The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  But the answer automatically asked another question: why should a number of small bunches of cattle be moving in concert and so steadily? The only answer which suited this question made his face go hard. Right here, then, in the very heart of the open range, surrounded by ranches, roads, trails, and grazing grounds, was that impossible herd of cattle, of which he had been so certain. All the separate puzzle pieces shifted easily and fitted into this completed pattern. But how had it been managed?

  The Baylor straw boss had combed every rod of this ridge. Because of the escarpments on the Kiowa side, the Bar W could not sweep that part of the watershed; and Jerry had met that line and covered that portion with his own riders. And yet he, and all of them, had overlooked a stolen herd!

  Jerry had done nothing of the sort. If the herd had been here he would have found it. Where was it?

  What had happened? Corson let his mind run back.

  The Baylor outfit had taken the ridge in three parallel lines, throwing the worked cattle behind them on the downhill side. What had that to do with it? Throwing the cattle behind them on the downhill side: huh. There seemed to be no answer there.

  They had worked the ridge in three parallel sweeps. Anyone who knew this could prophesy their movements for days ahead. And anyone could know it by just watching how they went about the work. What would such knowledge profit him? Three parallel sweeps, and throwing the worked cattle—hah! One and one make two, just as well as two and two make four. The answer popped into his mind automatically. A human is overly disposed to search for the difficult, overlooking the easy and almost obvious. He had been guilty of this fault himself.

  All anyone had to do was to watch his chance, shift the stolen stuff from above, throw it below the roundup crew's next sweep, and scatter it well. If the cattle had been up here, there would have been plenty of time and opportunity for that. Alter several days the Baylor crew swept back again, along the middle benches. They would ignore scattered cattle well below them. Then the crew turned and went back again, this time along the top of the ridge, overflowing it to the escarpment at the Bar W's line.

  As soon as the outfit was a few days farther along, the scattered cattle could be rounded up, bunched, and driven up to this little basin, where they would be safe from discovery on ground that had just been worked over; and from here the thieves could derisively watch the round-up operations going on down on the flatter range below them. It would be like playing tag with people who did not know they were in a game, or that there was any game at all; so absurdly simple that the more a man thought over the puzzle, in the abstract, the less likely he would be to hit upon it. All this thinking had taken but a flash of time.

  Corson moved cautiously forward. The job was at hand even sooner than he had expected. He dropped to the ground and crawled toward a mass of rocks and boulders from where he could get a better view of the basin. Exact knowledge was what he wanted now.

  The whole scene lay before him, and he could trace the arroyo far down the slope. He thought he knew where it cut into the main valley along the creek. He had noticed the canyon in his riding, noticed it idly, giving it no measure of its real importance.

  The cattle numbered about three hundred. Six men were at work, driving in small bunches toward the main herd. To be branded, they would have to be thrown and tied. They were just lighting the fire for the irons. The work would go on slowly, since this was open-range branding of grown animals. They had rounded up and held the heavier beef, for most of it looked to be two and three years old. There were no corrals or chutes to help the work along. They could not risk the discovery of such material and permanent affairs.

  Corson watched one of the riders who came closer to him than any of the others, and stiffened from surprise. It looked like Franchère, one of his own punchers. Yes: it was Franchère. The last time he had seen that puncher had been in the Cheyenne, back in Willow Springs. Apparently Franchère had cut his string that day. Franchère worked his bunch back toward the herd. Black Jack Meadows left the gather and rode toward the fire, where Matt was busy with it. Matt stood up and moved toward his horse, and then came unexpected action.

  A three-year-old steer broke from the herd, dodged the nearest rider, and started on a lumbering run up the hill toward the sheriff. Running is not a natural gait with cattle, for they never run if they can walk; but when a range steer wants to get somewhere quickly, he can cover ground with surprising celerity; and before Corson really felt the threat engendered by the animal's escape, it was heading directly toward his hiding place, and halfway up the slope. The steer itself did not matter; but something else did.

