But he chanced one day to run aginA bullet made o' lead,Which was harder than he bargained for,And now poor Bill is dead;And when they brung his body homeA barrel of tears was shed.
But he chanced one day to run aginA bullet made o' lead,Which was harder than he bargained for,And now poor Bill is dead;And when they brung his body homeA barrel of tears was shed.
He ended with a halloo as we topped the last rise. There was no response or sign from the house. A puzzled look came over his face and he was down before his horse came to a stop. He sprang through the door.
"Hetty!" he shouted. "Hetty!" Then in a voice hoarse from fear: "She ain't here. She ain't here. Hetty, where are you?"
He was rushing frantically from one room to another. Ferrier was more methodical. He found a piece of paper under a cup on the kitchen table, which he read and handed to his brother-in-law.
I can't stand it any longer. I am going away. You'll soon get over it. Be sure to feed the dog. Good-by.
I can't stand it any longer. I am going away. You'll soon get over it. Be sure to feed the dog. Good-by.
Johnson held the penciled lines at arm's length, while I waited for him to say something. It is my belief that he did not distinguish the words after the first perusal. Then he began to laugh.
"Why, it can't be—Hetty, she wouldn't—say, it must be a joke—what does it mean?"
Bob lifted his shoulders in a shrug he had picked up from the Mexicans. It stung Lafe.
"Where has she gone? Do you know anything about this?"
"Not me. She's been mighty queer lately, Lafe. Where could she go?"
We could only look at one another while we mentally debated possibilities. Hetty had no kith or kin in this region, and the nearest point was Badger. She could not have gone there, else we should have passed her on the road.
"Mary Lou's!" Bob exclaimed. "I'll swear that's where she's hit for."
Johnson remained beside the table a moment, deep in thought. Then he smote his hands together and an expression of relief lighted his face.
"I'll go get her," he told us.
We were for accompanying him to the Hardins' place, but had not gone more than a few hundred yards when he pulled up and requested that we go back. This matter was between him and Hetty—he said it with some hesitation—and it were better that he go alone. So we turned back, only to halt again.
"He might need some help," was Bob's excuse. "Supposing she's sick. What do you say if we trail him?"
"Come on."
It was now after nine o'clock and there was small probability of Johnson perceiving us. Yet we kept far in rear lest he hear our horses. We had proceeded perhaps a mile when he amazed us by riding back. Lafe was going at a lope and he did not pause. To our utter consternation he took no notice of our presence, but went by at a clatter and swerved to the right up a narrow ravine.
"He's crazy," said Ferrier. "He must have gone out of his head. Let's drift."
"Wait, Lafe. Wait!" I bellowed.
We jabbed with the spurs and went in pursuit. Presently we saw Lafe's horse standing riderless amid the post-oak, nibbling at the grass, and some distance in front we heard the stroke of his spur. He must have stubbed his toe, for he fell, and swore with freedom. That permitted us to gain on him, but he picked himself up and went forward at an ungainly run.
"What's got into him?" said Bob. He was puffing. We had abandoned our horses and were legging it after him as best we could.
"Search me!" I said breathlessly.
Far ahead I could see a spark burning. It was going steadily up the ravine. Surely Lafe could not be smoking; I dismissed this idea at once, for we could see him dimly and he was much nearer than the spark. It seemed to expand and cavort with glee as we came on.
The ravine had always been a favorite spot with Hetty. There were shady places in it during the day, however merciless the aching void of sky, and often had she brought her sewing to sit there, listening to the acorns drop in the hushed stillness.
"Gee, I can't run another step," said Ferrier. "You go on. Lafe! Stop!"
We both ceased running. I was compelled to clutch the limb of a tree to hold myself upright. The spark ahead of us was now grown to a ball of fire, giving off a vaporous sheen. Still it kept on, and the runner in front slowed to a walk: Lafe was as little accustomed to this exercise as we were. Then I perceived that Jack-o'-Lantern had come to a stop. He flashed above a tree, dipped downward, poised in midair.
"Hal-loo," came a cry from Johnson. "Here I am. Hurry! Hurry!"
"Let's try again," Bob gasped, and we forced our cramped limbs into a run.
Lafe was bending over a white object that lay huddled at the base of a tree.
"It's her," said he, as we arrived.
Hetty was unconscious, and had her head pillowed in the crook of one arm. Often so had Lafe seen her lying asleep, on tiptoeing into the room when returned from distant parts of the range.
"Here," Bob grunted. "Give me her legs. Help with the shoulders, Dan."
"I'll take 'em myself," Lafe said fiercely.
