CHAPTER XI
Hugh Gaylord had, like all men, experienced some rather violent surprises in his time. They had been coming exceptionally thick and fast since he had come to Smoky Land. His changed attitude toward life and his behavior in regard to the flocks had been amazing experiences in themselves. He had just experienced a rather violent shock on beholding the warlike behavior of Spot. The previous night he had been through the unusual experience of finding the body of a murdered man in a tent. But he suddenly realized that he was facing the most amazing situation of all.
Death, after all, in some manner or other comes to all living creatures. Hugh had no real reason for amazement at that still form in the herder’s tent. He was ready to confess he didn’t know a great deal about sheep: possibly Spot’s episode with the coyote would not have so surprised a more experienced herder. But now he felt as if a number of his preconceived ideas had been violently knocked out of him, and that is always dumbfounding. His camp-tender was not a Mexican, nor yet a laboring man of a certain type, but a girl.
He had seen some thousands of girls in his life, yet he found himself staring at the slim form on the horse as if he were gazing upon a miracle of nature. Every experience of the past few days might have been in some manner expected and he had only reacted because of qualities within himself; his experiences with Broken Fang and the coyote were wholly fitting in this wild, mountainous land, but he had never dreamed but that he had left all womankind a thousand miles behind him. This was a man’s land, not a place for the tender flesh of girls. This was the home of savage beasts, a region of dark forests and forbidding peaks, never a land of gentleness and ease such as women should know. He realized with a start that evidently his good manners had been left behind him also, for he was gazing at her in open-mouthed astonishment.
If the girl on the horse had been an Indian squaw, even an aged and wrinkled frontiersman’s dame, he would have felt that the axis of the world still stood at the proper angle. But this girl was white, in spite of her tan and the high color—not put on with a rabbit’s foot—in her cheeks. She was young, not more than twenty-two at most. And strangest of all she was pretty past all denial.
Hugh felt as if there must be some mistake. Perhaps in these lonely days in the hills he had lost the power of discrimination. He hadn’t seen a girl for endless weeks—centuries they seemed to him—and he had heard that such isolation affects the point of view. The girl might be white; by a long chance she might even be young; but by no possible circumstance had she a right to be pretty. Beauty dwelt in far cities, in gentle lands and distant, not in these rugged mountains. Yet the truth of his first observation became ever more apparent.
He steadied himself, closed his mouth, and tried to stand at his ease. The girl swung down from the horse. That motion, graceful as the leap of a deer, explained in a measure the mystery. It revealed a suppleness, a strength and litheness of body such as might stand the test of existence even on the frontier.
Hugh noted that she was a slender girl, rather tall, that she wore a soft felt hat over her chestnut hair, and that she had dark eyes under rather marvelous brows. Hugh was no amateur in regard to women. Now that he had regained his self-control he made a swift and unerring appraisal; yet found his amazement deepening at every instant. There was a freshness, an appeal about her slight figure, suggesting perfect health and superb physical development rather than weakness, and he was not blind to the gentleness and breeding in her soft features.
She seemed perfectly composed, wholly at ease. In her simplicity she found no embarrassment under his frank gaze. “Where’s Dan?” she asked.
Hugh straightened, somewhat startled. He had expected some sort of a formal greeting, a few words in apology or introduction, not this straight-out, uncompromising “Where’s Dan?” It seemed to him she acted somewhat suspicious of him, also.
She had, he observed, a well-bred voice. She spoke in clear, level tones that pleased his ear. The voice was wholly lacking in affectation, but it was simply brimming and vibrant with health and high spirits. Hugh noticed something else, too, and smiled inwardly. He couldn’t remember ever having been spoken to in just that way before. The level, impersonal tone implied an insurmountable social barrier between them. It was a somewhat similar tone, he remembered, to that in which he had occasionally spoken to a servant. In this case he obviously was the inferior.
He paused and reflected as to the whereabouts of Dan. The truth came to him in a moment. Dan of course referred to his predecessor. “He’s dead,” Hugh answered simply.
For the instant he was frightened. It occurred to him, when the words had gone too far to recall, that he should have been gentler. He might have prepared the girl, in some degree, for the shock. He didn’t want her to faint. But if he had expected any hysteria or excitement he was doomed to a fresh surprise. She opened her eyes; and it seemed to Hugh that she closed her lips—in a fine, hard line—just for an instant. “Dead?” she repeated slowly. “Killed—or did he just die?”
“He was killed,” Hugh answered in the straightforward way of one on a witness stand. “I found him dead in his tent. He’d been shot. The black dog was shot too.”
“And who are you?”
Hugh wasn’t exactly accustomed to this straight-out sort of questioning, but he mustered his faculties and made his answers. “Gaylord—Hugh Gaylord,” he said simply. “And if you want me to I’ll tell you all I know of this affair.”
“Perhaps that would be the best plan,” she agreed.
“I came over to the camp—to borrow something. I was with another chap—an Indian, Pete. We found this poor beggar dead. Pete started with him into the settlements to-day. It’s a wonder you didn’t meet him on the trail.”
“He probably took the other fork, heading toward Seven Mile. I came up from Horse Creek.”
As Hugh didn’t know the two places apart, or what they represented, this information did not clear matters up for him to any great extent. “He left me here,” Hugh went on, “and as I didn’t have anything in particular to do—I took care of the sheep—until you could hire a regular herder.”
The girl looked puzzled but made no immediate reply. “And you’re not an experienced herder?”
“No. I’ve never worked—I’ve never worked at it before.”
“Then how did you know what to do?”
“I didn’t know. I let ’em do what they wanted to, and followed along.”