  Black Jack, being the rider nearest the animal as it passed the fire, whirled in pursuit; and Matt, vaulting into the saddle, joined in the chase. Black Jack was now on its heels, swinging his rope, but reluctant to use it, hoping that he could cut around in front and head the steer off. Behind him rode his son, at a more sedate pace, working off to his left to keep the fleeing animal from breaking past in that direction.

  The steer plunged on, straight for the mass of boulders sheltering Corson, and now Black Jack was even with it, forcing it a little out of its course; but the sheriff could see that his hiding place soon would be a hiding place no longer. To make matters worse, Matt was now crossing over to take advantage of the steer's change of course, and riding along the chord of the arc. They both were due to pass his hiding place within a score of paces. Well, why not? He was armed only with Colts, while every man there had a rifle slung to his saddle. He dared not face them all at the ranges they could and would choose. Here was a choice of the lesser of two evils, a chance to engage two of them at his own range, and perhaps reduce the odds by a third. After all, that was what he had come for, that was what his job meant in a showdown; and if this wasn't a showdown, he never had known one. Why wait until he was discovered, with the odds two to one? Surprise would be a valuable ally. The two men were passing him at less than twenty paces, when he suddenly stood up, hands resting on belts, and called out to them.

  "Hey!"

  Black Jack's answering action was reflexive. He pulled the horse up short as he turned in the saddle, and then his hand dropped swiftly to walnut. Matt replied to the hail by swinging his mount around and also reaching toward his holster.

  The shots smashed out across the basin were played with by the towering upper ridge and sent crashing out over the range, multiplied until they sounded like a fusillade. Only three were fired. One of them spanged from a boulder just above Corson's head and screamed into silence. Matt was a fancy, gun-thumbing, gun-rolling shot, excelling in exhibitions; but he was cleanly killed by a man who thought only of plain, straight shooting. Black Jack's horse, suddenly freed of a hundred and thirty pounds, dashed away at better speed, Matt's piebald crowding it. Corson dropped down again and prepared to face a deadly rifle fire. He was in a tight corner, but he had been in tight corners many times before.

  The riders down with the herd had whirled at the sound of the first shot, and now were gathered together, the cattle behind them and forgotten. Then Franchère yelled a warning, and the group spread out swiftly, each man racing for cover. The herd heaved, broke, and set off on a run down the arroyo, gathering speed as panic and momentum got hold of it. The thunder of its hoofs shook the plain.

  Maurice Meadows crept from rock to rock, boulder to boulder, his eyes on the pile of rocks, his rifle at the ready. Franchère was a hundred yards to his left. They had hurriedly decided upon a plan of action, and now were putting it to the test.

  Over on the other side, far to their right, Red and Slim were creeping through their own cover, intent upon gaining the high ground behind the rock pile. The four rustlers had worked it out pretty well, each pair for itself: there was but one man behind those rocks, one man who had seen too much. Perhaps he was the only man who knew what was going on up here. His identity was easily guessed. The long-deferred job that they had set for themselves was here, right at hand. This time there would be
no bungling. Maurice glanced out over the basin and swore angrily as his gaze settled on the quiet figures huddled on the earth. He would soon pay up for that.

  Franchère, being farthest from the rock pile, pressed on more rapidly. He had to gain his position before the sheriff could figure out a way to crawl back and shift his hiding place; not knowing that the sheriff already had done that to the distance of a dozen yards. Franchère peered cautiously at the rock pile and then estimated his next advance. It was a five-yard dash across open ground to the next tumbled patch of rocks. He turned his head and called out in a voice he hoped would only carry to his companion.

  "I've got to make a dash. Cover me, Maurice."

  "Go ahead!" came the answer, and Maurice fired at a gray hat which showed over the top of a distant rock.

  Franchère arose with his feet gathered under him and leaped forward. From the innocent east side of the rock pile there came a burst of powder smoke, and the runner finished his dash in a headlong dive, killed instantly by a lucky snap shot over a range of forty yards. It was a lucky shot, but not for Franchère. Again Maurice threw down on the hat, but held his fire. Tricked! Fooled by a moth-eaten trick as old as hats themselves!

