The Free Range

by Francis William Sullivan

  CHAPTER XVII

  A BATTLE IN THE DARK

  "Everything ready?"

  Bud Larkin sat his horse beside Hard-winter Sims and looked back over thewhite mass that grew dimmer and dimmer in the dark.

  "Yes." Sims lounged wearily against the horse's shoulder. It had been ahard day.

  "Get 'em on the move, then."

  Sims, without changing his position, called out to the herders. These inturn spoke to the dogs, and the dogs began to nip the heels of the leadersheep, who resented the familiarity with loud blatting and lowering ofheads. But they knew the futility of resisting these nagging guardians andstarted to forge ahead. Other dogs got the middlers in motion, and stillothers attended to the tailers, so that in five minutes from the timeLarkin gave the word the whole immense flock was crawling slowly over thedry plain.

  Eight thousand of them there were; eight thousand semi-imbecile creatures,unacquainted with the obstacles they must encounter or the dangers theymust face before they could be brought to safety or lost in the attempt.And to guard them there were nearly seventy men whose fear lay not in theterrors to be met, but in the sheep themselves: for there is no suchobstacle to a sheep's well-being as the sheep himself.

  The last flock had arrived the night before, well-fed and watered. Thepreceding six thousand were in good condition from days and weeks ofcomfortable grazing in the hills; all were in good shape to travel.

  In moving them at this time Larkin had seized the psychological moment.

  The disgruntled cattle-owners, under a guard of ten men, were restingquietly far from anything resembling excitement in one of the untrackedplaces among the mesas and scoria buttes. Bud had ascertained, by spies ofhis own that scoured the country, that the great posse of rescuingcowpunchers had gone safely off on a wild-goose chase, misled by one ofthe sheepmen who was unknown in the country.

  For the present, therefore, the range was clear, and Bud reckoned on itsremaining so until the cattlemen had been rescued from their durance vile.In such a time the sheep-danger shrank into insignificance, and Larkincounted on having his animals across the Bar T range before the finding ofthe cattlemen, after which, of course, the men would be turned loose withmuch commiseration and apology.

  Of the seventy men guarding and driving the sheep not more than thirtywere regular herders. Forty were mounted and belonged to Jimmie Welsh'sfighting corps, which was composed mostly of owners and superintendentsfrom the north country.

  Your usual Western shepherd is not a fighting man and cases have occurredin the bitter range wars where a herder has been shot down in cold bloodunable to make a defense because of the grass growing out of his rifle.

  Years alone in the brooding silence of the Sierra slopes or the obscurevalleys of the northern Rockies take the virulence out of a man and makehim placid and at one with nature. Into his soul there sinks something ofthe grandeur of cloud-hooded peaks, the majesty of limitless horizons andthe colors of sky-blue water and greensward. With him strife is an unknownthing except for the strife of wits with another herder who would attemptto share a succulent mountain meadow.

  Common report has it, and such writers as Emerson Hough put it in theirbooks, that a sheep-herder can scarcely follow his calling for seven yearswithout going mad. On the other hand, those who have lived for years amongthe sheep declare that they have never seen a sheep-herder even mentallyunbalanced.

  Probably both are right, as is usual to a degree in all discussion; butthe fact remained that, sane or insane, the herder was not a fightingman--something had gone out of him. Therefore in bringing men other thanherders south with him, Jimmie Welsh had shown his cleverness. To fightriders he had brought riders, and these men now helped to direct the riverof animals that flowed along over the dry plain.

  There were two cook outfits to feed the men, one of which contained theincomparable Ah Sin, who had amply revenged himself on the herders for hiswarm reception at the camp.

  That first night they marched ten miles, and, as before, found thewater-holes polluted by the cattle which take delight in standing in themud, and thus in a dry country work their own destruction by filling thesprings.

  The next day the sheep cropped fairly well, although the sun was terrificand no more water was discovered. Nightfall found them becoming nervousand uneasy. They milled a long while before they bedded, and more of themthan usual stood up to watch.

  Not a rider had been seen all day. Through the baking glare there hadmoved a cloud of suffocating dust, and under it the thirsting, snorting,blethering sheep, with the dogs on the edges and the men farther out atregular intervals along the line.

  After supper some of the men slept, for it was not planned to start thesheep until midnight, as they needed the rest, being footsore with longtraveling. It was calculated also that they would reach the ford at theBig Horn by shortly before dawn.

  But the sheep would have none of it, and moved and milled uneasily until,in order to save the lambs that were being crushed in the narrowingcircle, Sims gave the order to resume the march.

  The night "walk" of sheep is a strange thing. First, perhaps, rides ashepherd, erect and careless in his saddle, the red light glowing from thetip of his cigarette; and beside his horse a collie-dog, nosing atobjects, but always with ears for the sheep and the voice of his master.

