The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  "'Lo, Bob. Visitin'?"

  "Yeah: kinda. I've only done thirty-odd miles of ridin' today, an' I'm feelin' right fresh. What you say we keep on goin' an' visit yore wagon?" suggested the sheriff.

  The foreman's face became suddenly grave.

  "Anythin' wrong down there?"

  "No," answered the sheriff. "I just want to talk to you where no long ears can overhear us."

  "There ain't nobody in th' bunkhouse but th' cook," said the foreman.

  "Who's th' BLR stray man workin' at yore wagon?" asked the sheriff.

  "Young Baylor."

  "You seen anythin' a mite suspicious since you started this round-up?" persisted the sheriff.

  "How you mean?"

  "Anythin' at all: funny actions, strange tracks, cached cattle, extra large number of yearlin' mavericks: anythin' at all."

  "No, I haven't seen anythin' special; but you fellers must have, judgin' by that bunch of Association mavericks you threw in with ourn," said the foreman. "It's a howlin' shame to turn over all them yearlin's to th' Association."

  "Yeah; but it's done."

  "Just what's on yore mind, anyhow, Bob?" asked the foreman, curiously, looking closely at his companion.

  "Take a ride down th' river a little way, an' I'll tell you," answered the sheriff.

  "Well, I just come from down there, but if I must, then I must. All right: come along."

  They got back to the ranch an hour before suppertime, and the foreman was very thoughtful; but they sat on the washbench near the bunkhouse door and talked of those things they would have talked about ordinarily. Supper found them hungry and wordless, and after they had left the table they sat in the bunkroom with Red Perdue and another puncher and talked some more.

  On the following morning Bob and the foreman were the last to leave the table, delaying purposely. When they were alone they walked into the kitchen, and the cook casually gave the sheriff the bundle of food he had been told to get ready for him. There were no restaurants where Corson expected to be that afternoon and night. If his plans were changed later in the day the food would be a small loss.

  It was noon when he reached Packers Gap, which, he assured himself, was as good a way to ride as any in the direction of Crooked Creek and the territory of the Baylor wagon. The truth of the matter was that he wanted another glance up that side draw, below the Gap. He might see her standing in the door of the little adobe, and any extra riding would be justified by that. He would not force his presence on her, of course; but a man never could tell, beforehand, just how his luck happened to be running.

  He held the horse to a walk down the steep pitch of the trail on the west side of the Gap, and when he reached the entrance to the side draw he turned and rode part way up the incline, and stopped. Two saddled horses were standing before the corral, and a horseman was slowly riding toward the house. The figure was very familiar, even at that distance. The man had certain tricks, certain peculiarities and mannerisms that proclaimed his identity. It was the Baylor rider who had quit the JC wagon. What was he doing up here? The round-up was a very busy time, and a man should be out on the range with the cattle. The answer was not a pleasant one. That woman was downright pretty, and a pretty woman is a mighty strong magnet on a cattle range.

  He felt a surge of resentment and had kneed his horse and sent it forward, when the door of the house opened and the woman suddenly stood in the opening. The Baylor rider took off his hat with a flourish, and Corson, strangely vexed, removed his own to keep things even. The Baylor rider's back was to him, and Corson suddenly yielded to an urging for caution and backed down the slope. While he was doing so the woman raised her hand in a swift gesture, and he raised his own in reply. That Baylor puncher thought that she was gesturing to him, the conceited damned fool! Again she raised her hand, and Corson's spirits fell as swiftly as they had risen: the gesture was unmistakable—she was warning him away! Oh, well: that was all right, for the moment.

  He had sense enough left to him to turn the horse and push on past the entrance of the draw; but, once out of sight of anyone at the house or the corral, he swung from the saddle, cached the horse behind a huge mass of boulders, and worked back on foot. He wasn't on any man's payroll, and he had a right to waste a little time if he wanted to, if it could be called a waste of time. He was finding that he had a lot of interest in the Baylor sorehead.

