The Free Range

by Francis William Sullivan

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE HEATHEN CHINEE

  Hard-winter Sims, lying at full length on the grass, indulging in anotherof his frequent siestas, was rudely awakened by one of his herders.

  "More sheep they come," said the man.

  "Great Michaeljohn!" swore Sims, heaving his long length erect. "More?"

  "Yes; it is Rubino with the third flock."

  Sims cast a practiced eye over the sides of the swelling hills, wherealready two thousand animals, the second consignment, were feeding. It wasnow a week since he had met Bud Larkin after the stampede, and he wasworried over the non-appearance of his chief. Here, in the hills of thesouthern hook of the Big Horn Mountains, he had fed the second flock upone valley and down the next, waiting for Larkin's arrival or some wordfrom him.

  Hurrying south after that midnight meeting, he had reached his destinationjust in time to check the advance of the second two thousand that hadcome the night before. Knowing the hard march north, but ignorant of theconditions now prevailing on the Bar T range, he had hesitated to exposemore of Larkin's animals to ruin.

  The arrival of this third flock complicated matters in the extreme, sincethe feeding-ground became constantly farther away from the originalrendezvous.

  He looked in the direction indicated by the herder and saw the cloud ofdust that betokened the advance of the new flock. Soon the tinkle of thebells and the blethering of the animals themselves reached him, and hestarted leisurely back to meet Rubino.

  He found the sheep in good physical shape, for they had been traveling ata natural pace, a condition not always easily brought about, and totallydependent on the skill of the herder. If the dogs or men follow constantlybehind the animals, they, feeling that they are being constantly urged,will go faster and faster, neglecting to crop, and so starve on their feetin the midst of abundant feed. For this reason herders often walk slowlyahead of their flock, holding them back.

  "Where are the next two thousand?" Sims asked Rubino.

  "Two days behind, and coming slowly."

  "And the last?"

  "Three days behind them, but farther to the east."

  Sims whistled. He realized that in five days, if nothing were done, hewould have eight thousand sheep on his hands, scattered over the hills inevery direction and subject to heavy loss both by wild animals andstraying.

  With the aplomb of a general disposing his forces, Sims indicated therising hill on which Rubino should bed his flock down, and watchedcritically as they went through this evolution.

  Sheep are the most unresponsive to human affection of any domesticatedanimal. Never, in all the thousands of years of shepherding, have theycome to recognize man as an integer. They still cling to the flock life.Even when attacked by wild animals at night they do not seek the shepherd,but stand and bawl to the valiant (?) rams to beat off the enemy. On themarch, the dogs do the actual herding, so that the "muttons" do not lookto man for their orders.

  The only occasion that they appeal to a human being is when their bodiescrave salt. Then they run to him with a peculiar guttural cry, and, havingbeen supplied, forget the herder immediately. Some people have tried toprove that this trait predicates a recognition of the human being assuch, but it seems far more likely that they regard him with the sameindifference as a giver that they do the water-hole which quenches theirthirst.

  Without intelligence, or the direct appreciation of man, they are entirelyunattractive, ranking far below the dog, horse, or even cow. Consequentlybut few men in the sheep business have any affection for them. Of thesefew, Hard-winter Sims was probably the leader. Something closely akin to amaternal obligation was constantly at work in him, and the one thing thatbrought instant response was the cry of distress of a lamb or ewe.

  Now, as Rubino's flock dotted itself over the hillside in the sunset, Simswatched what was to him the most beautiful thing in the world. The soundswere several--the mothering mutter of the ewes, the sharp blat of somelamb skipping for dinner, the plaintive cries of the "grannies"--wetherswho, through some perverted maternal instinct, seek to mother some straylamb as their own--and the deeper, contented throating of the rams.

  The dogs, panting and thirsty with the long day's march, saw that theircharges were finally settled, except for the few lone sentinels againstthe cobalt sky. Then they trotted with lolling tongues to the littlestream that trickled down the valley and waded in to drink. After thatthey sought out their masters and sat beside them with pricked ears,wondering why no preparations for supper were going forward.