  Then come the sheep themselves, with cracking ankle-joints, clatteringfeet, muffled blethering, a cloud of dust, and the inevitable sheepsmell. Perhaps there is a moon, and then the herders must watch for racingcloud-shadows that cause stampedes.

  Such was the picture of the Larkin sheep that night, only there was nomoon. They started at ten, and Sims sent Miguel forward to walk beforethem, so they would not exhaust themselves with too fast traveling. On themove the sheep seemed more contented.

  It was perhaps one o'clock in the morning that Larkin, in company with hischief herder, spurred out far in front of the advancing flock toreconnoiter. The sheep would be within approaching distance of the ford ina couple of hours, and Bud wished everything to be clear for them.

  Nearing the Big Horn, Sims suddenly drew up his horse, motioning Bud tosilence. Listening intently, they heard the voice of a man singing an oldfamiliar plains song. The two looked at each other in amazement, for thiswas one of the "hymns" the cowboys use to still their cattle at night, thetime of the most dreaded stampedes. It was the universal theory of the cowcountry that cattle, particularly on a "drive," should not be long out ofhearing of a human voice.

  So the night-watchers, as they rode slowly about the herd, sang to thecattle, although some of the ditties rendered were strong enough tostampede a herd of kedge-anchors.

  "Cows here?" said Sims. "What does this mean, boss?"

  "It means that we're beaten to the ford and will have to hold the sheepback."

  "Yes, but who's driving now? This is round-up and branding season."

  "I don't know, but between you and me, Sims, I'll bet a lamb to a calfthat the rustlers are running their big pickings north. There are somemighty good heads at the top of that crowd, and they have taken advantageof the deserted range, just as we have, to drive their critters."

  "By George! You've hit it, boss!" cried Sims, slapping his thigh. "Now,what do yuh say to do?"

  For a long minute of silence Bud Larkin thought. Then he said:

  "Here's my chance to get those rustlers and at the same time benefitmyself. There can't be more than a dozen or fifteen of them at theoutside. Ride back to the camp, Simmy, and get twenty men, the bestgun-rollers in the outfit. Tell anybody that's afraid of his hide to stayaway, for the rustlers are top-notch gun-fighters."

  "But what'll yuh do with a thousand cattle on yore hands?" demandedHard-winter in amazement.

  "I'll tell you that if we get 'em," was Bud's reply. "As I see it, wecan't do without them."

  The plan of campaign was somewhat indefinite. The last intention in theworld was to frighten away the cattle by a grand charge and a salvo ofyoung artillery. With great cauti
on the sheepmen approached near enough todiscern the white cover of the cook-wagon, when it was seen that the wholeherd was slowly moving toward the ford, the singing rustlers circlingaround it.

  Bud told off a dozen of his riders and instructed each to pick a man andto ride as near in to him as possible without being seen. Then, at thesignal of a coyote's howl twice given, to close in and get the drop on therustlers, after which the remainder of the body would come along and takethe direction of things.

  Sims was put in charge of this maneuver, and was at liberty to give thesignal whenever he thought circumstances justified it. It was a strangeprocession that marched toward the ford of the Big Horn--first fifteenhundred head of calves and young steers, guarded by unsuspectingrustlers; then the knot of sheepmen and the dozen riders closing in ontheir quarry, and, last of all three miles back, eight thousand sheepclattering through the dust.

  For what seemed almost half an hour there was silence. Then suddenly camethe far-off, long-drawn howl of a coyote, immediately followed by another.Bud set spurs into his horse, revolver in hand, the remaining eight men athis heels, and made directly for the cook-wagon, where he knew at leastone or two of the outfit might be sleeping.

  The drumming of the horse's hoofs could now be plainly heard from allsides, and a moment later there was a stab of light in the dark and thefirst shot rang out.

  After that there were many shots, for the rustlers, keyed up to greatalertness by the hazardness of their calling, had opened fire withoutwaiting for question or answer.

  Bud, as he dashed up to the cook-wagon, saw two men crawl out and standfor a minute looking. Then, as their hands moved to their hip-pockets likeone, he opened fire. At almost the same instant the flames leaped fromtheir guns, and Bud's hat was knocked awry by a bullet that went cleanthrough it.

  Meantime the man who had been riding beside him gave a grunt and fell fromhis saddle. One of the rustlers doubled up where he stood.

  Larkin, to avoid crashing full into the cook-wagon, swerved his horseaside, as did the others. The horse of the man who had been shot stoodstill for a moment, and in that moment the rustler who remained standinggave one leap and had bestridden him.

  Bud saw the maneuver just in time to wheel his horse on a spot as big as adollar and take after the man in the darkness, yelling back, "Get theothers!" as he rode.