We lifted her very slowly and tenderly, and started back. Twice were we obliged to set our burden down and rest, but we managed to carry her back to the house. As we were placing her on the bed, Hetty revived and opened her eyes.
"Get away," she said fretfully to her husband. "You're always smelling of that tobacco. Get away. You make me tired."
"Hetty," Lafe whispered, groping for her hand.
"What're you looking so scared about?" his wife asked. "Leave me be, now. I hate you."
"Better get out," I cautioned. "Go and fetch Armstrong."
A few minutes later we heard the rattle of his horse's hoofs, going at full speed towards Badger. He had saddled a fresh mount. And we composed ourselves there in chairs beside the bed, to wait—listening to Hetty's moans when she would rouse from the semi-trance which held her. Never had I felt so helpless and so wholly wretched.
"Tut-tut," said Dr. Armstrong, when knocked up from bed. "Keep your shirt on, man. It isn't the first time in the history of the world, nor the last, I take it. She's a strong woman. Brace up."
Nevertheless, he made all speed, and although three score years had beaten over his rugged head, he never once complained during the long ride. Johnson went at a gallop, with brief, impatient periods of dogtrotting to breathe their horses. They covered the fourteen miles in fifty-seven minutes, and it was not much after one o'clock when they clattered up to the door.
Lafe would have pushed into the room had not the doctor thrust him back. At the same time Hetty turned in the bed and cried petulantly that she would not have him near.
"Out you go," he ordered, "do you hear me? Don't go whining round here. That's nothing unusual."
The husband demurred, but Armstrong shoved him outside. As he was passing from the room, the doctor said to him over his shoulder in a tone of intense joy—the joy of the born physician in a fair fight against the Enemy: "She's liable to swear at you in a minute. Does she know how to swear? I've heard some of 'em cuss me everything they could lay their tongues to." It was almost a chortle he emitted, but he was solemn enough before Lafe had closed the door.
There is a flat rock on the slope in front of the Johnson house, and Lafe and Bob and I sat thereon and tried to smoke. It was of no use. Lafe simply could not remain still. He suddenly remembered the horses, which we had entirely forgotten, and led them to the spring to be watered. That done, he unsaddled and turned them into the pasture. The beasts gave a long sigh of relief, shook themselves, lay down to roll, and began to graze. We joined him at the fence. Johnson spread his elbows on the top rail and kept his gaze on a brilliant spark that was rocketing among the cottonwoods. He turned away at last and took to wandering round and round the house, staring at the light in their bedroom window. Ferrier and I followed dumbly, finding no words to comfort. Lafe left us and rapped timidly on the door.
"I told you to get out and stay out!" Armstrong hissed. The doctor was not a nervous person, but he was strung to high tension. We caught Hetty's voice, raised in querulous supplication. It was very weak and seemed to carry reproach of Lafe, and he shrank back.
"Get out, I tell you. Go 'tend the horses," said Armstrong, giving him a push.
"I done 'tended 'em."
"Well, take a run up and kill that wildcat that's screeching up there. Don't shoot it. Smash him with a rock, or something; but drag it out of here. Move, now. Send that brother-in-law of yours to me. I need him."
Johnson faded from the door, and we paced the ground in front of the porch. Something moist touched his hand and Lafe whipped it away, but it was only his mongrel dog come for a caress. For the first time since manhood Lafe knew real fear—not the nervous tension of an emergency, but sick, craven fear. A peculiar nausea where his stomach ought to be took all his courage away, and he rolled another cigarette in the hope of steadying his nerves. As he struck a match, he recalled what his wife had said about the brand of tobacco he favored and he threw the stub away.
"Why, she ain't much more'n a girl"—he was fondling the dog's ears—"just a kid."
I guessed what was passing in his mind. Thoughts of trifling things he might have done for Hetty, to the easement of her lot, rose up to reproach. When a man has gone through that, he has known anguish of soul. But they were instantly submerged in a new tenderness. In that hour of trial, Lafe learned many things.
The creak of a cautious step on the boards of the porch brought him standing and when Armstrong emerged, Lafe was there to meet him, pallid of face, but entirely calm.
"It's all right. Don't look that way, Lafe. No, you can't come in. I came out for a drink. Where's the bucket? Whew, it's hot."
Johnson poured him a cup of water and carried the canteen to the spring to be refilled. On his return he stepped into the kitchen. Growing uneasy over his long absence, I went in search of him, strolling carelessly to the door. The room was in darkness, so I struck a match. There was Lafe behind the door, with an old apron of Hetty's clutched in both hands. He was simply looking at it, and looking.
"Lafe," I said. He dropped the apron hurriedly and came out. We did not face each other. "Tell me something."
