The Flockmaster of Poison Creek

by George W. Ogden

  CHAPTER IV

  KEEPER OF THE FLOCK

  John Mackenzie, late schoolmaster of Jasper, marched on through thecool of the night, regretting that he had meddled in the domesticarrangements of Swan Carlson, the Swede. The outcome of his attemptedkindness to the oppressed woman had not been felicitous. Indeed, hewas troubled greatly by the fear that he had killed Swan Carlson, andthat grave consequences might rise out of this first adventure thatever fell in his way.

  Perhaps adventure was not such a thing to be sought as he hadimagined, he reflected; hand to his swollen throat. There was an achein his crushed windpipe, a dryness in his mouth, a taste of blood onhis tongue. That had been a close go for him, there on the floor underSwan Carlson's great knee; a few seconds longer, and his firstadventure would have been his last.

  Yet there was a vast satisfaction in knowing what was in him. Here hehad stood foot to foot with the strong man of the sheeplands, thestrangler, the fierce, half-insane terror of peaceful men, and hadcome off the victor. He had fought this man in his own house, where aman will fight valiantly, even though a coward on the road, and hadleft him senseless on the floor. It was something for a schoolteacher,counted a mild and childlike man.

  It had been many a year since Mackenzie had mixed in a fight, and thebest that had gone before was nothing more than a harmless spatcompared to this. The marvel of it was how he had developed thisquality of defense in inactivity. There must have been somepsychological undercurrent carrying strength and skill to him throughall the years of his romantic imaginings; the spirits of old heroes ofthat land must have lent him their counsel and might in that desperatebattle with the Norse flockmaster.

  Adventure was not dead out of the land, it seemed, although this was arather sordid and ignoble brand. It had descended to base levels amongbase men who lived with sheep and thought only of sheep-riches.Violence among such men as Swan Carlson was merely violence, with noneof the picturesque embellishments of the olden days when men slungpistols with a challenge and a hail, in those swift battles whereskill was all, bestial strength nothing.

  Mackenzie hoped to find Tim Sullivan different from the general run ofsheep-rich men. There must be some of the spice of romance in a manwho had the wide reputation of Tim Sullivan, and who was the hero ofso many tales of success.

  It was Mackenzie's hope that this encounter with the wild sheepmanmight turn out to his profit with Tim Sullivan. He always had believedthat he should win fortune fighting if it ever fell to his portion atall. This brush with Swan Carlson confirmed his old belief. If therewas any good luck for him in the sheep country, it would come to himthrough a fight,

  Mackenzie considered these things as he marched on away from SwanCarlson's homestead, thinking the safe plan would be to put severalmiles between himself and that place before lying down to rest. Atdawn Swan would be out after him with a gun, more than likely.Mackenzie had nothing of the sort in his slender equipment. Imagine aman going into the sheep country carrying a gun! The gun days of theWest were done; he had seen only one cowboy wearing one in his fouryears at Jasper.

  Past midnight Mackenzie came to a little valley where somebody hadbeen cutting hay. The late-risen moon discovered the little mounds ofhay thick around him, the aroma of the curing herbage was blowing tohim an invitation to stop and sleep. Let Swan Carlson come when hemight, that was the place prepared for the traveler's repose.

  Romance or no romance, riches or poverty, he was through with awoman's work, he told himself. Once there had been ideals ahead of himin educational work, but the contempt of men had dispelled them. If hecould not find his beginning in the sheep country, he would turnelsewhere. A man who had it in him to fight giants wasn't cut out forteaching school.

  Mackenzie sat with his back to a haycock thinking in this vein. Thesound of running water was near; he went to the creek and bathed histhroat, easing its burning with a deep swig. Back again to the hay,still building new victories, and nobler ones, on the foundation ofthis triumph over Swan Carlson, the red giant who choked men to deathin the snow.

