The Flockmaster of Poison Creek

by George W. Ogden

  CHAPTER XVIII

  SWAN CARLSON'S DAY

  Dad Frazer came over the hills next morning after the dew was gone.Mackenzie saw him from afar, and was interested to note that he wasnot alone. That is to say, not immediately accompanied by anybody, yetnot alone for a country where a quarter of a mile between men israther close company.

  Somebody was coming on after the old shepherd, holding about the samedistance behind him in spite of little dashes down slopes that Dadmade when for a moment out of sight. Mackenzie's wonder over thispeculiar behavior grew as the old man came near, and it was discoveredto the eye that his persistent shadow was a woman.

  Dad wasted neither words nor breath on his explanation when he camepanting up the slope that brought him to the place where Mackenziestood above his sheep.

  "It's that dad-burned Rabbit!" he said.

  There was something between vexation and respect in Dad's voice. Heturned to look back as he spoke. Rabbit had mounted the hilltop justacross the dip, where she stood looking over at her shifty-footedlord, two sheep-dogs at her side.

  "How did she locate you?" Mackenzie inquired, not in the leastdispleased over this outreaching of justice after the fickle old man.

  "She's been trailin' me four years!" Dad whispered, his respect forRabbit's powers on the scent unmistakable.

  "That's a long time to hold a cold trail. Rabbit must be some on thetrack!"

  "You can't beat them Indians follerin' a man if they set their headsto it. Well, it's all off with the widow-lady at Four Cornersnow--Rabbit's got me nailed. You see them sheep-dogs? Them dogs they'djump me the minute Rabbit winked at 'em--they'd chaw me up like acouple of lions. She's raised 'em up to do it, dad-burn her! Had myold vest to learn 'em the scent."

  "A man never ought to leave his old vest behind him when he runs awayfrom his wife," said Mackenzie, soberly. "But it looks to me like awoman with the sticking qualities Rabbit's got isn't a bad one to staymarried to. How in the world could a reservation squaw find her wayaround to follow you all this time?"

  "She's educated, dang her; she went to the sisters' mission. She canread and write a sight better than me. She's too smart for a squaw,bust her greasy eyes! Yes, and I'll never dast to lay a hand on herwith them dogs around. They'd chaw me up quicker'n a man could hang uphis hat."

  Rabbit composed herself after her patient but persistent way, sittingamong the bushes with only her head showing, waiting for Dad's nextmove.

  "You're married to her regularly, are you, Dad?"

  "Priest marriage, dang it all!" said Dad, hopelessly.

  "Then it _is_ all off with the one-eyed widow."

  "Yes, and them four thousand sheep, and that range all under fence,dang my melts!"

  "What are you going to do about Rabbit?"

  "It ain't what am I goin' to do about her, John, but what she's goin'to do about me. She'll never leave me out of her sight a minute aslong as I live. I reckon I'll have to stay right here and run sheepfor Tim, and that widow-lady wonderin' why I don't show up!"

  "You might do worse, Dad."

  "Yes, I reckon I might. Rabbit she's as good as any man on the rangehandlin' sheep, she can draw a man's pay wherever she goes. I guess Icould put her to work, and that'd help some."

  Dad brightened a bit at that prospect, and drew his breath with a newhope. Even with the widow gone from his calculations, the futuredidn't promise all loss.

  "But I bet you I'll shoot them two dogs the first time I can draw abead on 'em!" Dad declared.

  "Maybe if you'll treat Rabbit the right way she'll sell them. Call herover, Dad; I'd like to get acquainted with her."

  Dad beckoned with his hand, but Rabbit did not stir; waved his hat toemphasize his command; Rabbit remained quiet among the bushes, the topof her black head in plain view.

  "She's afraid we've hatched up some kind of a trick between us to workoff on her," said Dad.

  "You can't blame her for being a little distrustful, Dad. But let hergo; I'll meet her at your camp one of these days."

  "Yes, you'll meet her over there, all right, for she's goin' to stickto me till I'm under ground. That's one time too many I married--justone time too many!"

  "I suppose a man can overdo it; I've heard it said."

  "If I hadn't 'a' left that blame vest!"

  "Yes, that seems to be where you blundered. You'll know better nexttime, Dad."

  "Yes, but there never will be no next time," Dad sighed.

  "Have you seen Reid over your way this morning?"

  "No, I ain't seen him. Is he still roamin' and restless?"

  "He left yesterday; I thought he was going to the ranch."

  "Didn't pass my way. That feller's off, I tell you, John; he's one ofthe kind that can't stand the lonesomeness. Leave him out here alonetwo months, and he'd put a bullet in his eye."

  "It seems to me like it's a land of daftness," Mackenzie said.

  "You'll find a good many cracked people all over the sheep country--I'mkind o' cracked myself. I must be, or I never would 'a' left thatvest."

