CHAPTER FOUR
THE CATTLE RUSTLERS
Dawn broke, so we descended through wet grasses to the canon. There,after some difficulty, we managed to start a fire, and so atebreakfast, the rain still pouring down on us. About nine o'clock, withmiraculous suddenness, the torrent stopped. It began to turn cold.The Cattleman and I decided to climb to the top of the butte aftermeat, which we entirely lacked.
It was rather a stiff ascent, but once above the sheer cliffs we foundourselves on a rolling meadow tableland a half-mile broad by, perhaps,a mile and a half in length. Grass grew high; here and there weresmall live oaks planted park-like; slight and rounded ravinesaccommodated brooklets. As we walked back, the edges blended in theedges of the mesa across the canon. The deep gorges, which hadheretofore seemed the most prominent elements of the scenery, werelost. We stood, apparently, in the middle of a wide and undulatingplain, diversified by little ridges, and running with a free sweep tothe very foot of the snowy Galiuros. It seemed as though we should beable to ride horseback in almost any given direction. Yet we knew thatten minutes' walk would take us to the brink of most stupendouschasms--so deep that the water flowing in them hardly seemed to move;so rugged that only with the greatest difficulty could a horseman makehis way through the country at all; and yet so ancient that the bottomssupported forests, rich grasses, and rounded, gentle knolls. It was amost astonishing set of double impressions.
We succeeded in killing a nice, fat white-tail buck, and so returned tocamp happy. The rain, held off. We dug ditches, organised shelters,cooked a warm meal. For the next day we planned a bear hunt afoot, farup a manzanita canon where Uncle Jim knew of some "holing up" caves.
But when we awoke in the morning we threw aside our coverings with somedifficulty to look on a ground covered with snow; trees laden almost tothe breaking point with snow, and the air filled with it.
"No bear today" said the Cattleman.
"No," agreed Uncle Jim drily. "No b'ar. And what's more, unless yo'reaimin' to stop here somewhat of a spell, we'll have to make out to-day."
We cooked with freezing fingers, ate while dodging avalanches from thetrees, and packed reluctantly. The ropes were frozen, the hobblesstiff, everything either crackling or wet. Finally the task wasfinished. We took a last warming of the fingers and climbed on.
The country was wonderfully beautiful with the white not yet shakenfrom the trees and rock ledges. Also it was wonderfully slippery. Thesnow was soft enough to ball under the horses' hoofs, so that most ofthe time the poor animals skated and stumbled along on stilts. Thus wemade our way back over ground which, naked of these difficulties, wehad considered bad enough.
Imagine riding along a slant of rock shelving off to a bad tumble, sosteep that your pony has to do more or less expert ankle work to keepfrom slipping off sideways. During the passage of that rock you areapt to sit very light. Now cover it with several inches of snow, sticka snowball on each hoof of your mount, and try again. When you haveridden it--or its duplicate--a few score of times, select a steepmountain side, cover it with round rocks the size of your head, andover that spread a concealing blanket of the same sticky snow. You areprivileged to vary these to the limits of your imagination.
Once across the divide, we ran into a new sort of trouble. You mayremember that on our journey over we had been forced to travel for somedistance in a narrow stream-bed. During our passage we had scrambledup some rather steep and rough slopes, and hopped up some fairly highledges. Now we found the heretofore dry bed flowing a good eightinches deep. The steep slopes had become cascades; the ledges,waterfalls. When we came to them, we had to "shoot the rapids" as bestwe could, only to land with a PLUNK in an indeterminately deep pool atthe bottom. Some of the pack horses went down, sousing again ourunfortunate bedding, but by the grace of fortune not a saddle pony losthis feet.
After a time the gorge widened. We came out into the box canon withits trees. Here the water spread and shoaled to a depth of only two orthree inches. We splashed along gaily enough, for, with the exceptionof an occasional quicksand or boggy spot, our troubles were over.
Jed Parker and I happened to ride side by side, bringing up the rearand seeing to it that the pack animals did not stray or linger. As wepassed the first of the rustlers' corrals, he called my attention tothem.
"Go take a look," said he. "We only got those fellows out of here twoyears ago."