  Morning discovered no habitation in reach of the eye. That littlefield of mown hay stood alone among the gray hills, unfenced,unfended, secure in its isolation, a little patch of something in thewilderness that looked like home. Mackenzie must have put many milesbehind him since leaving Carlson's door. Looking back, he could followthe course of the creek where it snaked through the hills, dark greenof willow and cottonwood fresh among the hemming slopes of sage, butno trace of Carlson's trees could he see.

  Mackenzie had no flour to mix a wad of dough, and but a heel of abacon side to furnish a breakfast. It was so unpromising in hispresent hungry state that he determined to tramp on a few miles in thehope of lifting Tim Sullivan's ranch-house on the prominent hilltopwhere, he had been told, it stood.

  Two or three miles beyond the hay-field Mackenzie came suddenly upon asheep-camp. The wagon stood on a green hillside, a pleasant valleybelow it where the grass was abundant and sweet. The camp evidentlyhad been stationed in that place but a little while, for a large bandof sheep grazed just below it, no bedding-ground being worn bare inthe unusual verdure. Altogether, it was the greenest and mostpromising place Mackenzie had met in his journey, gladdening at onceto the imagination and the eye.

  The shepherd sat on the hillside, his dogs beside him, a little smokeascending straight in the calm, early sunshine from his dying fire.The collies scented the stranger while he stood on the hilltop,several hundred yards above the camp, rising to question his presencebristling backs. The shepherd rose to inquire into the alarm,springing up with amazing agility, such sudden and wild concern in hismanner as provoked the traveler's smile.

  Mackenzie saw that he was a boy of fifteen or thereabout, dressed inoveralls much too large for him, the bottoms turned up almost to hisknees. Hot as the morning was beginning, the lad had on a duck coatwith sheepskin collar, but in the excitement of beholding a visitorapproaching his camp so early in the day, he took off his hat,standing so a moment. Then he cut out a streak for the wagon, a fewrods distant, throwing back a half-frightened look as he disappearedaround its side.

  This was a very commodious wagon, familiar to Mackenzie from havingseen many like it drawn up for repairs at the blacksmith shops inJasper. Its heavy canvas top was stretched tightly over bows, made towithstand wind and rough weather, a stovepipe projecting through it,fended about with a broad tin, and a canvas door, with a little windowin it, a commodious step letting down to the ground. Its tongue wascut short, to admit coupling it close behind the camp-mover's wagon,and it was a snug and comfortable home on wheels.

  The dogs came slowly to meet Mackenzie as he approached, backs stillbristling, countenances unpromising. The boy had disappeared into thewagon; Mackenzie wondered if he had gone to fetch his gun.

  But no. Instead of a gun, came a girl, neither timidity nor fear inher bearing, and close behind her came the boy, hat still in his hand,his long, straight hair down about his ears. Mackenzie had stopped ahundred yards or so distant, not confident of a friendly receptionfrom the dogs. The girl waved her hand in invitation for him to comeon, and stood waiting at the wagon end.

  She was as neatly dressed as the lad beside her was uncouth in hisman-size overalls, her short corduroy skirt belted about with a broadleather clasped with a gleaming silver buckle, the tops of her talllaced boots lost beneath its hem. Her gray flannel waist was laced atthe bosom like a cowboy's shirt, adorned at the collar with a flamingscarlet necktie done in a bow as broad as a band. Her brown sombrerowas tilted, perhaps unintentionally, a little to one side of herrather pert and independently carried head.

  At a word from her the dogs left the way unopposed, and as greetingspassed between the sheepgirl and the stranger the wise creatures stoodbeside her, eyeing the visitor over with suspicious mien. Mackenzietold his name and his business, making inquiry in the same breath forTim Sullivan's ranch.

  "Do you know Mr. Sullivan?" she asked. And as she lifted her eyesMackenzie saw that
they were as blue as asters on an October morning,and that her hair was a warm reddish-brown, and that her face wasrefreshingly pure in its outline, strong and haughty and brown, andsubtly sweet as the elusive perfume of a wild rose of the hills.