  He saw that interesting person stop before the door of the house, tuck his big hat under an arm, and turn sideways in the saddle; and then the pleasing figure in the doorway stepped back, and the heavy door closed solidly behind her. Corson felt like shouting. That was the proper treatment! By God, for a lead peso he'd— Then he saw movement at the corral. Four men came into sight, two of them going into the enclosure. The Baylor rider waited a moment and then, with a gesture of anger, slammed the hat on his head, whirled his mount, and raced toward the saddled horses and their riders. Two more horses came out of the corral, were hastily saddled, and then the mounted group turned his way and rode swiftly down the draw. The sheriff slipped back into better cover, and soon watched them as they rode past him, down the arroyo.

  "Why didn't you throw yore hat in th' door, Slade?" laughingly asked the oldest of the five.

  "He shore didn't get a chance to, Pop," said one of the younger men. "Alice called th' play before he made it."

  The four riders laughed, but the Baylor man, whose name seemed to be Slade, was sullen and angry. He made a low-voiced retort and pushed on down the arroyo, bringing up the rear. Gradually the sounds of their horses died out.

  "Alice," muttered Corson, smiling. He moved from his cover and led the horse out to the trail. "That's th' kind of a name for a woman: short, sweet, an' plain. An' Slade: huh!" He remembered that there had been a Slade before his time, a famous Slade, and a man who had been a man, until he had gone wrong. He had gone bad and had to be hanged. "Well, I'll mebby find out, some time, if this Slade is as good as th' other, as far as nerve is concerned. Come on," he said to the horse as he touched the saddlehorn. "We're goin' visitin'."

  He saw that the door was open when he turned the corner of the arroyo and entered the draw. That meant that she knew he would not ride on without calling. How did she know that? There was a whole lot of difference between having a door slammed in a fellow's face and having one opened for him even before he came into sight. The thought made him laugh, happily, exultantly, and the surprised and indignant horse leaped forward under the roll of the rowels.

  The bay's hoofs made a different sound from the hoofs of any other horse on that range. He was a first-class cutting-out animal, and he was shod especially for that work, for working with cattle, and according to his rider's own ideas. He was shod only on the rear feet. That meant that his shoulders were not crippled and stiff, that he was sure-footed, and that he did his stopping with his rear hoofs, throwing his weight where it belonged. When the round-up had started, Corson had shod him for working with the boys at the wagon, and then had found that he could not take a hand with the outfit, and since then he simply had neglected to shoe him all around.

  The bay was like a cat, and now he stopped and swung like a cat, his hocks almost touching the edge of the porch. Corson's hat lifted, dropped swiftly, and came to rest on the horn of the saddle. He smiled down into the grave, wistful face looking up at him, and his blood was fairly leaping through his veins. Great land of cows! Nobody could blame that Baylor rider who carried a name right hard to live up to. In a moment he was standing beside her, and he checked his rising arms. If there was anything on earth that he wanted, he was looking at it now, looking at it with telltale eyes.

  "But you shouldn't come here," she was saying in her low, even voice. Corson thrilled to it. "I motioned for you not to come. Strangers should keep away from this ranch, this draw. It's not safe."

  "Yes: you motioned for me not to come; but you knew I would!" he answered, swiftly, tumultuously.

  His voice, somehow, did not sound like his own. "
You knew I'd come I You knew I couldn't help it, that I had to come!"

  "But you shouldn't!" she replied, bravely; and it took courage to tell him that. She would not try to fool herself, for she well knew how she felt toward this man, and was glad of it; glad of it even if it meant pain and sorrow at the same time.

  "Why?" he demanded, quickly, taking a short step forward as she stepped back. "Why shouldn't I come?"

  "It's not safe. Strangers have no business here."

  "Then that's easy! I'm no stranger. My name's Bob Corson, of th' JC, over east of th' Coppermine. I'll wait right here till th' family's all together, an' make myself known, an' also why I'm doin' it. If I can't come here just because I'm a stranger, I'll soon take care of that."

  "Oh, please don't. That's just quibbling, an' this is no time for that."

  "I'm sorry; but I was in earnest. I meant just what I said. I'm not goin' to be kept away from this house just because strangers ain't welcome here. I'm not goin' to be kept from seein' you just because it's dangerous! Let me tell you, Alice, that danger works both ways! An' I'm aimin' to stay right here an' meet it face to face when it passes that corral. Danger!" his voice rang out exultantly, rang out like the tones of a bugle. "What's danger, when a man can look at a woman like you?" He checked his arms again and held himself back by sheer strength of will. "You knew that I'd ride up this draw when I saw that th' door was open. You knew it!"

