Hidden Water

by Coolidge, Dane

  “Blay-ay-ay-ay! Blay-ay-ay-ay! Blay-ay-ay-ay!”

  To the ears of the herders it was music, like the thunder of stamps to a miner or the rumble of a waterfall to a lonely fisher; the old, unlistened music of their calling, above which the clamor of the world must fight its way. But to the cowmen it was like all hell broken loose, a confusion, a madness, a babel which roused every passion in their being and filled them with a lust to kill.

  Without looking to the right or to the left, Jefferson Creede fixed his eyes upon one man in that riot of workers and rode for him as a corral hand marks down a steer. It was Jasper Swope, hustling the last of a herd through the narrow defile, and as his Chihuahuanos caught sight of the burly figure bearing down upon the padron they abandoned their work to help him. From the hill above, Jim Swope, his face set like iron for the conflict, rode in to back up his brother; and from far down the cañon Rufus Hardy came spurring like the wind to take his place by Creede.

  In the elemental clangor of the sheep they faced each other, Creede towering on his horse, his face furious with rage; Swope gray with the dust of his driving but undaunted by the assault.

  “Stop where you are!” shouted Swope, holding out a warning hand as the cowman showed no sign of halting. But Creede came straight on, never flinching, until he had almost ridden him down.

  “You low-lived, sheep-eatin’ hound,” he hissed, piling in the wickedest of his range epithets, “you and me have had it comin’ fer quite a while, and now I’ve got you. I’ve never yet seen a sheepman that would fight in the open, but you’ve got to or take that!” He leaned over suddenly and slapped him with his open hand, laughing recklessly at the Mexicans as they brandished their guns and shouted.

  “Quite se, cabrones,” he jeered, sorting out the worst of his fighting Spanish for their benefit, “you are all gutter pups––you are afraid to shoot!”

  “Here,” rasped out Jim Swope, spurring his horse in between them, “what are you fellers tryin’ to do? Git out of here, umbre––go on now! Never mind, Jasp, I’ll do the talkin’. You go on away, will ye! Now what’s the matter with you, Mr. Creede, and what can I do for you?”

  Jasper Swope had whirled back from the blow as a rattler throws his coils. His gray eyes gleamed and he showed all his broken teeth as he spat back hate and defiance at Creede; but Jim was his elder brother and had bested him more than once since the days of their boyish quarrels. Slowly and grudgingly he made way, backing sullenly off with his Mexicans; and Jim stood alone, opposing his cold resolution to the white-hot wrath of Creede.

  “You can turn back them sheep and git off my range!” yelled Creede. “Turn ’em back, I say, or I’ll leave my mark on some of you!”

  “How can I turn ’em back?” argued Swope, throwing out his hands. “They’s ninety thousand more behind me, and all headin’ through this pass.”

  “You know very well that this is a put-up job,” retorted Creede hotly. “You sheepmen have been crawlin’ around on your bellies for a month to get a chanst to sheep us out, and now you say you can’t help yourself! You’re the crookedest, lyingest sheep-puller in the bunch, Jim Swope. You’d rob a graveyard and show up for prayers the next mornin’. I can lick you, you big Mormon-faced stiff, with one hand tied behind me, and what’s more––”

  “Here now––here no-ow––” protested Swope, holding out his hand for peace, “they ain’t no call for no such talk. Mebbe you can lick me, and mebbe you can’t, but it won’t do you any good to try. My sheep is here, and here they’ll stay, until I git good and ready to move ’em. This is a free range and a free country, and the man ain’t born that can make me stop.”

  He paused, and fixed his keen eyes upon Creede, searching him to the heart; and before that cold, remorseless gaze the fighting frenzy in his brain died away. Meanwhile Hardy had come up from where he had been turning back sheep, and as he rode in Jeff instinctively made way for him.