I rode over. At this point the rim-rock broke to admit the ingress ofa ravine into the main canon. Riding a short distance up the ravine, Icould see that it ended abruptly in a perpendicular cliff. As thesides also were precipitous, it became necessary only to build a fenceacross the entrance into the main canon to become possessed of a corralcompletely closed in. Remembering the absolute invisibility of thesesunken canons until the rider is almost directly over them, and alsothe extreme roughness and remoteness of the district, I could see thatthe spot was admirably adapted to concealment.
"There's quite a yarn about the gang that held this hole," said JedParker to me, when I had ridden back to him "I'll tell you about itsometime."
We climbed the hill, descended on the Double R, built a fire in thestove, dried out, and were happy. After a square meal--and a dryone--I reminded Jed Parker of his promise, and so, sitting cross-leggedon his "so-gun" in the middle of the floor, he told us the followingyarn:
There's a good deal of romance been written about the "bad man," andthere's about the same amount of nonsense. The bad man is justa plainmurderer, neither more nor less. He never does get into a real, good,plain, stand-up gunfight if he can possibly help it. His killin's aredone from behind a door, or when he's got his man dead to rights.There's Sam Cook. You've all heard of him. He had nerve, of course,and when he was backed into a corner he made good; he was sure suddendeath with a gun. But when he went for a man deliberate, he didn'ttake no special chances. For a while he was marshal at Willets.Pretty soon it was noted that there was a heap of cases of resistingarrest, where Sam as marshal had to shoot, and that those cases almostalways happened to be his personal enemies. Of course, that might beall right, but it looked suspicious. Then one day he killed poor oldMax Schmidt out behind his own saloon. Called him out and shot him inthe stomach. Said Max resisted arrest on a warrant for keepin' openout of hours! That was a sweet warrant to take out in Willets, anyway!Mrs. Schmidt always claimed that she saw that deal played, and that,while they were talkin' perfectly peacable, Cook let drive from the hipat about two yards' range. Anyway, we decided we needed anothermarshal. Nothin' else was ever done, for the Vigilantes hadn't beenformed, and your individual and decent citizen doesn't care to bemarked by a gun of that stripe. Leastwise, unless he wants to go infor bad-man methods and do a little ambusheein' on his own account.
The point is, that these yere bad men are a low-down, miserableproposition, and plain, cold-blood murderers, willin' to wait for asure thing, and without no compunctions whatsoever. The bad man takesyou unawares, when you're sleepin', or talkin', or drinkin', or lookin'to see what for a day it's goin' to be, anyway. He don't give you noshow, and sooner or later he's goin' to get you in the safest andeasiest way for himself. There ain't no romance about that.
And, until you've seen a few men called out of their shacks for afriendly conversation, and shot when they happen to look away; or askedfor a drink of water, and killed when they stoop to the spring; orpotted from behind as they go into a room, it's pretty hard to believethat any man can be so plumb lackin' in fair play or pity or justnatural humanity.
As you boys know, I come in from Texas to Buck Johnson's about ten yearback. I had a pretty good mount of ponies that I knew, and I hated tolet them go at prices they were offerin' then, so I made up my mind toride across and bring them in with me. It wasn't so awful far, and Ifigured that I'd like to take in what New Mexico looked like anyway.
About down by Albuquerque I tracked up with another outfit headed myway. There was five of them, three me
n, and a woman, and a yearlin'baby. They had a dozen hosses, and that was about all I could see.There was only two packed, and no wagon. I suppose the wholeoutfit--pots, pans, and kettles--was worth five dollars. It was justsupper when I run across them, and it didn't take more'n one look todiscover that flour, coffee, sugar, and salt was all they carried. Ayearlin' carcass, half-skinned, lay near, and the fry-pan was, full ofmeat.
"Howdy, strangers," says I, ridin' up.
They nodded a little, but didn't say nothin'. My hosses fell tograzin', and I eased myself around in my saddle, and made a cigareet.The men was tall, lank fellows, with kind of sullen faces, and sly,shifty eyes; the woman was dirty and generally mussed up. I knowedthat sort all right. Texas was gettin' too many fences for them.
"Havin' supper?" says I, cheerful.
One of 'em grunted "Yes" at me; and, after a while, the biggest askedme very grudgin' if I wouldn't light and eat, I told them "No," that Iwas travellin' in the cool of the evenin'.
"You seem to have more meat than you need, though," says I. "I coulduse a little of that."
"Help yourself," says they. "It's a maverick we come across."
I took a steak, and noted that the hide had been mighty well cut toribbons around the flanks and that the head was gone.
