddenly realized what a fool he had been. Playing the fool seemed to be his strong point these days. How could he remain to meet Black Jack and his sons, here on this ranch? That would mean shooting. What a fine and noble lover he would be to shoot down her father and brothers before her very eyes! The thought frightened him. It almost made him sick. He glanced quickly and apprehensively around the draw, now as eager to get away as he had been determined to stay. Great God! Was there no way out of this mess? He must never meet her menfolk here!

  "Yo're right, dear," he said, moving quickly toward her. "I couldn't bear to think of th' door always bein' closed against me. In th' past few days I've learned how that hurts." He held her close. "Listen for th' bay an' its bare forefeet. That's a mistake I'll not make again."

  "Good-bye, dear: you must go. I'll listen, boy, day and night. And even if the door stays shut, you'll know that I am listening, that I hear, and that I'm glad. Good-bye!"

  Before he could reply, he was looking at the rough, heavy planks, and he heard the latch drop into place. In a daze he went through certain orderly, instinctive motions without being fully conscious of them. And then the great arroyo was opening up before him, and not much later he could see the distant, wide valley of Crooked Creek. The mental turmoil gradually subsided, and one thought emerged for a moment, to stand out clear and challengingly: his oath of office had been taken seriously, with his eyes open and without mental reservations, and it left him no choice of action running counter to it. Then another thought popped into his mind: he had heard somebody say, or had read, that the course of true love did not run smoothly. The damned fool hadn't known what he was talking about: it didn't run at all—it was all blown to hell and gone.

  CHAPTER XVII

  BENTLEY drew near, and then Corson passed the first building. A few moments later he stopped before the marshal's office and heard his name called before he stepped into the sight of the man inside. He smiled grimly and again reminded himself that he had been a fool.

  "Knowed who you was, shore pop, this time," said the marshal. "See you swapped back to th' bay."

  "Heard it, you mean," retorted Corson with feeling as he dropped into a chair. "You also heard that I've got it shod for workin' cattle again."

  "Y-e-p. Came nigh to mentionin' that, th' other day," drawled the town officer. "But you had a long ride ahead of you, an' you was all sweat an' lather. 'Twasn't none of my business."

  "I shore wish you'd made it yore business!" snapped the sheriff.

  "Been shot at ag'in?" placidly asked the marshal.

  "No. But I wish you'd made it yore business, just th' same," reiterated the sheriff.

  "Well, sometimes that works out all right, but I've found out, generally an' in th' long run, that mindin' another man's business is a right shore way of gettin' into trouble. It's somethin' like bustin' outlaw broncs in these here fool Fourth of July exhibitions: a hell of a lot of sweat, trouble, an' bruises, without no sense to it. But I am goin' to drop my rope over th' head of one idear, this time, an' then hand it over to you to hold or run down, as you like: there ain't no hoss around here that sounds like that bay, shod like it is. Take a man holed up som'ers on th' lookout, an' he'd know who you was mebby before you come into sight. There ain't no use of givin' nobody any edge like that. How's th' new kind of round-up workin' out, over yore way?"

  "Slick as a greased rope; but somewhere on th' range it left an awful hole," answered the sheriff.

  "You got any idear where th' hole is?"

  "Yes," answered the sheriff. "It's th' only place left, an' that's impossible."

  "I woulda figgered it was impossible to take rabbits out of an empty hat, till I saw it done, right before my eyes."

  "Bein' th' only place left, I got to take a look at it; an' I know all about th' bay's hoofs. Neither of these things are what's puttin' saddle sores on me. If you want to marry a woman, you can't very well do it after shootin' her father an' brothers, can you?"

  "That would kinda com-plicate things," drawled the marshal, thoughtfully. Lights danced in his eyes. He pulled slowly at the dead pipe. "But it can be done."

  "Yeah?" said Corson derisively.

  "Y-e-p. Wimmin are strange creatures. If they're plumb in love with a man, there ain't nothin' you can say is impossible for 'em to do. As a class. If you hunt around, an' pick an' choose, you'll find one, anyhow, that'll do anythin' on God's gray earth, no matter what it is. There ain't no Hoyle on wimmin in love. There's one thing, among others, that you gotta look out for. That's th' maternal instinct. It's rabid an' it's blind. That's why I'm out in this part of th' country: I got plenty tired of bein' wrong all th' time. Son, you just can't figger 'em." He puffed again at the odorous pipe, and felt slowly for a match. "I just wouldn't turn in no badge yet awhile."