  To the herders after the long trail the luxury of a cook wagon wasappreciated. Only the first and last detachments carried one, and Rubino'smen had cooked their meals over tiny fires made in the barren places, asthe herdsmen have done since time immemorial.

  The cook, a sullen man at best, grumbled audibly at the increase of hisduties. Where before he had cooked for six men, now he must cook and cleanup for twelve. All things considered, it was a "helluva" note, hedeclared, until Sims, overhearing his remarks, booted him a couple oftimes around the cook wagon, so that he much preferred the arduous dutiesof his calling.

  "If yuh could only make every man love his job by contrast with somethin'else a lot worse, what a peaceful world this would be," thought Sims."Now, sheep-herdin' ain't so plumb gentle yuh could call it a vacation,but when I think of cows an' a round-up I shore do bless them oldblackfaces for bein' alive."

  Finally the long-drawn yell of the cook gave notice that the meal wasready and all hands fell to with a will. They had hardly got started,however, when there came a sound of galloping feet from the north thatbrought them all upstanding and reaching for their weapons.

  Over a near-by hill swept a body of perhaps fifty horsemen, each with arifle across his saddle and a revolver at hip. They were typicalplainsmen, and as the last radiance of the sun lighted them up, Sims couldsee that they wore the regular broad-brimmed white Stetsons of the cattlemen.

  "Put down yore guns, boys," said Sims after a moment's thought. "Let's getout o' this peaceable if we can."

  The men put away their weapons and waited in silence. The horsemen sweptup at the tireless trot of the plains until they recognized the tall,gaunt figure of the chief herdsman. Then, with a yell, they galloped intocamp, drew rein abruptly, and dismounted.

  Sims recognized the leader as Jimmie Welsh, the foreman of Larkin'sMontana sheep ranch, and a happy, contented grin spread over his face.

  "Glory be, boys!" he yelled, going forward to meet the horsemen. "Rustlearound there, cookee," he called back over his shoulder, "yuh got companyfer supper!"

  The riders after their long journey were only too glad to see a permanentcamp, and dismounted with grunts of pleasure and relief. They had come adistance of nearly two hundred and fifty miles in four days, and theirhorses were no longer disposed to pitch when their riders got upon them inthe morning. The party was composed of all the available men from Larkin'sranch and others from the neighboring places.

  In these men the hatred of cowmen and their ways was even more intensethan _vice versa_, this being a result, no doubt, of the manifold insultsthey had suffered, and the fact that, as a rule, cowboys far outnumbersheep-herders and run them off the country at will. The call to arms takennorth by Miguel had met with instant and enthusiastic response, and thesemen had come south to wipe out in one grand melee their past disgraces.

  During supper Sims told of Larkin's offer of five dollars a day, and theriders nodded approvingly; it was the customary hire of fighting men inthe range wars.

  "But how did you get down over the Bar T range?" asked the chief herder.

  "We done that at night," replied Jimmie Welsh, who was a little man with aruddy face, bright eyes and a crisp manner of speech. "Tell me what'sthat ungodly mess up in Little River; it was night an' we couldn't see?"

  "Two thousand of Larkin's sheep," replied Sims, laconically, and an angrymurmur ran through the men. "Old Bissell, of the Bar T, stampeded 'em whenwe were just a-goin' to get 'e
m through safe. Shot up one herder, lammedcookee over the head an' raised ructions generally. Yes, boys, I'm plumbshore we have one or two little matters to ask them Bar T punchersabout."

  "But what's your orders, Simmy?" asked Welsh.

  "I'm in charge o' the hull outfit till the boss shows up an' can dowhatever I want. I'm gettin' real concerned about him though, not hearin'a word for a week. I 'low if he don't turn up to-morrow I'll have to sendyou boys lookin' fer him."

  But the morrow brought its own solution of the problem.