  "No, I don't know Mr. Sullivan; I've never even seen him. I've heard alot about him down at Jasper--I was the schoolteacher there."

  "Oh, you're up here on your vacation?" said she, a light of quickinterest in her eyes, an unmistakable friendliness in her voice. Itwas as if he had presented a letter from somebody well and favorablyknown.

  "No, I've come up here to see about learning the sheep business."

  "Sheep business?" said she, looking at him with surprised eyes. "Sheepbusiness?" this time with a shading of disgust. "Well, if I had senseenough to teach school I'd never want to see another sheep!"

  Mackenzie smiled at her impetuous outburst in which she revealed in aword the discontent of her heart.

  "Of course you know Mr. Sullivan?"

  "He's my father," she returned. "This is my brother Charley; there areeight more of us at home."

  Charley grinned, his shyness still over him, but his alarm quieted,and gave Mackenzie his hand.

  "The ranch is about thirteen or fifteen miles on up the creek fromhere," she said, "You haven't had your breakfast, have you?"

  "No; I just about finished my grub yesterday."

  "I didn't see any grease around your gills," said the girl, in quite amatter-of-fact way, no flippancy in her manner. "Charley, stir up thefire, will you? I can't offer you much, Mr. Mackenzie, but you'rewelcome to what there is. How about a can of beans?"

  "You've hit me right where I live, Miss Sullivan."

  The collies came warily up, stiff-legged, with backs still ruffled,and sniffed Mackenzie over. They seemed to find him harmless, turningfrom him presently to go and lie beside Charley, their faces towardthe flock, alert ears lifted, white breasts gleaming in the sun likethe linen of fastidious gentlemen.

  "Do you want me to get any water, Joan?" Charley inquired.

  Joan answered from inside the wagon that no water was needed, therewas coffee enough in the pot. She handed the smoke-blackened vesselout to Mackenzie as she spoke, telling him to go and put it on thefire.

  Joan turned the beans into the pan after cooking the bacon, and sentCharley to the wagon for a loaf of bread.

  "We don't have to bake bread in this camp, that's one blessing," shesaid. "Mother keeps us supplied. Some of these sheepherders nevertaste anything but their cold-water biscuits for years at a time."

  "It must get kind of tiresome," Mackenzie reflected, thinking of hisown efforts at bread-making on the road.

  "It's too heavy to carry around in the craw," said Joan.

  Charley watched Mackenzie curiously as he ate, whispering once to hissister, who flushed, turned her eyes a moment on her visitor, and thenseemed to rebuke the lad for passing confidences in such impolite way.Mackenzie guessed that his discolored neck and bruised face had beenthe subject of the boy's conjectures, but he did not feel pride enoughin his late encounter to speak of it even in explanation. Charleyopened the way to it at last when Joan took the breakfast things backto the wagon.

  "Have you been in a fight?" the boy inquired.

  "Not much of a one," Mackenzie told him, rather wishing that theparticulars might be reserved.

  "Your neck's black like somebody'd been chokin' you, and your face isbunged up some, too. Who done it?"

  "Do you know Swan Carlson?" Mackenzie inquired, turning slowly to theboy.

  "Swan Carlson?" Charley's face grew pale at the name; his eyes startedin round amazement. "You couldn't never 'a' got away from Swan; hechoked two fellers to death, one in each hand. No man in this countrycould whip one side of Swan."

  "Well, I got away from him, anyhow," said Mackenzie, in a manner thateven the boy understood to be the end of the discussion.

  But Charley was not going to have it so. He jumped up and ran to meetJoan as she came from the wagon.