Then the girl laughed,—for the first time. It was a tinkling, musical sound, inexpressibly girlish, and Hugh laughed boyishly himself. It was their first real moment of understanding; and it seemed to Hugh that a new impulse, a curious sense of impending events, a new stir and vitality had been born in the air. He might have wondered at the freshness and happiness in his own laugh, as much as in hers. It was an hour of miracles.
“You couldn’t have done better—and I needn’t tell you that you’ve probably saved me—and my father—hundreds of dollars. The coyotes and the wolves would have been busy all night and to-day. I’d be glad enough to pay you well for this time you’ve spent—and give you a steady job if you want it.”
She spoke perfectly naturally, and Hugh knew that his torn and soiled clothes and his unshaven face had done their work. Obviously she never guessed his true position. He wondered how she explained his presence in the hills and his reasons for staying with the sheep.
She did have her own theories, but they were far indeed from the truth. Her mind leaped at once to what seemed to her the most plausible explanation,—that Hugh was a humble white man, friend of Pete’s, possibly a laborer out of work, or a hungry wanderer from the East. He had taken the herder’s place in hopes of securing a permanent position when the camp-tender returned.
“Before I decide to stay,” Hugh replied steadily, “I’d like to know a few things.”
“We’ll pay you two dollars a day—and furnish you with supplies,” she assured him soberly.
Hugh did not smile. After all, the wage was an important consideration. The girl was evidently a partner with her father in this sheep-raising venture, and possibly for the sake of economy but probably because of the acute shortage of labor (Hugh had not forgotten the Indian’s words) had worked as camp-tender herself. Her perfect health, her strong, lithe body, a skill with horses and a wholesome scarcity of nonsense in her disposition had enabled her to fill the position well and in all probability to enjoy it.
Hugh studied her face with growing interest. In his sphere of life girls did not drive trains of pack horses into the rugged hills, do a man’s work in the open, have dealings with uneducated herders, and still laugh like silver bells.
She wore, he noticed, a rather heavy revolver slung at her hip. Her hand was small and shapely, but it was also brown and firm. They would make, Hugh thought, a rather dangerous combination. The eyes, wide apart and bright, looked unusually healthy and clear, and Hugh imagined that they could see quite straight over revolver sights. The man understood why she had been able to ply her occupation in safety. Woe to the herder that would presume upon their isolation!
“Labor is scarce, I suppose?” Hugh asked. What he was really trying to find out was how long this position of sheep herder would be thrust upon him. He had yielded himself to enough folly for one day, and he had no intention of committing himself to a position as sheep herder for the rest of his natural life. As soon as they could find a substitute,—but Hugh didn’t finish the sentence. He suddenly realized that thence on he had no plans.
The girl looked up, rather sober of face. “Goodlabor is very scarce,” she agreed honestly. “But we can’t pay more than two dollars a day. You see—you’re inexperienced.”
Secretly he thought that she wasbluffing, that she would pay a much higher price to retain him as shepherd of the flock. But he didn’t voice the thought. “Two dollars a day is all right,” he said. “That wasn’t what I was going to ask you. There’s some other things I want to know—that I feel I have a right to know. That man was murdered, and the guide thought it was because of a fight between the sheepmen and cattlemen. I don’t care to have some one come up here and find me murdered, too.”
The girl seemed distressed. It was the first time since their meeting that she seemed to lack words. Then she looked up fearlessly.
“I wish I could tell you differently,” she said. “A sheep woman has no right to be honest, in these days. The Indian told you the truth. Dan was murdered, not for personal reasons, but because the cattlemen—a little, evil group of them—want to destroy this flock of sheep—just why I’ll tell you later. And that’s the chance you must take.”
“It’s a real chance?”
Again she flinched. “They seem to be willing to go to any lengths to beat us.”
“But it’s a chance worth taking,” he said with a sudden lightness of heart. “I’ll keep the job for a while at least.”
He watched her face as he spoke, and he saw the light—as unmistakable as the dawn that he had seen come over the mountains—grow in her face. It was reward enough. The joy that he got out of the work itself was henceforth simply clear profit; for another motive—one that had just come into his life—justified beyond all question the expenditure of his time and the chance of death.
He didn’t try to explain the matter to his own satisfaction. He only knew that he felt a great and resistless desire to help this straight young mountain girl in her venture, to take sides with her against the monstrous odds that opposed her. He had committed himself: he noticed with an inward laugh that the girl had not promised even to attempt to get another herder to take his place. And he felt vaguely and secretly glad.
The two of them started to drive the white flocks back to the camp.
CHAPTER XII
As the stars emerged and the little mountain wind sprang up and crept forth in its never-ending explorations of the thickets, the shepherdess explained all things to Hugh’s satisfaction. But first there was supper: a meal the like of which he had never tasted before.
The girl cooked it. Hugh watched her, her swift, graceful motions, the ease and strength with which she went about her tasks, and he found an unlooked-for delight in the sight. She had brought fresh stores; and the meal—from Hugh’s suddenly rejuvenated point of view—was more nearly a banquet. Were there not new potatoes, roasted in the ashes, flapjacks with syrup, a fresh, white-breasted grouse that she had beheaded with her pistol on the way out, and for dessert dried apples stewed to a succulency and tenderness that passed all description? Hugh had eaten some thousands of meals in his time. He had dined in the most famous cafés and restaurants of Europe, he had been at pretentious dinner parties. Yet he couldn’t remember ever experiencing the simple and healthy zest for food, the sheer delight of eating, the amazing appetite that had come upon him now. No meal in his whole life had ever tasted so good or satisfied him more.
In the first place he had done a man’s work. For the first time in recent years his body actually demanded food: plenty of it and soon, for he had missed his lunch; besides, he had that inner peace and satisfaction of a day’s work completed. Then its very preparation made it appetizing,—the slim, sure hands of the girl, her brown arms flashing, the fragrant wood smoke, the long, impressive vista of the Rockies behind the camp.