  In the middle of the morning a lone horseman was seen approaching over thehills, and the restless sheepmen, eager for any sport, spread out into averitable ambuscade, taking position behind rocks and in depressions alongthe hills on either hand.

  The horseman was very evidently a poor rider, for, instead of holding thereins easily and jauntily in his upturned right hand, he was clinging tothe pommel of the saddle, while the pony slipped and slid along thedifficult path.

  Within a furlong of the camp, the man's nationality was made apparent bythe flapping shirt and trousers he wore, as well as the black, coarse cuethat whipped from side to side.

  Among the secreted sheepmen a grin spread from face to face at the sightof this distressful figure, evidently in real wo from hours in the hardsaddle. About a hundred yards from camp a single shot rang out, and thenthere arose such a wild chorus of reports and yells as would haveterrified a stone image.

  The cow pony (which of all horses loathes a bad rider) showed the whitesof his eyes wickedly, laid his ears back into his mane and bucked madlywith fright. The Chinaman, chattering like a monkey, described a perfectparabola and alighted right side up on the only tuft of grass within tenyards.

  In an instant he bounced to his feet, took one look at the surroundingsociety, and made a bolt for the cook-wagon, the one place that wasfamiliar to him.

  At the door he encountered the sheepmen's regular cook coming out to seewhat the trouble was, and the next moment witnessed the near-annihilationof the yellow peril.

  Sims and Jimmie Welsh pulled the burly cook off in time to save theOriental, and the latter sat up with a dazed, frightened air.

  "Yah! Makee much damee hellee!" he announced.

  "Too much damee hellee," said Sims sententiously. "John, you good fighter.Me like you. What you do here?"

  "Me bling message," and he reached into his blouse and drew out a piece ofpaper folded and pinned.

  This he handed to Sims, who promptly opened it and started to read. In aminute he stopped and yelled for everyone who was not in the immediatecircle to gather round and listen. Then, haltingly, he read aloud thefollowing:

  Dear Sims:

  Ah Sin who brings you this is a bang-up cook, and I am sending him to you to get a job. Pay him fifty dollars on the spot in advance for his first month. I told him you would. He was the Bar T cook, I am sorry to say, but there was no other way of getting a message to you than to send him.

  For the last few days I have been a prisoner in the "guest room" of the Bar T ranch-house. This is the middle room on the northwest side. After a certain row here I was clapped into confinement, and the Chinaman had to do the honors for me at all meals. I got friendly with him and found he was getting only thirty a month.

  When he told me he owned one of the horses in the corral the whole thing was easy. I offered him fifty, gave him exact directions how to find your camp, and told him the best time to start.

  If he ever reaches you, you will know where I am, and I want some of you to come and get me out of this. The cattlemen from all over are here, and they accuse me of standing in with the rustlers. What will happen to me I don't know, but I'm sure of this, it won't be healthy.

  I should think the boys would be down from the north by this time.

  Now, Simmy, keep everything under your hat and work quietly. Let the sheep pile up if you have to. Things aren't ripe here yet to move 'em north.

  I'll be looking for you any day.

  Bud.

  When Sims had read the entire note twice, a puzzled silence ensued. Menlifted their hats and scratched their heads meditatively. Here among fiftymen there was plenty of energy for action once the action was suggested,but very little initiative.

  "I allow we'll shore have to get 'im out o' there," seemed to be theconsensus of opinion.

  "Shore, boys, shore," said Sims impatiently; "but how? That's thequestion. There's about a dozen real smart shooters on that ranch, and I'mplenty sure they don't all sleep to once. Besides, the worst part of it'llbe gettin' near the dum place. If a hoss squeals or whinnies the rescuin'party might as well pick out their graves, 'cause yuh see only two orthree can make the trip."

  "Mebbe they can an' mebbe they can't," broke in Jimmie Welsh, his little,bright eyes twinkling with suppressed merriment. "I should think the hulloutfit, cook-wagons, an' all, could make the visit to the Bar T."

  "Yeah?" remarked Sims politely scornful but inquisitive. "Tell us aboutit."

  And Welsh did.