"Well," says I to the carcass, "No one's going to be able to swearwhether you're a maverick or not, but I bet you knew the feel of abrandin' iron all right."
I gave them a thank-you, and climbed on again. My hosses acted somesurprised at bein' gathered up again, but I couldn't help that.
"It looks like a plumb imposition, cavallos," says I to them, "after anall-day, but you sure don't want to join that outfit any more than I dothe angels, and if we camp here we're likely to do both."
I didn't see them any more after that until I'd hit the Lazy Y, and hadstarted in runnin' cattle in the Soda Springs Valley. Larry Eagen andI rode together those days, and that's how I got to know him prettywell. One day, over in the Elm Flat, we ran smack on this Texas outfitagain, headed north. This time I was on my own range, and I knew whereI stood, so I could show a little more curiosity in the case.
"Well, you got this far," says I.
"Yes," says they.
"Where you headed?"
"Over towards the hills."
"What to do?"
"Make a ranch, raise some truck; perhaps buy a few cows."
They went on.
"Truck" says I to Larry, "is fine prospects in this country."
He sat on his horse looking after them.
"I'm sorry for them" says he. "It must he almighty hard scratchin'."
Well, we rode the range for upwards of two year. In that time we sawour Texas friends--name of Hahn--two or three times in Willets, andheard of them off and on. They bought an old brand of Steve McWilliamsfor seventy-five dollars, carryin' six or eight head of cows. Afterthat, from time to time, we heard of them buying more--two or threehead from one man, and two or three from another. They branded themall with that McWilliams iron--T 0--so, pretty soon, we began to seethe cattle on the range.
Now, a good cattleman knows cattle just as well as you know people, andhe can tell them about as far off. Horned critters look alike to you,but even in a country supportin' a good many thousand head, a man usedto the business can recognise most every individual as far as he cansee him. Some is better than others at it. I suppose you really haveto be brought up to it. So we boys at the Lazy Y noted all the cattlewith the new T 0, and could estimate pretty close that the Hahn outfitmight own, maybe, thirty-five head all told.
That was all very well, and nobody had any kick comin'. Then one dayin the spring, we came across our first "sleeper."
What's a sleeper? A sleeper is a calf that has been ear-marked, butnot branded. Every owner has a certain brand, as you know, and then hecrops and slits the ears in a certain way, too. In that manner hedon't have to look at the brand, except to corroborate the ears; and,as the critter generally sticks his ears up inquirin'-like to anyoneridin' up, it's easy to know the brand without lookin' at it, merelyfrom the ear-marks. Once in a great while, when a man comes across anunbranded calf, and it ain't handy to build a fire, he just ear-marksit and let's the brandin' go till later. But it isn't done often, andour outfit had strict orders never to make sleepers.
Well, one day in the spring, as I say, Larry and me was ridin', when wecame across a Lazy Y cow and calf. The little fellow was ear-markedall right, so we rode on, and never would have discovered nothin' if abush rabbit hadn't jumped and scared the calf right across in front ofour hosses. Then we couldn't help but see that there wasn't no brand.
Of course we roped him and put the iron on him. I took the chance tolook at his ears, and saw that the marking had been done quite recent,so when we got in that night I reported to Buck Johnson that one of thepunchers was gettin' lazy and sleeperin'. Naturally he went after theman who had done it; but every puncher swore up and down, and back andacross, that he'd branded every calf he'd had a rope on that spring.We put it down that someone was lyin', and let it go at that.
And then, about a week later, one of the other boys reported aTriangle-H sleeper. The Triangle-H was the Goodrich brand, so wedidn't have nothin' to do with that. Some of them might be sleeperin'for all we knew. Three other cases of the same kind we happened acrossthat same spring.
So far, so good. Sleepers runnin' in such numbers was a littleastonishin', but nothin' suspicious. Cattle did well that summer, andwhen we come to round up in the fall, we cut out maybe a dozen of thoseT 0 cattle that had strayed out of that Hahn country. Of the dozenthere was five grown cows, and seven yearlin's.
"My Lord, Jed," says Buck to me, "they's a heap of these youngsterscomin' over our way."
But still, as a young critter is more apt to stray than an old onethat's got his range established, we didn't lay no great store by thatneither. The Hahns took their bunch, and that's all there was to it.