  "Mr. Mackenzie had a fight with Swan Carlson--that's what's the matterwith his neck!" he said. There was unbounded admiration in the boy'svoice, and exultation as if the distinction were his own. Here beforehis eyes was a man who had come to grips with Swan Carlson, and hadescaped from his strangling hands to eat his breakfast with as muchunconcern as if he had no more than been kicked by a mule.

  Joan came on a little quicker, excitement reflected in her livelyeyes. Mackenzie was filling his pipe, which had gone through thefight in his pocket in miraculous safety--for which he was dulygrateful--ashamed of his bruises, now that the talk of them hadbrought them to Joan's notice again.

  "I hope you killed him," she said, coming near, looking down onMackenzie with full commendation; "he keeps his crazy wife chained uplike a dog!"

  "I don't think he's dead, but I'd like to know for sure," Mackenziereturned, his eyes bent thoughtfully on the ground.

  "Nobody will ever say a word to you if you did kill him," Joanassured. "They'd all know he started it--he fusses with everybody."

  She sat on the ground near him, Charley posting himself a little infront, where he could admire and wonder over the might of a man whocould break Swan Carlson's hold upon his throat and leave his housealive. Before them the long valley widened as it reached away, thesheep a dusty brown splotch in it, spread at their grazing, the soundof the lambs' wailing rising clear in the pastoral silence.

  "I stopped at Carlson's house after dark last night," Mackenzieexplained, seeing that such explanation must be made, "and turned hiswife loose. Carlson resented it when he came home. He said I'd have tofight him. But you're wrong when you believe what Carlson says aboutthat woman; she isn't crazy, and never was."

  That seemed to be all the story, from the way he hastened it, andturned away from the vital point of interest. Joan touched his arm ashe sat smoking, his speculative gaze on the sheep, his brows drawn asif in troubled thought.

  "What did you do when he said you had to fight him?" she inquired, herbreath coming fast, her cheeks glowing.

  Mackenzie laughed shortly. "Why, I tried to get away," he said.

  "Why didn't you, before he got his hands on you?" Charley wanted toknow.

  "Charley!" said Joan.

  "Carlson locked the door before I could get out." Mackenzie nodded tothe boy, very gravely, as one man to another. Charley laughed.

  "You didn't tear up no boards off the floor tryin' to git away!" saidhe.

  Joan smiled; that seemed to express her opinion of it, also. Sheadmired the schoolmaster's modest reluctance when he gave them a bareoutline of what followed, shuddering when he laughed over Mrs.Carlson's defense of her husband with the ax.

  "Gee!" said Charley, "I hope dad'll give you a job."

  "But how did you get out of there?" Joan asked.

  "I took an unfair advantage of Swan and hit him with a table leg."

  "Gee! dad's _got_ to give you a job," said Charley; "I'll make him."

  "I'll hold you to that, Charley," Mackenzie laughed.

  In the boy's eyes Mackenzie was already a hero, greater than any manthat had come into the sheeplands in his day. Sheep people are notfighting folks. They never have been since the world's beginning; theynever will be to the world's end. There is something in the peacefulbusiness of attending sheep, some appeal in their meekness andpassivity, that seems to tincture and curb the savage spirit thatdwells in the breast of man. Swan Carlson was one of the notoriousexceptions in that country. Even the cattlemen were afraid of him.

  Joan advised against Mackenzie's expressed intention of returning toCarlson's house to find out how badly he was hurt. It would be ablessing to the country, she said, if it should turn out that Carlsonwas killed. But Mackenzie had an uneasy feeling that it would be ablessing he could not share. He was troubled over the thing, now thatthe excitement of the fight had cooled out of him, thinking of theblow he had given Carlson with that heavy piece of oak.

  Perhaps the fellow was not dead, but hurt
so badly that he would diewithout surgical aid. It was the part of duty and humanity to go backand see. He resolved to do this, keeping the resolution to himself.

  Joan told him much of the sheep business, and much about the art ofrunning a big band over that sparse range, in which this green valleylay like an oasis, a gladdening sight seldom to be met with amongthose sulky hills. She said she hoped her father would find a placefor him, for the summer, at least.