  “No,” replied Hardy, fastening his stern eyes upon the iron visage of the sheepman, “not if the lives of a thousand cattle and the last possessions of a dozen men lay in your way. You and your legal rights! It is men like you who make the law worse than nothing and turn honest cowmen into criminals. If there is anything in it you will lie to the assessor or rob a poor man’s cabin with the best of them, but when it comes to your legal right to sheep us out you are all for law and order. Sure, you will uphold the statutes with your life! Look at those renegade Mexicans, every man armed by you with a rifle and a revolver! Is that the way to come onto another man’s range? If you are going to sheep us out, you can try it on; but for God’s sake cut it out about your sacred rights!”

  He rose up in his saddle, haranguing the assembly as he spoke, and once more Jim Swope felt his cause being weakened by the attacks of this vehement little cowman.

  “Well, what kin I do about it?” he cried, throwing out his hands in virtuous appeal. “My sheep has got to eat, hain’t they?”

  “Sure,” assented Hardy, “and so have our cattle. But I tell you what you can do––you can go out through that pass yonder!”

  He pointed at the cañon down which the sheep had come in the Fall, the great middle fork which led up over the Four Peaks; but the sheepman’s only reply was a snarl of refusal.

  “Not if I know myself,” he muttered spitefully. “How’d do, Judge!” He fixed his eyes eagerly upon Judge Ware, who was hastening to join in the struggle. “You’re just the man I want to see,” he continued, advancing briskly to meet him, “and I want to ask you, here and now before these witnesses, do you claim any right to the exclusive use of this land?”

  “Why, certainly not, certainly not,” answered the judge warmly, “but at the same time I do claim an equity which rises from prior and undisputed possession, and which has always and ought now to protect my range from any outside invasion.”

  “Very likely, very likely,” remarked Swope dryly. “And now, Judge, I want to ask you another question before these witnesses. Did you or did you not authorize your superintendent and foreman to threaten and intimidate my men and me, with the idea of driving us off this public land?”

  “I did not,” replied the judge, his mind suddenly filled with visions of criminal proceedings. “On the contrary, I have repeatedly warned them against any such action.”

  “At the same time,” echoed Swope, quick to follow up his advantage, “these men, who are your agents and employees, have systematically moved my herders off this range by armed violence, and your foreman has just now struck my brother, besides threatening to kill some of us if we don’t turn back. I want to tell you right now, Mr. Ware, that I have consulted the best lawyers in this Territory as to my rights on public lands, and you will be held personally responsible for any acts of violence on the part of your employees. Now I want to ask you one more question: Do you deny my right to pass through this range on my way to the Sierra Blancas? You don’t? Well then, call off these men!”

  He paused and jerked his thumb toward Creede and Hardy, grinning evilly, and as he spoke Creede crowded forward, his brow black as a thunder cloud.

  “I don’t take orders from nobody,” he cried vehemently, “not now, and never will. I’ve got a few hundred head of cows on this range myself and I intend to protect ’em if I have to kill somebody. You’ll have to git another foreman, Judge,––I’ve quit.”

  He shot a glance of pitying contempt at the man who had so stupidly marred their fortunes, then he turned and fixed his burning eyes upon his archenemy.

  “Jim,” he said, speaking quietly at last, “my father had ten thousand head of cattle on this range before you sheepmen came––and that’s all I’ve got left. If you think you can sheep me out, go to it!”

  He turned his horse’s head toward Hidden Water, never looking back at the sheep; and the cowmen fell in behind him, glad of an excuse to retreat. What were a bunch of cowboys, armed with six-shooters, to half a hundred sheepmen armed with repeating rifles and automatic revolvers? No, it was better
to let the sheep come, let them spread out and scatter, and then jump the herders at night, if it came to that. But what, reasoned the cautious ones, were a few hundred head of cows anyhow, in a losing fight against the law itself? What was a petty revenge upon some low-browed Mexican to the years of imprisonment in Yuma which might follow? There were some among that little band of cowmen who yelled for action, others who were disgusted enough to quit, and others yet who said nothing, riding by themselves or exchanging furtive glances with Creede. The Clark boys, Ben Reavis, and Juan Ortega––these were the men whom the rodéo boss knew he could trust, and none of them spoke a word.