Next spring, though, we found a few more sleepers, and one day we cameon a cow that had gone dead lame. That was usual, too, but Buck, whowas with me, had somethin' on his mind. Finally he turned back androped her, and threw her.
"Look here, Jed," says he, "what do you make of this?"
I could see where the hind legs below the hocks had been burned.
"Looks like somebody had roped her by the hind feet," says I.
"Might be," says he, "but her heels lame that way makes it look morelike hobbles."
So we didn't say nothin' more about that neither, until just by luck wecame on another lame cow. We threw her, too.
"Well, what do you think of this one?" Buck Johnson asks me.
"The feet is pretty well tore up," says I, "and down to the quick, butI've seen them tore up just as bad on the rocks when they come down outof the mountains."
You sabe what that meant, don't you? You see, a rustler will take acow and hobble her, or lame her so she can't follow, and then he'lltake her calf a long ways off and brand it with his iron. Of course,if we was to see a calf of one brand followin' of a cow with another,it would be just too easy to guess what had happened.
We rode on mighty thoughtful. There couldn't be much doubt that cattlerustlers was at work. The sleepers they had ear-marked, hopin' that noone would discover the lack of a brand. Then, after the calf wasweaned, and quit followin' of his mother, the rustler would brand itwith his own iron, and change its ear-mark to match. It made a nice,easy way of gettin' together a bunch of cattle cheap.
But it was pretty hard to guess off-hand who the rustlers might be.There were a lot of renegades down towards the Mexican line who made araid once in a while, and a few oilers [2] livin' near had water holesin the foothills, and any amount of little cattle holders, like this T0 outfit, and any of them wouldn't shy very hard at a little sleeperin'on the side. Buck Johnson told us all to watch out, and passed theword quiet among the big owners to try and see whose cattle seemed tohave too many calves for the number o
f cows.
The Texas outfit I'm tellin' you about had settled up above in thisDouble R canon where I showed you those natural corrals this morning.They'd built them a 'dobe, and cleared some land, and planted a fewtrees, and made an irrigated patch for alfalfa. Nobody never rode overthis way very much, 'cause the country was most too rough for cattle,and our ranges lay farther to the southward. Now, however, we began toextend our ridin' a little.
I was down towards Dos Cabesas to look over the cattle there, and theyused to send Larry up into the Double R country. One evenin' he tookme to one side.
"Look here, Jed," says he, "I know you pretty well, and I'm not ashamedto say that I'm all new at this cattle business--in fact, I haven'tbeen at it more'n a year. What should be the proportion of cows tocalves anyhow?"
"There ought to be about twice as many cows as there're calves," Itells him.
"Then, with only about fifty head of grown cows, there ought not to bean equal number of yearlin's?"
"I should say not," says I. "What are you drivin' at?"
"Nothin' yet," says he.
A few days later he tackled me again.
"Jed," says he, "I'm not good, like you fellows are, at knowin' one cowfrom another, but there's a calf down there branded T 0 that I'd prettynear swear I saw with an X Y cow last month. I wish you could comedown with me."
We got that fixed easy enough, and for the next month rammed aroundthrough this broken country lookin' for evidence. I saw enough tosatisfy me to a moral certainty, but nothin' for a sheriff; and, ofcourse, we couldn't go shoot up a peaceful rancher on mere suspicion.Finally, one day, we run on a four-months' calf all by himself, withthe T 0 iron onto him--a mighty healthy lookin' calf, too.
"Wonder where HIS mother is!" says I.
"Maybe it's a 'dogie,'" says Larry Eagen--we calls calves whose mothershave died "dogies."
"No," says I, "I don't hardly think so. A dogie is always under sizeand poor, and he's layin' around water holes, and he always has a big,sway belly onto him. No, this is no dogie; and, if it's an honestcalf, there sure ought to be a T 0 cow around somewhere."
So we separated to have a good look. Larry rode up on the edge of alittle rimrock. In a minute I saw his hoss jump back, dodgin' arattlesnake or somethin', and then fall back out of sight. I jumped myhoss up there tur'ble quick, and looked over, expectin' to see nothin'but mangled remains. It was only about fifteen foot down, but Icouldn't see bottom 'count of some brush.
"Are you all right?" I yells.
"Yes, yes!" cries Larry, "but for the love of God, get down here asquick as you can."
I hopped off my hoss and scrambled down somehow.
"Hurt?" says I, as soon as I lit.
"Not a bit--look here."