"Let's have it. What do you want to know?"
I hesitated, doubtful how he might take the question.
"Well?"
"How did you know where to hunt? What made you think Hetty was up there?"
"I didn't think," he replied. "Didn't you see that li'l firefly? The minute I set eyes on him, he sort of seemed to wave at me. Yes, sir. I remembered what you'd said, too, Dan. Jim-in-ee, there he is again. Look!"
Jack-o'-Lantern had abandoned his game of hide-and-seek among the trees and was now circling the house. He twinkled from door to window, as though to peep in. Perhaps something discouraged him; at any rate, he continued to flit in long, soaring glides. Lafe noted these, marveling, and we squatted on the rock again, determined to stay there. Then, looking upward to a star which shone in line with the chimney, he perceived the eerie light quivering above the roof. The location evidently suited Jack-o'-Lantern, for there he hung.
At last there were sounds within, and Johnson clutched the dog where it crouched between his knees. The brute whined under the grip of his fingers. We got to our feet and the dog looked up at us in doubt, much mystified as to what all this could mean.
The merry spark above the roof gave a final twinkle and went out. At the same moment an inner door opened, releasing a flood of light into the hall-way, and a high-pitched, treble yell that lifted the hair at the nape of my neck and set Johnson to shaking, rent the night air with the suddenness of a popping cork.
The doctor stuck his head out of the door. He called in suppressed glee: "Come on in, Lafe. She wants you. Say, he's a dandy."
Jack-o'-Lantern had found a habitation.
Horne of the Anvil approached his sixtieth year full of vigor. His birthday would also mark the thirtieth anniversary of his marriage. It had been a fat season. His steers were rollicking, the calves romped high-tailed, the valley pastures held clear-eyed cows and his horses were a comfort between one's knees. Therefore Horne saw that all was good and waxed content of heart, and he bade his boss, Lafe Johnson, to make all ready for a dance, for it was in his mind to do honor to his neighbors, humble and high.
"Tell everybody to come a-running," said he, "and kill the fattest yearlings we've got. Better pick brindles, though, Lafe. Those red ones bring too much money."
Thus happily did Horne temper his generous impulses with shrewdness. These directions provoked a grin from Johnson, and he despatched his riders east and west and north and south to summon the guests. From east and west and north and south they came—a good seventy miles, some of them. In couples, singly, in boisterous parties, they came riding up to the Anvil headquarters. And the dance began.
It had lasted two days and two nights and was running comfortably into the third day when a killing occurred which made the function memorable in cowland annals. Everything was going smoothly. There were more than a hundred guests, and the orchestra was still vigorous and resourceful in invention. He occupied a seat on a stool atop a table at one end of the dining-room, and as he sawed with the bow he kept time to the cadences with his left foot. Occasionally a volunteer would come to his assistance and beat on the strings at the neck of the violin with small sticks. This produced the effect of a guitar and was very popular with those ladies who were a bit hazy as to the time of a measure.
Oh-oo-oo, ladies to the left and gents to the right.All hands round; now hold 'em tight.
Oh-oo-oo, ladies to the left and gents to the right.All hands round; now hold 'em tight.
Lafe had been designated master of ceremonies and he stood near the orchestra to call off the square dances. Never more than twenty couples were on the floor at one time, but the rhythmical beat of their feet and the welling dust were sufficient to make an onlooker dizzy. Whenever a gentleman swung a lady, he really swung her—no mincing or faint-hearted gyration. With their hands behind each other's shoulders, they spun madly about, and the lady's skirt billowed to the movement. Both would sway dizzily when they stopped. The other guests were sleeping, or crowded into the kitchen, where were put out for refreshment huge platters of barbecued beef, calves' heads roasted whole under live coals in the ground for a whole night, and bread and pickles and cheese. Pots of coffee steamed on the stove, and one had only to give the nod to Jerry Sellers to be honorably escorted to the saddle-shed wherein on a stool rested a full-bellied keg. Jerry had constituted himself Lafe's right-hand man and never relaxed in his vigilant attention to duty. Had it not been for this first aid to the weary, the orchestra would long since have knocked under, but Harry vowed that he would hold out as long as the keg did, and everybody had confidence in him.
"The next piece," he announced, "is a li'l piece I done composed myself. It is called 'The Bull in the Corn Brakes.' Get your partners. Polka it is. Step to it."