  "But I wouldn't like to see you shut yourself up in this country likethe rest of us are," she said, gazing off over the hills with wistfuleyes. "A man that knows enough to teach school oughtn't fool away histime on sheep."

  She was working toward her own emancipation, she told him, runningthat band of two thousand sheep on shares for her father, just thesame as an ordinary herdsman. In three years she hoped her increase,and share of the clip, would be worth ten thousand dollars, and thenshe would sell out and go away.

  "What would you want to leave a good business like this for?" heasked, rather astonished at her cool calculation upon what shebelieved to be freedom. "There's nothing out in what people call theworld that you could turn your hand to that would make you a third ofthe money."

  "I want to go away and get some education," she said.

  "But you are educated, Miss Sullivan."

  She turned a slow, reproachful look upon him, a shadow of sadness overher wholesome young face.

  "I'm nearly nineteen; I don't know as much as a girl of twelve," shesaid.

  "I've never met any of those precocious twelve-year-olds," he toldher, shaking his head gravely. "You know a great deal more than you'reconscious of, I think, Miss Sullivan. We don't get the best of it outof books."

  "I'm a prisoner here," she said, stretching her arms as if shedisplayed her bonds, "as much of a prisoner in my way as SwanCarlson's wife was in hers. You cut her chain; nobody ever has come tocut mine."

  "Your knight will come riding over the hill some evening. One comesinto every woman's life, sooner or later, I think."

  "Mostly in imagination," said Joan. And her way of saying it, so wiseand superior, as if she spoke of some toy which she had outgrown,brought a smile again to her visitor's grave face.

  Charley was not interested in his sister's bondage, or in the comingof a champion to set her free. He went off to send the dogs after anadventurous bunch of sheep that was straying from the main flock. Joansighed as she looked after him, putting a strand of hair away behindher ear. Presently she brightened, turning to Mackenzie withquickening eyes.

  "I'll make a bargain with you, Mr. Mackenzie, if you're in earnestabout learning the sheep business," she said.

  "All right; let's hear it."

  "Dad's coming over here today to finish cutting hay. I'll make a dealwith him for you to get a band of sheep to run on shares if you'llagree to teach me enough to get into college--if I've got brainsenough to learn."

  "The doubt would be on the side of the teacher, not the pupil, MissSullivan. Maybe your father wouldn't like the arrangement, anyway."

  "He'll like it, all right. What do you say?"

  "I don't think it would be very much to my advantage to take charge ofa band of sheep under conditions that might look as if I neededsomebody to plug for me. Your father might think of me as anincompetent and good-for-nothing person."

  "You're afraid I haven't got it in me to learn--you don't want towaste time on me!" Joan spoke with a sad bitterness, as one who sawanother illusion fading before her eyes.

  "Not that," he hastened to assure her, putting out his hand as if toadd the comfort of his touch to the salve of his words. "I'm onlyafraid your father wouldn't have anything to do with me if you were toapproach him with any such proposal. From what I've heard of him he'sa man who likes a fellow to do his own talking."

  "I don't think he'd refuse me."

  "It's hard for a stranger to do that. Your father----"

  * * * * *

  "You'll not do it, you mean?"

  "I think I'd rather get a job from your father on my own face than onany kind of an arrangement or condition, Miss Sullivan. But I pass youmy word that you'll be welcome to anything and all I'm able to teachyou if I become a pupil in the sheep business on this range. Provided,of course, that I'm in reaching distance."

  "Will you?" Joan asked, hope clearing the shadows from her faceagain.

  "But we might be too far apart for lessons very often," he suggested.

  "Not more than ten or twelve miles. I could ride that every day."

  "It's a bargain then, if I get on," said he.

  "It's a bargain," nodded Joan, giving him her hand to bind it, withgreat earnestness in her eyes.