After supper he helped her wash the camp dishes; then cut fir boughs for her bed that was to be situated nearly a quarter of a mile away, across the meadow. The idea of being afraid of him seemingly didn’t even occur to her. She would have slept out the same way had he been from any other class of men, and Hugh could understand how his predecessors had respected her heavy revolver. Then there was a quiet hour with his new-found friend, his pipe,—and the girl telling her story in the fire’s glow.
“My father’s name is Crowson—Ezra Crowson,” she began in the direct mountain way. “And mine—out here we don’t bother with last names—is Alice Crowson. You don’t have to call me Miss, Mr. Gaylord——”
“And by the same token,” he replied, “my first name is Hugh.”
“Then Hugh——”
“Then Alice——” And they laughed across the fire. It had become quite easy to laugh at simple, wholesome pleasantries. Yet there was no familiarity here. Alice had told the truth: last names take time; and time, in the West, is precious. Names were designations of people, rather than people the representatives of names. Names didn’t matter and people did.
“Dan called me Alice too,” she went on, suddenly remembering to remind Hugh that he was in the same class, as far as privileges went, with his predecessors. “My father lives down at a place called Horse Creek—and unlike many sheepmen in the West, his whole capital is tied up in this one flock. He isn’t a big sheepman—only a little one. That is what makes it so important that we win.
“He bought the stock from an old friend to whom he had loaned everything he had—and it was either take the sheep or lose everything. He wasn’t an experienced sheepman. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come here—where Landy Fargo and his gang control everything. You see, Hugh, they are cattlemen—managers—and they’re part owners, too—for a number of rich men in the East. For years and years they’ve had everything their own way in regard to the range.
“Maybe, if you’re an Eastern man, you don’t understand about range. The Western stock business depends on having acres and acres of open land for the stock to run in through spring, summer, and fall, feeding them just in winter. The land is either privately owned, public domain, school lands or government national forest: in this case it is—except for this big track we have been using—public domain. Of course the sheepmen had just as much right to it as the cattlemen, but because they wanted to keep all the range for themselves, they’ve driven off every man who tried to run sheep in Smoky Land.
“Oh, it was easy to do. Sometimes they did it just by threatening, sometimes by poisoning the stock, andsometimes——”
Hugh leaned forward. “By killing the herders?”
“Yes.” The girl’s lips set tight. “I didn’t know they would go that far, but Fargo’s got a new right-hand man now—a Mexican named José. He’s used to killing—he learned it in the South—and I haven’t a bit of doubt but that he shot Dan last night. Perhaps they’ve killed before, but before it was always open warfare, at least. They’ve always won—and for all I see they’ll win now.
“You see, as far as public domain is concerned, they’ve got a certain right to oppose the sheepmen. They were the first here, and cattle won’t feed after sheep. But in this case there’s a wide track—almost a whole township—through the center of Smoky Land that isn’t public domain but belongs to an old woman down at Boise. It is the best sheep range in the State, and father found out that the cattlemen weren’t renting it. The old woman had tried to rent it to them, but they wouldn’t take it. We found out why, later. They were using it without paying for it—and they thought that giving any money to this helpless old woman was just throwing it away. Incidentally it was all she had, and because there are no mills here, it is practically valueless except for range.
“Father thought that by renting it, the cattlemen would leave him alone. They had all the public domain; and in this way, there couldn’t be any particle of doubt about his being in his rights, both lawfully and from the customs of the range. The rent for it—for a term of years—cost him what little money he had left.
“We’ve been at war ever since. We’ve got to hang on—it’s ruin for father if he quits. If the cattlemen would take the lease off our hands—as is only fair—we might ship off the flock and get out without losing everything; but they won’t do it. They’d sooner shoot and kill our herders. If you hadn’t come along when you did last night—hundreds of sheep would be dead to-day from the coyotes and cougars. I’m two days early myself—the flock would be practically wiped out before the date I was expected to arrive. They have intimidated or bought up all the labor in the region so we can’t get help—that partly is the reason why I’m doing this work.
“It’s got down now to a simple matter of holding on—for a few months more. In October we start the sheep down—we’ll be nearer the settlements and the protection of law. Besides, a lot of the public domain becomes National Forest on the same date—by an act of Congress—and then there will be a big force of forest rangers here to protect us. If we can stay, and fight them off, and protect the flock until that time—we’ve won. But I’m almost tired of trying.”
Her voice dropped from tone to tone, then ceased. The silence of the wilderness was left. Hugh glanced across the glowing coals, haunted by the girl’s beauty, wondering at the flood of new emotions that swept over him. “I suppose—if I hadn’t happened along—you’d not know where to look for another herder,” he suggested.
She nodded slowly. “It would have pretty near been the end.”
“And what if I should decide—to stay here clear through the summer, clear to the time to take the flocks down to the lower levels.”
She looked up, a strange, brooding concern in her face. “I don’t know that I have a right to ask you,” she said slowly. “This isn’t play, Hugh—it seems so natural to call you that. One man already has been killed. I don’t know that I have a right to ask you to risk your life. But father is old—and he had such high hopes—and it means so much. No, I can’t ask you to stay.”
He leaned forward, more earnestness in his face than had ever dwelt there before. “But what if I wanted to stay—clear to the end?”
A curious luster was in her eyes. “I wouldn’t dare believe it—and I wouldn’t understand.”
“And I’m not sure that I understand, either,” he told her. “But my days have never been much use to me before. It’s the first time I’ve ever had a chance to do something—not only for myself but somebody else—the first time I’ve really had an opening—to do something worth while.”