  "Yes," she admitted, her eyes for a moment closing, but opening again to regard him evenly, levelly. She could feel the burning of her throat and cheeks. "I— I knew. Perhaps that was why I didn't want—didn't want you to come. And yet I did want you to. But you must not ride up here again. You must not! And now you must go on again. You must go back the way you came; over the Gap. Not the other way, after them: please."

  "That man Slade," he said harshly, ignoring her words—those of them that he wanted to ignore. He was taut as a fiddle string, and near humming like one. "You don't want that man Slade an' me to meet!" he said, challengingly. Perhaps he was acting like a damned fool: all right, he was feeling like one and revelling in it.

  She was gravely examining him, his tanned, lean face; his wide, sloping shoulders; his lean, small waist. The slick leather chaps came in for their share of scrutiny, but it was on his low-hung guns that her seemingly fascinated gaze lingered. Her face was flushed, her eyes alight; but her gaze was level and calm as she raised her eyes and answered him.

  "No. I don't want you and him to meet," she said, simply, without emphasis. At his quick flush her lips straightened and a hurt look came into her eyes. "Please don't misunderstand me."

  His next exhalation was a gusty one. To quiet the trembling of his knees, he spread his feet, and found that to be no cure. He took a half step forward, his arms swiftly going around her. For a moment she did not resist, or try to evade his lips; and then she slowly pushed free and held him back. Tears were in her eyes as she looked at his flushed and eager face.

  "You—you shouldn't have done that. You had no right. I've asked you to ride on again. Won't you go, please?" She was calm again, externally, but her voice was low and hesitant. "I'm just selfish enough not to want you to ride into danger. You must not come here again."

  He laughed grimly. Danger! Danger was only a price tag, and was usually a guarantee that the forbidden goods were well worth more than what was asked for them. He stepped forward again, but stopped against her open hand.

  "All right! An' that's easy!" he said, his teeth flashing in a swift smile. Perhaps he was going loco, but it certainly had its compensations. "Instead of me comin' here, you go with me! Go with me to Bentley, Willow Springs. We can get married in either place, an' then go on to th' ranch. It's easy, Alice!"

  She was studying him, reading him, and, somehow, not greatly surprised by his proposal; and she found a sudden joy in what she saw; but she slowly shook her head. Marry him? Take to the man she knew she loved the stigma of a dishonest father, of dishonest brothers? She had no proof of their dishonesty, but she needed none; for weeks she had felt it to be true. Go to her husband as the daughter of a thief? She closed her eyes to hide the pain she knew was in them, and shook her head again.

  "I don't want to crowd you, Alice!" he pleaded. "Mebby I'm not doin' this right. I don't know. I never played a hand in a game like this, an' I don't know; but I'm tellin' you that no matter how strange it is to me, I aim to play it through, an' to win it—to win it for both of us!"

  "Please, please go," she said, her words hardly audible. "Don't make it any harder than it is. Please!"

  "We don't have to go to town an' get married right off," he said, eagerly, hopefully trying another lead. "There's Mrs. French, over on th' Turkey Track. I'll take you there, an' you can stay with her, an' make up yore mind when you want to!" He laughed again, ringingly. "There never will be any danger to me in ridin' up to th' Turkey Track! I told you we could get it all figgered out! I'll saddle you a horse, an' we'll go to th' Turkey Track. Alice, I love you; an' I got a right strong feelin' that you love me. I'll go saddle th' horse."

  "No! No! Can't you understand? Won't you listen to me? I—can't go with you. I can't leave here. Why do you torture me? Won't you please go?"

  "Alice, I don't know yore cards or yore play; but I don't question them. Not nohow. I don't want to make trouble for you, but I can't keep from seein' you. I can't keep away from here as long as you are here. But I will try to use my head. An' I've taken th' right to ask you a question; an' I believe that yo're fair enough to answer me fairly: is that Baylor rider botherin' you?"