Aside from a slight grayness about the eyes, Lafe gave no evidence of fatigue. His wife and young son were asleep in Mrs. Horne's bed. On the floor in the same bedchamber were seven other women, resting from their exertions. No special hours for repose had been set aside. All day and all night the dance went on, never ceasing, and there were always couples ready. Each guest lay down for a nap when he felt his system required it, and he lay where his notion of comfort dictated. It was not surprising then that one tripped over men stretched out under blankets on the veranda; the yard was cumbered with them, too.
The lady guests were provided for in the five bedrooms of the house. As for the children, of whom there were a dozen or more, now grown fretful from overexcitement, they played in the yard, or down in the corrals with some Shetland ponies Horne had imported. Only at meal times did they give their mothers any concern. And the orchestra still held out, having been thrice relieved that he might take naps.
Mrs. Paint Davis fed beer out of a bottle to her yearling son. The child's eyes grew heavy from it. A prudish person ventured to protest to the father.
"Pshaw, no," said Paint. "You can't make that boy drunk. It'll learn him to leave it alone when he's growed."
Jerry Sellers took Mordecai Bass to the saddle-shed to give him a drink. Mordecai said something that Sellers did not like. A reluctant rebuke was followed up by a sharp word. Ensued a furious outburst from Jerry, a pacific remonstrance from Bass, then blows. Lafe Johnson happened to emerge from the house to clear the dust from his lungs, and heard the altercation. He arrived in time to separate the two, and so successful were his labors as a peacemaker that they shook hands before parting.
"It's all along of Florence Steel," Jerry explained to his chief. "Mordecai, he thinks I'm trying to set to her. Just because I had four dances—yes, and a li'l something I done remarked, pleasant like."
On Lafe's return to the ballroom, he saw Florence waltzing with the half-breed Baptismo. Baptismo was showing his white teeth, and he whispered when he perceived Johnson. He was a strikingly handsome man and possessed a peculiar fascination for women. Men disliked him and Lafe's pride of blood was such that he usually ignored Baptismo. Had it been his dance, the half-breed would not have been there, but Horne had bidden him from policy.
An hour afterwards Lafe chanced to descry Jerry going to the spring for a bucket of fresh water to hang beside the keg. Sellers sang as he walked, swinging the bucket.
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee,Where the wild ki-yotes will howl o'er me—
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee,Where the wild ki-yotes will howl o'er me—
Lafe could hear him clearly where he leaned against the jamb of the door. He smiled over the doleful song of the night guard, which never occurred to Jerry unless he were feeling cheerful.
Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the wind blows free—
Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the wind blows free—
There was an abrupt breaking-off after "free." Then a dreadful cry.
"Lafe!" came Jerry's shout.
Johnson ran towards the spring. Close to it Sellers was hunched on the ground, doubled up over the bucket which stood between his legs. He was quite dead. There was a deep wound in his back, just below the shoulder blade.
They carried him to the barn in order not to stampede the guests, and roused Horne, who was sleeping. When they led him to view the body, the cowman was not wholly awake.
"Who did it?" he asked stupidly.
That was what everybody asked his neighbor by silent questioning of eyes.
"I think I know," said Lafe.
He left them and went in search of Bass. He could not find him at the house. Upon that he sped to the corrals, but Mordecai's horse was gone. The half-breed Baptismo informed him that Bass had ridden off only a few minutes before. Johnson did not hesitate. He was no longer a sheriff, but he was boss of the Anvil range, and Anvil hospitality had been outraged and dishonored. He would track down the slayer. Arriving at this decision while Horne plied question on question without obtaining a reply, he went to inform Hetty.
"All right," said that young woman sleepily. "Take care of yourself."
It is probable that in her drowsy state she did not appreciate his mission, else she would not have let him go so readily.
Johnson caught his most dependable horse and rode out from the Anvil headquarters. Strapped to his hip was a .45 Colt and he had a 30-30 Winchester in his saddle holster. Florence Steel, on foot, overtook him at the gate of the home pasture.
"What's this I hear? Where're you going, Mr. Johnson?"
Lafe told her glibly that he had been sent by Mr. Horne to recover certain cattle which had been run off by hostile nesters during the festivities. It was true that some cattle had been stolen.
"Sure," said Florence, gazing intently into his face. "If you meet up with him, better watch out. A man who'll stab in the back will do most anything."
"What do you know about this?"
"When you catch him," the girl added, "just give him this. Ask if this doesn't belong to him." She thrust into Johnson's hand a large clasp knife. There were blood stains on the blades and handle. Lafe nodded and put it in his pocket. He did not even inquire how the girl had come by it.
About dusk, on the following day, Johnson sighted Bass moving quietly up a ravine on the west side of The Hatter. Some cottonwoods intervened to spoil a shot. Lafe made a detour and quickened his pace, hoping to head him off. As he emerged from the ravine on to a mesa, Bass perceived him. Instead of fleeing, he turned his horse and threw up an arm as a caution to Lafe to halt.