She thought she understood. She knew the West—this mountain girl—and she knew a certain unfortunate breed of men that often come wandering down its long trails. Mostly they come from the busy cities in the East: human derelicts, men who have broken and failed in the struggle for existence. Sometimes they come looking for new opportunities, sometimes they are merely tramps, the wanderlust in their veins, more than often they are men of good families who have sunk to the lowest levels of life. She marked his well-bred speech, and she thought she knew his type. Her keen eyes saw the deep lines in his face, his bloodshot eyes, and she didn’t understand how Dan’s supply of whisky had been left intact. Possibly Hugh had failed to find it!
Perhaps he would want to go on, in a few more days; yet she couldn’t banish the hope that he was of different stuff than most of his kind. “If you did stay—and help us out—we’d make it right with you in the end,” she promised. No longer was she the employer, speaking from the heights. Her tone was almost pleading. “Perhaps you could buy a share in the business—and get a fresh start in life.”
He suddenly got up and found a curious satisfaction in swinging mighty blows with the axe at the fir log Dan had used for fuel. It acted as a relief valve for emotions that he felt would soon get away from him. He looked up, smiling boyishly. “I’ll stay—to the end,” he promised. “But Lord knows—I don’t know anything about sheep.”
“And you give me fresh heart.”
Thus they made a pact in the firelight, and they had a few moments of sheer joy as she gave him simple directions as to how to take care of the flock, when to salt them, and how to direct their feeding. “And while you’re telling me these things,” the man said, “for Heaven’s sake tell me about Spot.”
“Of course you mean the yearling ram——” Hugh nodded. “You must have learned a lot about sheep in one day—or you’d never have noticed him. Spotisa mystery—has been since he was born. And what has he been doing to-day?”
Hugh narrated with much enthusiasm the encounter between the flock leader and the coyote, so interested in the story itself that he quite failed to wonder and be amazed at his own unlooked-for lightness of heart, his buoyant spirits.
“It’s typical of Spot,” the girl said at the end. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that he’s oversized—taller and stronger than the rest?”
“Yes——”
“If it hadn’t been for that, he would have likely been lamb stew long ago. He was exceptionally large at birth, and father had him retained partly because he was interested in his unusual coloring, and partly because he thought that his extra size would give him value as a ram. He endeared himself to the herder, and this year—he’s a yearling ram but he’s not yet mature—father let him run with the flock. None of us know what to make of him.”
They got up, built the fire high so that its glow went out over the flock, and tried to get another glimpse of him. They found him easily enough, at the very foremost of the band, his brown color in vivid contrast to the whiteness of the ewes. And in finding him Alice made another, less pleasing discovery.
Hugh didn’t understand at first. He saw that she was making some kind of a count, first leisurely, then in frantic haste. A troubled look came into her fresh face. Once more she verified the count, then turned to him with a rueful smile.
“My day’s work is not yet over,” she said slowly.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“One of the markers—one of sixteen black ewes—is missing. Do you know what that means?”
“Good Heavens—that you’ve got to go out—in this dark forest—to look for him?”
“The ninety and nine,” she quoted, still with the same, inscrutable smile. “But it isn’t just one, Hugh. You see, sheep keep relatively the same position in the flock. Of course it might be just a single disaster—a coyote snatching her from the flanks—but ordinarily when one of the black sheep is gone, it means that a hundred or so others have gone with her. I can’t take the chance.”
His own face grew mournful. “You see—what a good herder I am. Lose a hundred sheep the first day.”
“It happens to the best of herders.”
“Then why can’t I go out to look for them—and let you stay here? That’s what I’m going to do.”
“No. You must stay here. You don’t know sheep yet, Hugh, and likely you don’t know these mountains. The band of them is somewhere through the stretch you fed over to-day—and I would know just how and where to look for them. At night with no dog—the dog must stay here with you—you wouldn’t be able to drive them. I even have to go on foot, so I can climb down into the steep canyons and go through the brush. It’s part of the life of the camp-tender.”
“But you won’t go—in this darkness——”
“I’ll wait till the moon rises. Besides, I know this Smoky Land from end to end. So don’t be afraid for me.”
They stood silent by the leaping flame. The sheep lay quiet, the shepherd dog slept at Hugh’s feet. And subtly stealing into their consciousness above the sound of the leaping flame they heard the voice of the forest, mysterious and profound,—the little sounds of the wind in the thicket, the rustling of leaves, the hushed footfall of the wild creatures. Into that darkness Alice would venture for her lost sheep. Hugh felt a strange weight of dread.
Above the far mountains the clouds gleamed with the first beams of the rising moon.
CHAPTER XIII
In that momentous twilight that brought Hugh Gaylord to the sheep camp for the first time, there was unfamiliar traffic on the brown, pine-needle trail that wound down to the meadows from the darkening forest. There was the sound of a footfall not often heard. And one can imagine the lesser forest people—the little gnawing folk that have underground lairs and to whom the ferns are a beautiful, tropical forest—gazing up with bright eyes to see who came.
Perhaps at first they thought it was merely one of the hunters: a great creature of claw or fang such as a wolf or cougar. This was the hour when the beasts of prey started forth to hunt, and it was true that the step had a stealthy, hushed quality of one who does not care to have his presence known. It can be understood why a little gopher, so fat of cheeks that he gave the impression of being afflicted with mumps, lay rather close and still among his tree roots until the creature got past. He didn’t care to feel a puma claw impaling him as a fishhook impales a worm.
The gopher has not particularly acute vision, so this traveler on the pine-needle trail was to remain ever a mystery to him. He was aware of a tall, dark form that glided softly and departed; and life became the same puzzling grayness that it had been before. A chipmunk, however—like a little patch of light and shadow against a brown tree trunk—could see much better. And he lay very still, only his eyes busy, until he found out the truth.