  "If he is, I have a father and three brothers," she answered, and then flushed. "I didn't mean it that way. I didn't mean to be impolite. You must know that. But again I tell you to stay away from here."

  "Why?" he blurted, and then raised his hand swiftly. "Don't answer that. I didn't mean it. You'll tell me, of yore own accord, some day. I'm makin' that a promise. An' some day you'll tell me somethin' more than that! An' that's a promise, too. There never was a bigger promise than that in yore life or mine! Next time I ride past, open th' door an' I'll turn in; keep it closed an' I'll keep on goin'. I promise you that. I don't want to worry you. I wouldn't worry you for—" He cleared his throat and felt like a glorious fool. "Good-bye, Alice!"

  She did not answer. She could not answer. She just stood there and watched him mount and wheel and ride away. She feared that she would choke. He passed the corral, dropping steadily down the slope, and then he was lost to her sight. She waited for the abrupt dying out of the hoofbeats, the strange hoofbeats, with the peculiar softness of two of them. She had never before heard hoofbeats that sounded like those. They did not die out abruptly; they slowly faded and at last ceased; and then she waited almost breathlessly for an endorsement that she did not need. It came, the clear, loud echo that told her he was not going back the way he had come; not going over the Gap as she had asked him to; he was riding down the arroyo toward Bentley, following the five riders who had just gone that way. She bit her lip, slowly shook her head, and slowly, almost reluctantly, crossed the porch and entered the house; but for some reason she did not close the door behind her. It stood wide open, in view of the arroyo trail.

  CHAPTER VI

  CORSON'S ride down the draw was an incident which he never clearly remembered, a vague haze of motion which meant nothing. He did not remember turning into the arroyo or heading down it; but with that steep slope and the difficult trail up it well behind him, the horse preferred to leave it that way, and to take the easier trail. The animal had been to Bentley more than once, the way was familiar and all downhill, and the hotel oats were good. For these reasons the sheriff was riding to town instead of somewhere else, and in his present state of mind one way was as good as another.

  Gradually he came back to the present moment and began to get command of his wild and intoxicating thoughts; and, as his command grew, his thoughts reached out more and more and finally caused him to remember the riders who had gone d
own the trail ahead of him. Here was a possible menace, and he shook himself out of the pleasant land of daydreams and gave a growing attention to his immediate surroundings and the status of his affairs as an official.

  His mind ran back in time and showed him the trail which lay ahead. The bends were not sharp, and thus somewhat cut down the possibilities for ambush. Then he smiled to himself: it seemed that a man in love could be a damned fool. The riders ahead of him had no reason to be thinking of ambushes. They were totally unaware of his presence in the arroyo. They had no reason to suspect that he was anywhere in their vicinity. He bent his mind on sterner, although hardly more treacherous to a single man, things than love. Black Jack Meadows, his three sons, and Slade were riding ahead of him toward Bentley. Alice's fear for the safety of strangers around the JM ranch must have a foundation. What, exactly, was it?

  His mind seethed with possibilities; possibilities which he felt, lacking proof as he did, to be probabilities. They were nebulous, vague, without form or substance, but they were there nevertheless. They mixed and merged, stood out clearly for a moment, shifted tantalizingly, and mixed again to form a new combination, to become a bewildering, chaotic mental cloud. What were some of them? What did they mean, individually and collectively? Then he remembered the look in Alice's eyes, and came perilously near getting off the mental trail, which was an easy thing to do.

  A cached herd of yearling mavericks, of three distinct and easily recognizable breeds. A sequestered bunch of cows and calves, all Whitefaces. An isolated group of calves, so freshly separated from their mothers as to be quickly claimed by them when thrown together with them in the herd. Weaning took about two weeks—that was close enough as an average time —so they could not have been separated for very long. A bunch of Durham calves being weaned on the Chain range, where no one but Chain riders ordinarily rode, and on a part of that range where even Chain riders seldom went. Whiteface cows and calves holed up on the Chain range. There were the actions of the Baylor stray man. There was the JM outfit, which almost no one seemed to know much about. It was up in the hills near Packers Gap, off the little-used trail down Lucas Arroyo, and right handy to the Kiowa and Crooked Creek watersheds. These were the discrete facts from which he had to evolve the proper pattern.