There was a dead cow with the Lazy Y on her flank.
"And a bullet-hole in her forehead," adds Larry. "And, look here, thatT 0 calf was bald-faced, and so was this cow."
"Reckon we found our sleepers," says I.
So, there we was. Larry had to lead his cavallo down the barranca tothe main canon. I followed along on the rim, waitin' until a placegave me a chance to get down, too, or Larry a chance to get up. Wewere talkin' back and forth when, all at once, Larry shouted again.
"Big game this time," he yells. "Here's a cave and a mountain lionsquallin' in it."
I slid down to him at once, and we drew our six-shooters and went up tothe cave openin', right under the rim-rock. There, sure enough, werefresh lion tracks, and we could hear a little faint cryin' like woman.
"First chance," claims Larry, and dropped to his hands and knees at theentrance.
"Well, damn me!" he cries, and crawls in at once, payin' no attentionto me tellin' him to be more cautious. In a minute he backs out,carryin' a three-year-old goat.
"We seem to be in for adventures to-day," says he. "Now, where do yousuppose that came from, and how did it get here?"
"Well," says I, "I've followed lion tracks where they've carriedyearlin's across their backs like a fox does a goose. They're tur'blestrong."
"But where did she come from?" he wonders.
"As for that," says I, "don't you remember now that T 0 outfit had ayearlin' kid when it came into the country?"
"That's right," says he. "It's only a mile down the canon. I'll takeit home. They must be most distracted about it."
So I scratched up to the top where my pony was waitin'. It was atur'ble hard climb, and I 'most had to have hooks on my eyebrows to getup at all. It's easier to slide down than to climb back. I dropped mygun out of my holster, and she went way to the bottom, but I wouldn'thave gone back for six guns. Larry picked it up for me.
So we went along, me on the rim-rock and around the barrancas, andLarry in the bottom carryin' of the kid.
By and by we came to the ranch house, stopped to wait. The minuteLarry hove in sight everybody was out to once, and in two winks thewoman had that baby. They didn't see me at all, but I could hear, plainenough, what they said. Larry told how he had found her in the cave,and all about the lion tracks, and the woman cried and held the kidclose to her, and thanked him about forty times. Then when she'd worethe edge off a little, she took the kid inside to feed it or somethin'.
"Well," says Larry, still laughin', "I must hit the trail."
"You say you found her up the Double R?" asks Hahn. "Was it that cavenear the three cottonwoods?"
"Yes," says Larry.
"Where'd you get into the canyon?"
"Oh, my hoss slipped off into the barranca just above."
"The barranca just above," repeats Hahn, lookin' straight at him.
Larry took one step back.
"You ought to be almighty glad I got into the canyon at all," says he.
Hahn stepped up, holdin' out his hand.
"That's right," says he. "You done us a good turn there."
Larry took his hand. At the same time Hahn pulled his gun and shot himthrough the middle.
It was all so sudden and unexpected that I stood there paralysed.
Larry fell forward the way a man mostly will when he's hit in thestomach, but somehow he jerked loose a gun and got it off twice. Hedidn't hit nothin', and I reckon he was dead before he hit the ground.And there he had my gun, and I was about as useless as a pocket in ashirt!
No, sir, you can talk as much as you please, but the killer is alow-down ornery scub, and he don't hesitate at no treachery oringratitude to keep his carcass safe.
Jed Parker ceased talking. The dusk had fallen in the little room, anddimly could be seen the recumbent figures lying at ease on theirblankets. The ranch foreman was sitting bolt upright, cross-legged. Afaint glow from his pipe barely distinguished his features.
"What became of the rustlers?" I asked him.
"Well, sir, that is the queer part. Hahn himself, who had done thekillin', skipped out. We got out warrants, of course, but they nevergot served. He was a sort of half outlaw from that time, and waskilled finally in the train hold-up of '97. But the others we triedfor rustling. We didn't have much of a case, as the law went then, andthey'd have gone free if the woman hadn't turned evidence against them.The killin' was too much for her. And, as the precedent held good in alot of other rustlin' cases, Larry's death was really the beginnin' oflaw and order in the cattle business."
We smoked. The last light suddenly showed red against the grimywindow. Windy Bill arose and looked out the door.
"Boys," said he, returning. "She's cleared off. We can get back to theranch tomorrow."
[2] "Oilers"--Greasers--Mexicans.
Arizona Nights Page 4