  He squirmed with rage and chagrin, desperately resolved to get this sneaking dog of the law. He did not believe that the sheriff's shot had made a hit. He raised his voice.

  "Work around more to yore left, Franchère! We can work th' crossfire then, an' drive th' —— —— out, or kill him."

  He himself was working slowly but steadily in the other direction to make the crossfire even more effective. There was no reply to his words.

  "Franchère!" he called, in a louder voice. "Franchère!"

  "Franchère's in hell, waitin' for you," said the sheriff's voice. "How you like this little party? Hey! Yo're movin' th' wrong way! I'm over here!"

  "He's waitin' for you!" shouted Maurice, reversing his direction and crawling swiftly back the way he had come. He'd fool the badge-toting skunk! He'd work quietly over to where Franchère had started his dash, and then lie still. And as he planned it, he brushed against a sagebush; and ten minutes later, as he settled down in his new cover, he brushed against another. The jiggling twigs flashed their messages.

  Nueces jogged up the draw, saw his friend's horse, and drew rein. Corson's bootprints led straight to the bottom of the lower escarpment.

  "Huh! Got restless," chuckled the horse-faced foreman. He dug out tobacco and papers and leisurely rolled himself a cigarette.

  Around the great shoulder of the mesa, Jerry and his riders had searched the basin in vain. The little bunch of cattle had not returned to their favorite grazing ground on the Broken Jug. He looked up at a place where the escarpment had crumbled, and growled.

  "They shore would never climb up there, with good grass down here. They must have worked south, to our open range."

  "Yeah," said a companion. "They've been all choused up by th' round-up, an' scattered to hell an'—"

  The shots sounded plainly above their heads, and each man instinctively ducked. Who was shooting, up there? What was there up there to shoot? Corson's forebodings came to Jerry's mind, and he acted on impulse. He slipped from the saddle, his rifle in his hand, and his companions followed on his heels toward the break in the great wall.

  Nueces had the flaring match halfway to the cigarette when the shots made him freeze. In his case there was no doubt at all. He knew that his friend was up there, and shots meant shots, which was enough. Before the match had struck the earth his horse was running at top speed toward the end of the draw. Nueces climbed with the speed, but not the grace, of a frightened lizard; but for reasons known only to himself, he did not choose the place selected by the sheriff.

  Corson's thoughts were not on Maurice, now in Franchère's old cover. There was a sterner threat than that. Somewhere up on the slope of the main ridge, two men were working persistently among the rocks and along the ledges, striving to get on the higher ground behind him. Their shooting would be done at ranges hopeless for accuracy with a Colt. He wriggled around on Maurice's side, keeping low and under cover of the rocks. It would be a joke on Maurice to seek safety almost under the muzzle of his gun. The thought was intriguing, and he tried to develop it. Perhaps it could be done. Perhaps he could get away from the prominent rock pile and lie low. And in doing this he would shift Maurice's range from rifle distance to that of Colt, and perhaps give that person the surprise of his life. And if the two men on the hill stalked the rock pile, they might give him a shot at a closer range. He was very careful to make no noise or to touch any growing thing.

  There came a voice from the upper slope, nearly behind the pile of rocks, and perhaps four hundred yards away.

  "Where is he?"

  There was no answer. Franchère could not speak, and Maurice did not care to. The damn' fools! Let them do their own stalking! Here he was, all snug and ready for a big surprise, and they wanted him to answer them!

  "Where is he?" came the query again, this time a little louder. Slim waited a moment for the answer. It did not come, and he grinned at his companion.

  "Layin' chicky," he grunted.

  "Yeah," grunted Red. "Don't blame 'em. That coyote has got a buffalo Sharps. We want to watch ourselves. He can shoot like th' hammers of hell."

  "Then he ain't used it," countered Slim. "Them was pistol shots. I know th' sound of a Sharps buffalo gun."

  "That's right," admitted Red, without any particular enthusiasm. "He ain't, yet; but he will."

  "Not on me," grunted Slim, crouching a little lower.

  "He ain't got a chance to get outa this," commented Red with a deal of pleasure. "With them two layin' down there, we got him in a double crossfire; but we don't want to forget that Sharps."