  It was now a matter between the pursuer and the pursued. Pounding awayinto the darkness, heedless of gopher-holes, sunken spots, and otherdangers, the two sped. Occasionally the man ahead would turn in his saddleand blaze away at his pursuer, and Bud wondered that none of these hastilyfired bullets came near their mark. For his part he saved his fire. It wasnot his idea to shoot the rustlers, but rather to capture them alive,since the unwritten law of that lawless land decreed that shooting was toomerciful a death for horse- or cattle-thieves.

  A moment later there was a stab of light in the dark andthe first shot rang out.]

  But Larkin found, to his dismay, that the horse of the other was fasterthan his own, and when they had galloped about a mile he had to strain hiseyes to see the other at all. He knew that unless he did something at oncethe other would get away from him.

  He lifted his revolver and took careful aim at the barely perceptible formof the horse. Then, when the other fired again, Larkin returned the shot,and almost immediately noticed that he was creeping up. At fifty yards thefleeing man blazed away again, and this time Bud heard the whistle of thebullet. Without further delay he took a pot-shot at the rustler's gun armand, by one of those accidents that the law of chance permits to happenperhaps once in a lifetime, got him.

  After that the rustler pulled up his failing animal to a walk and facedhim around.

  "Hands up!" yelled Larkin, covering the other.

  The answer was a streak of yellow flame from the fellow's left hand thathad been resting on his hip. The bullet flew wide as though the man hadnever shot left-handed before, and Bud, furious at the deception, dashedto close quarters recklessly, not daring to shoot again for fear ofkilling his man.

  This move broke the rustler's courage, and his left hand shot skyward.His right arm being broken, he could not raise it. Larkin rode alongsideof him and peered into his face.

  It was Smithy Caldwell.

  Quickly Bud searched him for other weapons.

  "What're yuh goin' to do with me, Larkin?" whined the blackmailer. "Don'ttake me back there. I haven't done nothin'."

  "Shut up and don't be yellow," admonished Bud. "If you're not guilty ofanything you can prove it quick enough, I guess."

  "I saved your life once," pleaded the other. "Let me go."

  "You saved it so you could get more money out of me. Think I don't knowyou, Caldwell?"

  "Let me go and I'll give you back all that money and all the rest you'veever given me. For God's sake don't let 'em hang me!"

  The cowardice of the man was pitiful, but Bud was unmoved. For years hislife had been dogged by this man. Now, an openly avowed rustler, heexpected clemency from his victim.

  "Ride ahead there," ordered Bud. Caldwell, whimpering, took his position.

  "Put your hands behind you." The other made as though to comply with thiscommand, when suddenly with a swift motion he put something in hismouth.

  Instantly Bud had him by the throat, forcing his mouth open. Caldwell,forced by this grip, spat out something that Bud caught with his freehand. It was a piece of paper. Larkin slipped it into the pocket of hisshirt and released his clutch. Then he bound Smithy's hands and startedback toward the scene of the raid.

  When he arrived, with his prisoner riding ahead on the limping horse, hefound that all was over. Two of the rustlers were dead, but the rest weresitting silent on the ground by the side of the cook-wagon. One sheepmanhad been killed, and another's broken shoulder was being roughly dressedby Sims.

  Others of the sheepmen were riding around the herd, quieting it. Thatthere had been no stampede was due to the fact that the shooting had comefrom all sides at once, and the creatures, bewildered, had turned in uponthemselves and crowded together in sheer terror, trampling to death anumber in the center of the herd.

  Less than half a mile ahead were the banks of the Big Horn and the ford. Amile behind the leaders of the sheep were steadily advancing. There wasonly one thing to be done.

  "Drive the cows across the ford," commanded Bud. Then he told off a detailto guard the prisoners, and the rest of the men got the cattle in motiontoward the crossing.

  Bud did not join this work. Instead, he pulled from his pocket the bit ofpaper that Smithy Caldwell had attempted to swallow. By the light of amatch he read what it said:

  The range is clear. Drive north fast to-nite and travel day and nite. Meet me to-morrow at Indian Coulee at ten. Burn this. Stelton.

  For a minute Bud stared at the incriminating paper, absolutely unable todigest the information it carried. Then with a rush understanding came tohim, and he knew that Mike Stelton, the trusted foreman of the Bar Tranch, was really the leader of the rustlers, and was the most active ofall of them in robbing old Beef Bissell.

  For a long time he sat motionless on his horse, reviewing all the eventsthat had passed, which now explained the remarkable activity of therustlers and their ability to escape pursuit and capture.

  "I don't know where Indian Coulee is, Stelton," he said to himself, "butI'll be there at ten if it's within riding distance."