  Worn and haggard from his night’s riding, Rufus Hardy rode along with Judge Ware and the ladies, explaining the situation to them. The sheep had come in from the far east, crossing where sheep had never crossed before, at the junction of Hell’s Hip Pocket Creek and the drought-shrunk Salagua. They had poured into the Pocket in solid columns, sheeping it to the rocks, and had taken the pass before either he or Bill Johnson could get to it. All through the night the sheepmen had been crowding their flocks through the defile until there were already twenty or thirty thousand on Bronco Mesa, with fifty thousand to follow. Bill Johnson had shot his way through the jam and disappeared into the Pocket, but he could do nothing now––his little valley was ruined. There would not be a spear of grass left for his cattle, and his burros had already come out with the pack animals of the sheepmen. No one knew what had happened when he reached his home, but the Mexican herders seemed to be badly scared, and Johnson had probably tried to drive them out of the valley.

  All this Hardy explained in a perfectly matter-of-fact way, free from apprehension or excitement; he listened in respectful silence to Judge Ware’s protests against violence and threats of instant departure; and even humored Kitty’s curiosity by admitting that Mr. Johnson, who was apparently out of his head when he shot the sheep, had probably taken a shot or two at the herders, as well. But Lucy Ware was not deceived by his repose; she saw the cold light in his eyes, the careful avoidance of any allusion to his own actions, and the studied concealment of his future intent. But even then she was not prepared when, after supper, her father came into the ranch house and told her that Mr. Hardy had just resigned.

  “I can’t imagine why he should leave me at this time,” exclaimed the judge, mopping the sweat from his brow, and groaning with vexation, “but a man who will desert his own father in the way he has done is capable of anything, I suppose. Just because he doesn’t approve of my policies in regard to these sheep he coolly says he won’t embarrass me further by staying in my employ! I declare, Lucy, I’m afraid I’m going to lose everything I have down here if both he and Creede desert me. Don’t you think you could persuade Rufus to stay? Go out and see him and tell him I will consent to anything––except this unlawful harrying of the sheep.”

  The old judge, still perspiring with excitement, sank wearily down into a chair and Lucy came over and sat upon his knee.

  “Father,” she said, “do you remember that you once told me you would give me this ranch if I wanted it? Well, I want it now, and perhaps if you give it to me Rufus will consent to stay.”

  “But, daughter––” protested the judge, and then he sat quiet, pondering upon the matter.

  “Perhaps you are right,” he said at last. “But tell me one thing––there is nothing between you and Rufus, is there?”

  He turned her face so that he could look into her honest eyes, but Lucy twisted her head away, blushing.

  “No,” she said faintly. “He––he is in love with Kitty.”

  “With Kitty!” cried Judge Ware, outraged at the idea. “Why, he––but never mind, never mind, darling. I am glad at least that it is not with you. We must be going home soon now, anyway, and that will break off this––er––But I don’t remember having seen them together much!”

  “No,” said Lucy demurely, “he has been very discreet. But you haven’t answered my question, father. Will you give me the ranch if I get Rufus to stay? Oh, you’re a dear! Now you just leave everything in my hands and see what a good business woman I am!”

  She skipped lightly out the door and hurried over to where Hardy and Jefferson Creede were sitting under a tree, talking gravely together. They stopped as she approached and Hardy looked up a little sullenly from where he sat. Then he rose, and took off his hat.

  “May I have a few words with you on a matter of business, Rufus?” she asked, with her friendliest smile. “No, don’t go, Mr. Creede; you are interested in this, too. In fact,” she added mysteriously, “I need your assistance.”

  A slow smile crept into the rough cowboy’s eyes as he sat watching her.

  “What can I do for you?” he inquired guardedly.

  “Well,” answered Lucy, “the situation is like this––and I’m not trying to rope you in on anything, as you say, so you needn’t look suspicious. My father has become so discouraged with the way things are going that he has given the entire Dos S Ranch to me––if I can manage it. Now I know that you both have quit because you don’t approve of my father’s orders about the sheep. I don’t know what your plans are but I want to get a new superintendent, and that’s where I need your assistance, Mr. Creede.”

  She paused long enough to bestow a confiding smile upon the rodéo boss, and then hurried on to explain her position.