The passer-by was only a man, after all, such a creature as usually did not take the trouble to hunt chipmunks. Still he felt afraid, and it is extremely doubtful that the small-sized, always addled brain in his miniature skull could tell him why. The truth was that in that stealing figure there was something terribly suggestive of the beasts of prey themselves, creatures that—more than often—did devote unwelcome attentions to chipmunks. The man crept through the forest with the same caution. His eyes were strange and glowing like those of the lynx as it climbs through the branches. And over him—an aura too dim and obscure for the blunt senses of human beings—hung an essence with which the wilderness creatures are only too familiar: that ancient lust and fever that comes to Broken Fang when he strikes down his prey.
He was shivering all over; and it was to be remembered that the wolf—in certain dread moments at the end of the chase—shivered the same way. One would have been given cause to wonder what stress, what dreadful events had occurred beyond the edge of the meadow that had caused this queer inebriation.
But as strong drink dies in the body, the fever seemed to fall away from him as he made turn after turn in the trail. He stooped now, rather than crouched, his footfall had a fumbling, heavy, dragging quality that was not at all like the stealth it had possessed at first. The surface lights passed from his dark eyes, leaving them somewhat languorous and lifeless. The lines of his face were of inordinate fatigue; he no longer trembled in excitement, and for all the heat of the July night he felt cold.
José Mertos was no stranger to the blood-madness. It had been upon him plenty of times in his own land, and he had shivered and exulted with it beneath far southern stars. Yet it never grew old to him. Its rapture seemed ever greater. But unfortunately, when it died, it left disquieting pictures in his brain. They always took the fine edge from his satisfaction after a particularly skilful affair such as this had been. He was a tried hand in such work, innured to wickedness, yet he still retained the same troublesome tendency toward after-images that had spoiled his sleep, one night and another, in the past.
At present he couldn’t forget the ludicrous look of bewilderment with which Dan the herder had received the rifle shot. It was only a thing to laugh at, to tell as a good joke when he sat with his employer, yet he found no pleasure in thinking of it now. The herder had simply looked amazed,—not afraid, not awed by the Gates of Darkness that had rushed up to him, nothing at all but deeply bewildered and unbelieving. He hadn’t seemed to realize that José had shot him, that even as the blank expression of astonishment had come upon his face the lead ball had forced a passage through his breast. Perhaps he died too quickly for any sort of realization. And José could not forget the queer swaying and staggering with which he fell back upon his tree-bough pallet,—just as if he were drunk and falling into bed.
The pictures came in a series, one after another. First this falling, then the glimpse of the still form on the fir boughs. The black shepherd dog had come bounding toward him, and José had drawn his pistol for this work. It was just as good at close range. And he remembered with amazing clearness how the light had died, slowly and unmistakably, in the dog’s eyes. He had watched the sheep for the last time.
Even now José didn’t understand how he had missed the other, larger shepherd dog. He had shot, the animal had rocked down, he had looked back once to the dead herder in the tent (perhaps to see howhewas taking this slaughter of his pets) and when he had turned his eyes again, the animal had risen and was fleeing from him about the flank of the flock. The cur was wounded, anyway: perhaps the injury was severe enough to end his life before the morning. His watch of the sheep was surely done. And Landy Fargo—the man who even now waited for his report—would find the whole matter to his satisfaction.
A few minutes later José came to the thicket where he had left his horse; then he headed on down the trail. Through the night hours he rode. Not in one chance out of a thousand would the murder be discovered before Alice Crowson returned, three days later, but he didn’t care to take that thousandth chance. It might be embarrassing—considering his past record—to explain his presence near the murder. “If you can’t buy him over and thingsdoget to the shooting stage,” Landy Fargo had said, “no one will find the stiff for three days. You’ll be miles away by then, the flock’ll be torn to pieces, and we’ll be settin’ pretty. It’s the safest deal you were ever in.”
The destruction of the flock, José considered, was not his business. His work was done and the sooner he got out of the immediate vicinity the better it would be for him. He spurred the horse into a slow, easy gallop.
The moon came up, falling dimly upon his burnished skin. It would be no longer possible to mistake his race. He was even darker than Pete, the Indian, his eyes were like jet, his lips were thin and dark and cruel. But he rode well. He seemed to hang almost limp in the saddle, utterly without effort, and the long miles sped beneath him.
But the night was almost done when he came to Landy Fargo’s house on the lower waters of Silver Creek. Fargo himself was dozing in a great chair in his stuffy living room, waiting for his envoy to return.
There were several noticeable features about this room. The principal one was its dirt. The floors were stained, the carpets soiled, the corners cluttered with rubbish of all kinds; the window glass was so spotted that it did not let the moonlight in, and the soft light lingered—like an unwelcome ghost—against the windowpane. The effect that wise interior decorators try to obtain in furnishing—that in which the pieces, not holding the eye in themselves, give an atmosphere, a sense of unity—was quite lacking here. The mantel was clustered with gaudy ornaments, the chairs were tawdry, cheap pictures covered the walls. But yet the room reflected the individuality of the man in the chair. He was just as cheaply gaudy, just as unclean as the room itself.
He got up, and it was to be seen that he had a rather formidable physique. He had imposing muscles, stocky legs, and it was wholly possible that before prosperity had come upon him he had been an agile, muscular cattleman. But the gaze left his heavy frame and was held by the unmistakable brutality of his face. There was none of the fine-edged cruelty—that with which a puma pats and plays his prey to death—that was to be seen in the swarthy face of José. He was blunt, dull; his savagery was that of the bulldog,—heavy lips closed over strong teeth, little lurid eyes looking out from under heavy brows.