  "I'm not goin' to!" hotly replied the sheriff. "I won't do that till th' job's all done; an' th' job's shore goin' to be done if I can do it!"

  "That's th' kinda spirit that gets you places, even into matrimony," said the marshal, and again his eyes twinkled. "You'll find th' middle of that seat just as comfortable as th' edge."

  Corson hastily pushed back on the chair, and drummed his fingers on it, staring out through the open door,, his thoughts racing this way and that, and then eddying into little moments of stagnation. It was in one of these stagnant periods when he suddenly realized that he had eaten no noonday meal, and that he was hungry. He glanced at the shadow of the tie rail, looked at his watch, and learned to his surprise that it was past four o'clock. He had covered more than forty miles since leaving the JC wagon, and he had spent quite some time at the JM. During most of the time the bay had chosen its own gait, but the bay was an honest horse. The day had just sneaked past.

  "You see anybody from th' JM in town today?" he asked, rolling a cigarette.

  "No; an' I've made my rounds. There's quite a few of th' boys missin' from their reg'lar hangouts."

  "Which gave you that idear about th' bay's hoofbeats?" challenged the sheriff.

  "Y-e-p. Partly." The marshal refilled the pipe and looked up. "We've had a buryin' since you was here."

  "Yes? Who?"

  "Denver Joe," placidly answered the marshal while he languidly struck a match.

  "Denver Joe?" exclaimed the sheriff in surprise. "Why, he wasn't hurt that bad. Blood-poisonin'?"

  "Lead-poisonin'," grunted the marshal, his pipe finally going to suit him.

  "Yeah?"

  "Y-e-p."

  "How'd it happen? He was in jail!"

  "Y-e-p. He was. I don't know just how it did happen, or who done it, me bein' home in bed at th' time; but from th' signs I'd say that somebody called him up to th' bars an' shot his head near off. Close up, it was. Terrible mess to clean up."

  "By Gawd!" muttered Corson, swiftly leaning forward. "He was facin' twenty years in th' pen. That was a terrible thought for a man who's spent
all his life in th' open. They were afraid he'd talk!"

  "Y-e-p. I figger it that way. If he'd turned state's evidence, he'd a-got off easy, mebby. Anyhow, it wouldn't a-been no twenty years. They wasn't takin' no chances. That's why I spoke about th' bay's shoes. If they'd shoot down a pardner, like that, they wouldn't do much worryln' about a sheriff. They've showed that, anyhow. Son, you put th' shoes back on them forefeet. You can carry a pair of pincers in yore saddle roll, in case you want to rip 'em off ag'in."

  "Denver's passin' don't tell me anythin' new about that part of it," replied Corson. "They were workin' on me before they went to work on him."

  "I just about said as much," grunted the marshal. He glanced idly through the door. "Th' games are shrinkin'. Money seems to be gettin' scarce. Then, on th' heels of that, a few of our well-knowed citizens fog it outa town, an' don't come back, which makes my job easier for me. If it works out like it's done before, they'll come back in about ten days or two weeks, with money to burn. What you think?"

  "I think that I'm startin' out, tomorrow, to search that place I spoke about; an' th' bay'll be shod all around ag'in. Is there anybody in town you can trust?"

  "Two, three. What you want?"

  "A messenger."

  "Y-e-p. A halfbreed Injun. Everybody picks on him but me. It's got so he's a kinda one-man dog. I never saw no use of makin' unnecessary enemies. What you want him to do?"

  "Ride over to th' JC wagon an' give a message to my straw boss."

  "Where's th'wagon?"

  Corson sketched the place and explained the route to be followed.

  The marshal nodded understandingly, and then reached over and put a hand on his companion's knee.

  "That's th' way, son," he said slowly. "Don't you turn in no badge, not never while yo're sheriff. This county needs a man like you. No woman on earth can blame a man for shootin' a —— —— cattle thief to save his own life. I'll see that Injun, right after dark." He scratched his head. "You ain't told me what to say to him."