  Dad took off his hat to smooth his sweeping curled locks, as white asshredded asbestos, and full of the same little gleams that mineralshows when a block of it from the mine is held in the sun. His beardwas whitening over his face again, like a frost that defied the heatof day, easing its hollows and protuberances, easing some of theweakness that the barber's razor had laid so pitilessly bare. In a fewdays more he would appear himself again, and be ready for thesheep-shears in due time.

  "I reckon I'll have to make the best of the place I'm in, but for aman of puncture, as the feller said, like I used to think I was, Isure did miscombobble it when I married that educated squaw. No womanI ever was married to in my life ever had sense enough to track a manlike that woman's follered me. She sure is a wonder on the scent."

  Patiently Rabbit was sitting among the bushes, waiting the turn ofevents, not to be fooled again, not to be abandoned, if vigilancecould insure her against such distress. Mackenzie's admiration for thewoman grew with Dad's discomfiture over his plight. There was an addedflavor of satisfaction for him in the old man's blighted career. WiseRabbit, to have a priest marriage, and wiser still to follow this olddodger of the sheeplands and bring him up with a short halter in theevening of his days.

  "I'll go on back and look after them sheep," said Dad, with a certainsad inflection of resignation; "there's nothing else to _be_ done. Iwas aimin' to serve notice on Tim to find another man in my place, butI might as well keep on. Well, I can set in the shade, anyhow, and letRabbit do the work--her and them blame dogs."

  Dad sighed. It helped a great deal to know that Rabbit could do thework. He looked long toward the spot where his unshaken wife kept herwatch on him, but seemed to be looking over her head, perhaps tryingto measure all he had lost by this coming between him and the one-eyedwidow-lady of Four Corners.

  "I wonder if I could git you to write a letter over to that widow andtell her I'm dead?" he asked.

  "I'll do it if you want me to. But you're not dead yet, Dad--you mayoutlive Rabbit and marry the widow at last."

  "I never was no lucky man," said Dad, smoothing his gleaming hair. "Aman that's married and nailed down to one place is the same as dead;he might as well be in his grave. If I'd 'a' got that widow-lady I'd'a' had the means and the money to go ridin' around and seein' thesights from the end of one of them cars with a brass fence around it.But I'm nailed down now, John; I'm cinched."

  Dad was so melancholy over his situation that he went off without morewords, a thing unheard of for him. He gave Rabbit a wide fairway as hepassed. When he was a respectable distance ahead the squaw rose fromher bush and followed, such determination in her silent movements asto make Dad's hope for future freedom hollow indeed. The old man wascinched at last; Mackenzie was glad that it was so.

  The sound of Carlson's sheep was still near that morning, and comingnearer, as whoever attended them ranged them slowly along. Mackenziewent a little way across the hill in that direct
ion, but could not seethe shepherd, although the sheep were spread on the slope just beforehim. It was a small flock, numbering not above seven hundred.Mackenzie was puzzled why Swan wanted to employ his own or his wife'stime in grazing so small a number, when four times as many could behandled as easily.

  This question was to be answered for him very soon, and in a way whichhe never had imagined. Yet there was no foreboding of it in the calmnoonday as he prepared his dinner in the shade of some welcomewillows, the heat glimmering over the peaceful hills.

  It was while Mackenzie sat dozing in the fringe of shade such as ahedge would cast at noonday that the snarl of fighting dogs broughthim up to a realization of what was going forward among the sheep. Hisown flock had drifted like a slow cloud to the point of the longridge, and there Swan Carlson's band had joined it. The two flockswere mingling now, and on the edge of the confused mass his own dogsand Carlson's were fighting.

  Swan was not in sight; nobody seemed to be looking after the sheep; itappeared as if they had been left to drift as they might to thisconjunction with Mackenzie's flock. Mackenzie believed Mrs. Carlsonhad abandoned her charge and fled Swan's cruelty, but he did notexcuse himself for his own stupidity in allowing the flocks to cometogether as he ran to the place where his dogs and Carlson's fought.

  The sheep were becoming more hopelessly mingled through this commotionon their flank. Mackenzie was beating the enraged dogs apart when SwanCarlson came running around the point of the hill.

  Swan immediately took part in the melee of gnashing, rolling, rearingdogs, laying about among them with impartial hand, quickly subduingthem to obedience. He stood looking stonily at Mackenzie, unmoved byanger, unflushed by exertion. In that way he stood silent a littlewhile, his face untroubled by any passion that rolled in his breast.

  "You're runnin' your sheep over on my grass--what?" said Swan.

  "You're a mile over my range," Mackenzie accused.

  "You've been crowdin' over on me for a month," Swan said, "and Ididn't say nothing. But when a man tries to run his sheep over amongstmine and drive 'em off, I take a hand."

  "If anybody's tryin' such a game as that, it's you," Mackenzie toldhim. "Get 'em out of here, and keep 'em out."

  "I got fifteen hundred in that band--you'll have to help me cut 'emout," said Swan.

  "You had about seven hundred," Mackenzie returned, dispassionately,although it broke on him suddenly what the big flockmaster was tryingto put through.