José rolled a cigarette, lighted it, drew its smoke into his vitals, then lolled in one of the chairs. Fargo watched him with hard eyes, not a little admiring. Most of his understrappers did not come into his presence with this same ease and self-possession. He was used to seeing men cower before him. He had learned to look for a certain cringing and servility, and many a time when it was lacking he forced it with his heavy, flailing fists. But José was different. It might not be healthy to strike José. They met eyes to eyes.
“Well?” Fargo demanded.
He was somewhat anxious about the verdict. This had been no child’s play,—what José had been sent to do. It was really a new departure for the little clique that he headed. There had been deaths before, open riding and fast shooting, but deliberate and premeditated killing had never been necessary. Slumber hadn’t come easily to him to-night. And now he didn’t like to be kept waiting.
“Well, what?” José answered. “You mean—what luck?”
“That’s it.” Fargo uttered a short syllable of a laugh. “What luck?”
“I said I’d do it, didn’t I, if he didn’t come around? Well, I’ve done it. There’s nobody watchin’ them sheep to-night.” And thus it was to be seen that José had lived long enough among Americans to acquire the vernacular. Only a hint of the Latin, a softening of consonants, remained in his tone.
Fargo uttered a short sigh of relief. “Clean job, eh?”
“All except the big dog. Killed the black one. Wounded the shepherd—think he’ll kick in before morning.”
Fargo leaned back in his chair. “Then there’s nothin’ to it. I guess that’ll show ’em, eh, José?” He fell to boasting. “I guess that makes it plain that when I say get out, I mean get out. You know I told that devil this was his last warning—told him myself what would happen to him if he didn’t switch over to us—and I guess he got what he wanted. But I’m sorry you missed the dog. He might keep away a lot of cats and coyotes that would otherwise be busy for the next few days.”
“He’s wounded—don’t think he can.” José breathed an oath in his own tongue. “But I don’t see what it’s all about. Crowson had that tract rented——”
“You don’t, eh?” Fargo stiffened. “I don’t know it’s necessary that you see what it’s all about. That happens to be my business—and don’t go making any mistake about that. But I’ll explain it a little better. I’ve been told—by the men that own the herds with me—to keep out sheepmen at all cost. That one piece of range that Crowson rented has been worth ten thousand a year to us. Do you think we’re goin’ to let that slip out of our hands for a bunch of measly sheep?”
“But why didn’t you have enough sense to rent that tract yourself?”
“Because we’re trying to make a clean-up out of this deal, that’s why. Who’d ever dream that old hag would ever find a renter—and as long as we were gettin’ it free, what was the use? We’ve been here a long time—if this flock prospered there’d be more of ’em come in—and where’d be our monopoly of the range then? You know that our policy has always been to squeeze out the little fellow—cattle as well as sheep. We’ve got to set an example with this flock of Crowson’s—and to have ’em all get killed—in a few days—or even part of ’em, is going to discourage any more sheepmen coming into a cattle country. You don’t know cattlemen, José, or you wouldn’t question. Just the same—the job’s only half done. A shepherd dog, wounded or not, ’ll stay to fight to the last inch of hair on his body, especially that big devil of Crowson’s. And he sure can bluff out the coyotes.”
José discarded his cigarette, and lit a fresh one. “Well, say what’s to be done,” he said. “I’m not goin’ back after that other dog.”
“I’m not tellin’ you to, either. Your job is to stay away from there.” Fargo suddenly leaned forward, his eyes burning. “You know what I’d like to see?” he whispered. “I’d like to have that Crowson girl ride up there in a day or two and find every one of those damned woollies—every one, not three or four hundred of ’em—dead and rotting in the grass. Then people’d know this was a cattle country. Since we’ve gone as far as we have, the thing to do is to go all the way. And we might work it yet.”
José’s face showed that he was interested. “Poison?” he asked.
“You can’t never tell about poison. Sheep are queer critters. When they’re well fed they’ll shy of anything that tastes queer. Think again——”
“The only other way’s rifles—and that would take a carload of shells. But I tell you—the coyotes will slash a lot of ’em and run the rest to death.”
“Maybe—and maybe not. A coyote don’t run sheep. They kill all they can, and then start to eatin’. Of course there’s exceptions. It takes a dog to slash a hundred of ’em in one night—and run the rest——”
And at that instant his words were drowned out. A strange, formidable cry reached them from behind the house: a long, far-carrying chorus of savage voices. It rang shockingly loud in the silent darkness. It was a symphony of prolonged, deep bays,—a sound as terrifying and menacing as any voice of the wilderness. And an evil glitter came into Fargo’s eyes.
The explosion of sound, blaring out so suddenly in the stillness, had startled José; but he caught himself at once. The cry ceased, the stillness fell again. “Your pack of bear dogs!” he exclaimed.
“Yes. It was as if they heard us talkin’ about sheep. It’s like they was tryin’ to tell us what to do.”
It was true. It might have been the voice of an evil genius, prompting their vicious designs. Fargo was a superstitious man, and now he was tingling all over with hatred and malice, inspired to the depths of his wicked being by the cry in the darkness.
“Yes,” he whispered. “My pack of bear dogs—ten of ’em, savage as wolves—and not to be afraid of no wounded shepherd dog, and tearin’ to pieces any one that tries to stop ’em. They’ve told us how to solve our problem. And I don’t see why I didn’t think of ’em before.”
CHAPTER XIV
It didn’t take Fargo long to perfect his plans. As the dawn emerged he talked them over with the Mexican, José, and the latter was ready with any little suggestions that did not occur to his chief. And the gray, soft, mysterious light of early morning came into that conference—through the stained and cobwebbed windowpane—and found a darkness it could not alleviate.