  “Of course you understand how it is with father. He has been a judge, and it wouldn’t do for a man in his position to break the laws. But I want you two men to tell me before you go just what you think I ought to do to save my cattle, and you can say whatever you please. Mr. Creede, if you were a woman and owned the Dos S outfit, what would you do about the sheep?”

  For a minute Creede sat silent, surveying the little lady from beneath his shaggy hair.

  “Well,” he said judicially, “I think I’d do one of two things: I’d either marry some nice kind man whose judgment I could trust, and turn the job over to him,”––he glanced sideways at Hardy as he spoke,––“or I’d hire some real mean, plug-ugly feller to wade in and clean ’em out. Failin’ in that, I think I’d turn the whole outfit over to Rufe here and go away and fergit about it.”

  He added these last words with a frank directness which left no doubt as to his own convictions in the matter, and Lucy turned an inquiring eye upon Hardy. He was busily engaged in pounding a hole in the ground with a rock, and Lucy noted for the first time a trace of silver in his hair. The setting sun cast deep shadows in the set lines of his face and when he finally looked up his eyes were bloodshot and haggard.

  “There’s no use in talking to me about that job,” he said morosely. “I’ve got tired of taking orders from a man that doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and I want to use my own judgment for a while. We won’t let anything happen to your cattle, Miss Lucy, and I thank you very much, but I’m afraid I can’t do it.”

  He stopped, and bowed his head, hammering moodily away at his hole in the rocky ground.

  “Excuse me a minute, Miss Ware,” said Creede, rising to his feet as the silence became oppressive. “Come over here, Rufe, I want to talk with you.”

  They stood with their heads together, Jeff tapping the little man on the chest with every word, and still there was the same dogged resistance. “Well, come on and let’s find out,” protested Creede at last, impatiently dragging him back.

  “Miss Ware,” he said politely, “what do you expect of this here supe? I might want that job myself, later on,” he observed importantly.

  Lucy smiled at the bare-faced fraud and hastened to abet it.

  “I expect him to look after my cattle,” she responded promptly, “and to protect my best interests according to his own judgment. The only thing I insist upon is that he leave his gun at home.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Creede briefly. “And I needed the job, too,” he added lugubriously. “How about your foreman?” he inquired, as if snatching at a straw. “Same thing, eh? Well, I’ll go you�
�–next month.”

  He laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and crowded his big black sombrero down over his eyes until it gave him a comical air of despair.

  “Luck’s gone,” he remarked, reaching parenthetically for a cigarette paper. “See you later.” And, with a last roguish twinkle at Miss Lucy, he slouched off toward the fire.

  His luck indeed had gone, but somewhere in that giant carcass which harbored the vindictive hate of an Apache, and the restless energy of a Texano, there still lingered the exuberant joyousness of a boy, the indomitable spirit of the pioneer, resigned to any fate so long as there is a laugh in it. As he drifted into the crowd Lucy’s heart went out to him; he was so big and strong and manly in this, the final eclipse of his waning fortunes.

  “Mr. Creede is a noble kind of a man, isn’t he?” she said, turning to where Hardy was still standing. “Won’t you sit down, Rufus, and let’s talk this over for a minute. But before you decide anything, I want you to get a good night’s sleep. You are a free man now, you know, and if there’s any worrying to be done it’s my funeral––isn’t it?”

  If he heard her at all Hardy made no response to the jest. He stood before her, swaying dizzily as he groped about for his hat, which had fallen from his hand. Then at last a faint smile broke through the drawn lines in his face.

  “That’s right,” he said, sinking down at her side, and as he settled back against the tree his eyes closed instantly, like a child whose bedtime has come. “I’m––I’m so dead tired I can’t talk straight, Lucy––to say nothing of think. But––I’ll take care of you. We aren’t sheeped out yet. Only––only I can’t––I forget what I’m going to say.” His head fell forward as he spoke, his hands hung heavy, and he slipped slowly to the ground, fast asleep.

  After two days and nights of turmoil and passion his troubles were ended, suddenly; and as she raised him up Lucy Ware bent down quickly under cover of the dusk and kissed his rumpled hair.