  Counting on Mackenzie's greenness, and perhaps on the simplicity ofhis nature as they had read it in the sheep country, Swan had preparedthis trap days ahead. He had run a small band of the same breed asSullivan's sheep--for that matter but one breed was extensively grownon the range--over to the border of Tim's lease with the intention ofmingling them and driving home more than he had brought. Mackenzienever had heard of the trick being worked on a green herder, but herealized now how simply it could be done, opportunity such as thispresenting.

  But it was one thing to bring the sheep over and another thing to takethem away. One thing Mackenzie was sure of, and that was the judgmentof his eyes in numbering sheep. That had been Dad Frazer's firstlesson, and the old man had kept him at it until he could come withina few head among hundreds at a glance.

  "I'll help you cut out as many as you had," Mackenzie said, runninghis eyes over the mingled flocks, "they're all alike, one as good asanother, I guess. It looks like you got your stock from this ranch,anyhow, but you'll not take more than seven hundred this trip."

  "My dogs can cut mine out, they know 'em by the smell," Swan said. "Ihad fifteen hundred, and I bet you I'll take fifteen hundred back."

  The dogs had drawn off, each set behind their respective masters,panting, eyeing each other with hostility, one rising now and thenwith growls, threatening to open the battle again. The sheep driftedabout in confusion, so thoroughly mingled now that it would be pasthuman power to separate them again and apportion each respective headto its rightful owner.

  "Seven hundred, at the outside," Mackenzie said again. "And keep themoff of my grass when you get 'em."

  Carlson stood where he had stopped, ten feet or more distant, his armsbare, shirt open on his breast in his way of picturesque freedom.Mackenzie waited for him to proceed in whatever way he had planned,knowing there could be no compromise, no settlement in peace. He wouldeither have to yield entirely and allow Carlson to drive off seven oreight hundred of Sullivan's sheep, or fight. There didn't seem to bemuch question on how it would come out in the latter event, forCarlson was not armed, and Mackenzie's pistol was that moment underhis hand.

  "You got a gun on you," said Swan, in casual, disinterested tone. "Iain't got no gun on me, but I'm a better man without no gun than youare with one. I'm goin' to take my fifteen hundred sheep home with me,and you ain't man enough to stop me."

  Carlson's two dogs were sitting close behind him, one of them a gauntgray beast that seemed almost a purebred wolf. Its jaws were bloodyfrom its late encounter; flecks of blood were on its gray coat. It satpanting and alert, indifferent to Mackenzie's presence, watching thesheep as if following its own with its savage eyes. Suddenly Carlsonspoke an explosive word, clapping his great hands, stamping his foottoward Mackenzie.

  Mackenzie fired as the wolf-dog sprang, staggering back from theweight of its lank body hurled against his breast, and fired again ashe felt the beast's vile breath in his face as it snapped close to histhroat.

  Mackenzie emptied his pistol in quick, but what seemed ineffectual,shots at the other dog as it came leaping at Carlson's command. In aninstant he was involved in a confusion of man and dog, the body of thewolfish collie impeding his feet as he fought.

  Carlson and the other dog pressed the attack so quickly that Mackenziehad no time to slip even another cartridge into his weapon. Carlsonlaughed as he clasped him in his great arms, the dog clinging toMackenzie's pistol hand, and in a desperate moment it was done.Mackenzie was lying on his back, the giant sheepman's knee in hischest.

  Carlson did not speak after ordering the dog away. He held Mackenzie alittle while, hand on his throat, knee on his chest, looking withunmoved features down into his eyes, as if he considered whether tomake an end of him there or let him go his way in added humiliationand disgrace. Mackenzie lay still under Carlson's hand, trying to readhis intention in his clear, ice-cold, expressionless eyes, watchingfor his moment to renew the fight which he must push under suchhopeless disadvantage.

  Swan's eyes betrayed nothing of his thoughts. They were as calm anduntroubled as the sky, which Mackenzie thought, with a poignant sweepof transcendant fear for his life, he never had beheld so placid andbeautiful as in that dreadful moment.

  Carlson's huge fingers began to tighten in the grip of death; relax,tighten, each successive clutch growing longer, harder. The joy of hisstrength, the pleasure in the agony that spoke from his victim's face,gleamed for a moment in Carlson's eyes as he bent, gazing; thenflickered like a light in the wind, and died.

  Mackenzie's revolver lay not more than four feet from his hand. Hegathered his strength for a struggle to writhe from under Carlson'spressing knee. Carlson, anticipating his intention, reached for theweapon and snatched it, laying hold of it by the barrel.

  Mackenzie's unexpected renewal of the fight surprised Carlson intoreleasing his strangling hold. He rose to sitting posture, breast tobreast with the fighting sheepman, whose great bulk towered above him,free breath in his nostrils, fresh hope in his heart. He foughtdesperately to come to his feet, Carlson sprawling over him, thepistol lifted high for a blow.

  Mackenzie's hands were clutching Carlson's throat, he was on one knee,swaying the Norseman's body back in the strength of despair, when theheavens seemed to crash above him, the fragments of universaldestruction burying him under their weight.