As they talked, the very atmosphere of the room seemed to change. It was tense, poignant as if with the remembered lusts and passions of an earlier, more savage world. The little sounds of a room in which two men talk together—the stir of moving bodies, the creak of furniture, the soft whisper of easy breathing seemed lacking here. Both were motionless as two serpents that lay in their sunbaths on their ledges, and thus an insidious stillness dropped down in the little intervals between their sentences.
The almost total absence of motion on the part of those two conspirators could not have been ignored. It implied only one thing: that their thoughts were so commanding and engrossing that even the almost unconscious movements of the body were suspended. What motion there was, was mostly only the deepening of the lines on their dark faces.
This tenseness, this silence, these submerged passions pointed to but one end. And the crime would not be outside the pale of the laws of man alone, but the basic laws of the forest as well. The feast of death was to take place after all,—the same delight of which Broken Fang, the puma, was even then dreaming beside the sheep camp on the far headwaters of Silver Creek. But men, not wild beasts, were to be the debauchers.
“It’s the simplest way yet,” Fargo had whispered. The veins stood out in his brutal hands. “That pack of mine are devils—there’s no other word for ’em—and once they get goin’, they’d sweep through that flock of woollies like lightning. You’ve heard of sheep-killin’ dogs before——”
“Yes—but your dogs ain’t never been sheep killers,” the Mexican protested.
“What of that? They can learn fast enough. They’d tear a man to pieces just as quick if I didn’t keep ’em chained. I don’t see why I didn’t teach ’em long ago—they’d be worth a thousand coyotes for keepin’ this country clear of sheep. Maybe you don’t know about sheep-killing dogs. You might not have heard that in the sheep country in the East one dog that once got the habit will spoil the business for miles around. You see, José, most animals don’t kill more than they need; it’s an instinct with ’em, for if they did they’d pay for it by going hungry later. Nature has a way of teachin’ the wild varmints what to do. But dogs have been domesticated so long that they’ve forgotten most of their instincts, and once they get started, once the killin’ fever gets a hold of ’em, they don’t know when to quit. There’s many a dog that has slashed a hundred sheep in one night—jumpin’ from one to another, tearing out one throat after another, and runnin’ the rest till they die. It’s kind of a madness that gets a hold of ’em once they get started. True, my dogs ain’t ever got the habit, but one taste will teach ’em. And they’re half-wild already, as any man well knows who seen ’em tear that little black cub-bear to pieces last week. Just tore him to little scraps of black fur.”
Fargo leaned back in his chair and laughed. The sound burst out suddenly above the even murmur of his talk, and it was no less terrible to hear than the bay of the pack a few minutes before. It was a wild, harsh sound,—and African travelers might have been given cause to remember the hyenas, laughing on the sun-baked hills. It pleased him to recall that scene in the forest beyond the creek, in which his pack of dogs had killed the cub. It moved him in unlovely, dark ways. The little bear had been a clumsy, furry, amiable little creature—representing what is perhaps the most lovable breed of all the wild animals—and the pack had made short and terrible work of him.
“There’s ten of ’em,” Fargo went on, “and there ain’t no one to guard the flock. That one big shepherd dog would last quick—he wouldn’t be able to bluff off them hounds of mine like he could bluff coyotes. And then they’d have the time of their lives—the time of their lives.”
“You mean—take ’em and sick ’em on?” José asked.
“I’ve got a better way than that. Of course one of us will have to take ’em and show ’em the way until they get on the track of the flock, and of course that one will have to be me. I’m the only living man that can handle ’em—you remember the night that old Ben got out and how he pretty near killed that little cowman from Naptha. There’s a little medicine I’ve got to give ’em before I go, and that means—for you to take a little ride over to Newt Hillguard’s.”
José half-closed his eyes. He had begun to understand.
“I’ve always cussed at Newt for keepin’ that little band of Shropshires in his back lot, but I’m glad now he didn’t get rid of them,” Fargo went on. “You’re to bring back a sheep in your saddle—a lamb ’ll do, or any old ewe he was about to slaughter. Then, after we get through here, all I’ll have to do is start up the old Horse Creek trail with that pack of dogs. It’ll be a couple of hours before I can get started, and it’ll take till dark to get to the sheep camp, but dark’s the best time for a sheep-killin’ dog to work, anyhow. The sheep are bunched together, and it doesn’t take so much runnin’. And I got to be on hand to call ’em back and round ’em up when they’re done.”
The face of the Mexican was suddenly crafty. “I suppose wantin’ to see the fun hasn’t anything to do with your goin’?” he suggested.
Fargo laughed again. “I’m not sayin’ it won’t be worth watching,” he agreed. “But you know I can always round ’em up with my whistle. José—to-night will see the end of the sheep business for time to come.”
They went about their preparations. They ate their breakfast in the unsavory kitchen, then José rode off to the ranch where Newt Hillguard kept his little flock of thirty Shropshires. There was no particular good in making full explanation to Newt. He was a cattleman surely, his little flock was just a diversion with him, but he might not take fondly to any plan that would make sheep killers out of Fargo’s pack of dogs. Some night they might escape from their yard and visit his own little flock. “The boys say they’re tired of beef and want a mutton blow-out,” José explained, “and I’m sent over here to supply it. Will you sell me one of them sheep of yours?”
“Seems funny to me,” Newt returned, “that gang of Fargo’s wantin’ mutton. But I suppose I can sell you one.”
“Any old ewe’ll do,” José went on. “We don’t want ’em to like it so well they’ll want it often. The one you can sell me cheapest. We’ll want it alive, too, ’cause we ain’t goin’ to have him for a day or two. And once I’ve got to pack him on the horse, maybe I’d better take a lamb.”
The money changed hands, Newt gave in exchange a few pounds of living flesh that blatted feebly and struggled in José’s arms—with a strange, frantic terror—as if in premonition of its doom. The lips of the man set in a straight, cruel line, and he rode with an unjustified swiftness back to Fargo’s house.