  "Lookit that damn' herd!" said Slim, swearing whole-heartedly. "Run to hell an' gone. We'll have to round 'em up all over ag'in."

  "Hell with th' herd," retorted Red, who was thinking in terms of Sharps buffalo guns.

  Maurice was becoming suspicious. He reacted to danger as keenly as a hound to scent. Something was wrong. If Red and Slim, now up on the hill, couldn't see the sheriff, and if he couldn't see him, then that doubly damned arm of the law had either turned into a tumblebug or had moved away from the rock pile: and Maurice did not believe in such miraculous metamorphoses as sheriffs turning into any kind of bugs. He inched backward, bearing to his left and away from the now suspicious rock pile. He made good progress, but he was still careless about bumping into weed stems and little waving things like that. He did not know any better, not being range-raised. Therefore it was with utter and panicky surprise that he heard three words in a strange but hearty voice behind him.

  "Well, well, well!" said Nueces, grinning over the top of a rock.

  Maurice's mouth popped open as his rifle slewed around, but it closed again almost instantly. It closed upon the passage of a hunk of lead that never touched a tooth.

  "Chew on that" growled the horse-faced foreman, and slipped back again into the shelter of the rocks, ready to hunt himself a brand-new job.

  Red and Slim suddenly realized that they were all alone in a cold, cold world. Judging from the last shot, that coyote down below could spread himself over more territory than a scared jackrabbit. They almost expected to hear his cold voice behind them. Their loneliness was further emphasized when they saw three punchers riding around the distant herd, heading up the arroyo as fast as they could travel. The herd, having run itself out, was now getting back some of its breath. The feeling was still further emphasized when they heard voices above and behind them, and the significant sound of rolling pebbles clicking down the slopes. It was plain enough now: they were surrounded. While the damned sheriff had kept their thoughts on the doubly damned pile of rocks, his triply damned men had been moving according to plan.

  "I'm through," said Slim, and he raised his voice. "Don't shoot!"

  "Why not?" came the ironical reply, followed by a short laugh.
r />   "My hands are up, an' empty!" shouted Slim, earnestly.

  "Keep 'em that way," called out another voice. It sounded like that of the foreman of the BLR.

  "Watch his pardner!" came a bellow from below, where the still invisible sheriff seemed to be keeping an eye on things.

  "Watch yore gran'mother!" yelled Red, indignantly. "My hands are up, too! Think I'm a damn' fool!"

  "Then step out where we can see you," ordered the Baylor foreman, not quite certain what it was all about; but there seemed to be no harm in keeping a man covered.

  Slim and Red, weaponless now, obeyed, their hands reaching toward the heavens.

  Jerry slid down the last ledge, gun in hand, and stopped before the two men. One by one his companions followed and joined him. Nueces popped into sight not far away, and the sheriff slowly gained his feet. The three riders were now close at hand and looked to be disappointed.

  The prisoners and their escort worked down the slope and met the sheriff on the lower bench. Shorty, with Bludsoe and Burns, drew rein alongside.

  "What's it all about?" asked Jerry, thirsting for details. He was soon told.

  "Rope these boys an' take 'em in to Bentley," ordered Corson, turning to the three riders. "Nueces an' I have got to go round th' other way: our horses are down below, on th' Kiowa side."

  He turned to the BLR foreman.

  "Can you get yore hosses up here? Yeah? Then mebby you'd better ride herd on those cattle."

  "All right," said Jerry. "We'll hold 'em an' send a man back to th' ranch for help. Accordin' to my way of thinkin', that damn' Association ain't got no claim to this bunch. They shore won't have, if they don't hear about 'em. No tellin' how many we've lost. These cattle were plumb stole from all of us."

  "Suits me," growled the sheriff, revising his definition of mavericks. "I'll get word to th' other outfits, an' they can send over their reps. We'll divide 'em up th' best we can, an' throw a few cold hands for what's left." He looked at the figures on the earth and let his gaze slowly drift over the rocky cover where two more lay. "I'll send out for them, too," he said. Suddenly he turned to Nueces.