There was only one element of mercy in the unmentionable scene that followed in the little, tightly fenced enclosure behind Fargo’s house. None whatever dwelt in the drawn faces of the men, or in the savage, white-fanged creatures that leaped so fiercely at the picket fence as the men approached. But the time, at least, was swift. It went almost too fast for Fargo’s liking.
There was only a single second of strange and dreadful clamor within the enclosure, a glimpse of white in the ravening circle of browns and blacks, a smear of red and a faint cry that the men strained to hear but which was lost in the baying of the dogs. The pack had been given its lesson. Fargo foresaw in their glaring eyes—as they came rushing back to the palings again—the success of his plan.
“Get inside the house and shut the door,” he commanded. “I can’t answer for this blood-thirsty crowd. And do it quick.”
For Fargo knew that the sooner he got started the more successful would be his undertaking. He didn’t want their wild excitement to have a chance to die down. The great hounds saw his gun in his arms, a pungent stain of red was still upon their fangs, and they seemed to know that rapturous events were in store for them. The Mexican withdrew, Fargo unlatched the gate of the enclosure, and the animals leaped forth around him. In a moment he had swung on his horse; and followed by the crying pack galloped up the trail.
He rather hoped he would meet no pedestrian on the trail. He had never seen his dogs in such a savage mood, and he began to doubt his own ability to control them. There could be no doubt about the effectiveness of the medicine he had administered. The hunting lust was upon them as never before. And perhaps his eager spirit, his own madness went into them, and excited them all the more.
It was a long, hard ride before he came to that pine-clad heart of Smoky Land which Crowson had rented for a sheep range. He had been able to lope only a small part of the way: the trails were too narrow and steep. The dogs ran more silently now; yet with noticeable eagerness. During the long, still afternoon they were grimly patient, and they skulked like wolfine ghosts through the growing shadows of the twilight.
But their excitement began to return to them as the dark came down. It was the hunting hour: everywhere through the forests the beasts of prey were emerging from their lairs. The hounds were domestic animals, but some of the old wilderness madness revived when the wind came whispering its breathless messages through the trees. Their blood seemed to turn to fire. Time and time again Fargo had to utter the shrill whistle that called them to heel,—a signal that he had laboriously taught them and which they now seemed to be forgetting.
Fargo knew these mountains end to end, and he did not often mistake the trails. But soon after nightfall the conviction grew upon him that he was taking much too long to reach the sheep camp. Besides, the mountains didn’t lie in just their proper places. The tall top of Grizzly Peak was too far to the right to suit him. He knew perfectly that he was within a very few miles of the camp, yet he chafed under the delay. And the darkness steadily deepened, dimming the landmarks by which he kept his directions.
He headed on, at first irritated, then apprehensive, finally wrathful and savage. He began to fear that possibly he would have to wait until dawn for the work. The dogs, however, were growing constantly more excited and harder to control.
The last grayness faded into the gloom, and Fargo could hardly see the trail. But he was a mountain man, and he knew what to do. In the last dim glimpses of late twilight the peaks had begun to wheel around where he wanted them to be, and he knew that the camp was now only three or four miles distant at most. And the proper course was to sit down, rest, and wait for the moon to rise. Then he could locate his landmarks, start down the ridge to the river, then up its banks to the camp.
He thought that as far as human beings went, he had the mountains all to himself. He supposed that in the camp—now certainly nearing—a dead herder lay face buried in his tree-bough pallet; but Fargo was not the kind of man to whom such a fact as this preys on the mind. He did not dream that the body had already been found, that the herd was guarded, and that even now the daughter of his enemy was waiting for this same moon,—to start forth to find the missing members of the flock.
Fargo watched the silver glint in the sky; he saw the white disk roll forth. The light grew, it leaped down between the trees, it worked nebulous magic on the floor of the forest, it enchanted the whole wilderness world. He located his peaks. And all at once he knew his exact position,—scarcely three miles from the camp and squarely across the ridge.
He got up and started on with the great hounds. At first they were curiously silent and alert. They did not frisk and run as in the first hour on the trail, and to a casual eye their excitement had died within them. For the moment they seemed perfectly under control. Yet Fargo watched them, wondering. They were moving with a peculiar stealth, and once the man caught the unmistakable glare of their yellow-green wolfine eyes in the moonlight.
At that instant Ben, the old pack leader, spoke in the silence. It was a sharp bay, and momentarily every dog stood lifeless. And then with a wild cry they darted into the shadows.
Fargo whistled frantically, but the pack didn’t seem to hear. Their loud and savage bays obscured all sound. Oaths fell from the man’s lips—sounds scarcely less savage than the bay of the dogs themselves—and at first he could see nothing but failure for his scheme.
It might be, however, that they were right and he was wrong. The dogs were not heading toward the sheep camp. But it was wholly possible that the flock had fed out far that day, had found another drinking place, and thus had not returned to the vicinity of Silver Creek; and the hounds were already on their trail. This theory had to include the death of the wounded shepherd dog, for the first instinct of the animal likely would have been to keep the flock near the tent of his dead master.
His own course was clear. He would cross the ridge to the camp, try to locate the flock, and then attempt to collect his hounds and bring them to it. He believed that if they were on a false scent they would return to him soon.
But the moon looked down and saw that their instincts had told them true. They had crossed the tracks that the flock had made on the outward feeding from the camp that day: they had only to follow it, circle about where Spot, the flock leader, had led, and find the sheep where they had bedded down at night. Yet they seemed to know that certain sport was in store for them before ever they made the long loop around to the sheep camp. For somewhere between was huddled a little group of a hundred stragglers,—the band that Hugh had lost during the day’s grazing and which even now Alice had gone forth to find.