"What do you want?" he cried.
"I want you. Better come along quiet. It'll save trouble."
"I wouldn't choose to, thanks. No. I reckon I won't."
Johnson was not one to take chances with an assassin. He began to pump his Winchester. At the second shot Bass's horse lurched forward on to his knees with a scream and stretched out, its legs stiff. His rider scrambled clear and shot Johnson through the fleshy part of his right forearm before he could pull again.
The boss had drawn his six-shooter and was coming on. He coolly changed the weapon to his left hand and threw down on him at twenty yards.
It had often been asserted in Badger that the sheriff could not miss at any distance under two hundred feet. This was scarcely an exaggeration. He had pulled only once when Bass held up empty hands in token of surrender. His gun lay on the ground and two fingers of his right hand were gone.
"I reckon I ought to have killed you, Mordecai," said Lafe, "but I couldn't forget that me and you had slept under the same blankets. Do you remember that roundup on the Lazy L? What'd you do this for?"
"I knew you'd think I did it," was all Bass said, and he began to make a ligature out of his handkerchief.
"Well, get up here in front and come along. We've got twenty-one miles ahead of us. Let's go."
"I know what you want me for," Bass said, "but you're wrong, Lafe. I didn't do it."
"How do you know it was done, then?" said Lafe. "Only three of us knew when I left the ranch. That was five minutes after we done found him."
His prisoner did not explain, but climbed obediently into the saddle in front of Johnson. Riding thus balanced, the horse could carry both, but it was punishing work, and not until eleven hours later did they make the county town. Lafe turned his prisoner over to the sheriff and saw him safely in jail under lock and key. As he was leaving, he said: "Here's your knife."
"Where did you find it?"
"Where you threw it."
"I done lost it at the dance," said Bass.
On this Johnson placed the knife in the sheriff's keeping, to be used as Exhibit A. When his arm had been dressed, he returned to the Anvil headquarters.
All the guests had departed and, though Mrs. Horne was prostrated and the cowman much perturbed, the cowboys of the outfit had started on their roundup. A trifle like a murder must not interfere with business. When he had driven Hetty and the boy home, Lafe joined the chuckwagon at the camp on Bull Creek and took charge of operations.
After supper on the first night Johnson took part in a game of pitch. It was not his habit to play with his men, as being subversive of discipline, but he was worried and needed distraction. Baptismo, the half-breed, was in the game. He was working through the roundup as strayman for the Gourd. Although Lafe lost, the play excited him to cheeriness and he began to drone, as he riffled the cards—
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee,Where the wild ki-yotes will howl o'er me—
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee,Where the wild ki-yotes will howl o'er me—
"What's the matter, Baptismo?" he asked suddenly.
"Nothing's the matter. Go on and deal," said the strayman. He smiled at Lafe, but his hands were unsteady. The boss played wretchedly and lost more than he could afford.
"Whatever are you thinking about, Lafe?" exclaimed his partner, in exasperation. "I swear I never done saw a raw beginner overbid his hand worse'n you done."
"I'm right sorry. I was studying over something."
On the round next morning the boss made it a point to ride with Baptismo. The outfit was dispersed in a wide semi-circle covering an area five miles in diameter, and moved slowly forward within sight of one another, converging upon a cuplike valley. In this manner they drove ahead of them all the cattle within the limits of their sweep. Usually the half-breed was sent with the first bunch dispersed, for he was a capable hand, but instead of posting Baptismo this morning as he did the others, Lafe kept him at his side. Side by side they trotted slowly through the sage-brush, with the cattle careering in front, pausing often to look back at them. Several times Lafe raised his voice merrily.
"Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee," he sang.
The half-breed glanced at him obliquely and remarked: "You seem right fond of that song, Mr. Johnson."
"Yes? Did I sing that before? I hadn't noticed it," the boss answered, and went on with the verse.
All through the day Johnson kept close to Baptismo. It was quite evident that the half-breed had difficulty holding himself in check under this close espionage, but the only emotion he betrayed was a quickened alertness. And all through the day Lafe sang or hummed the ballad of "The Dying Cowboy."
On the next afternoon, as they were picking their way through a tangle of ocatilla among the foothills, Johnson burst into full-throated song—
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee,Where the wild ki-yotes will howl o'er me—Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the wind blows free—
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee,Where the wild ki-yotes will howl o'er me—Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the wind blows free—
"For the love of God!" said Baptismo. "Stop that song!"
He was shaking as with a chill, although the perspiration stood out on chin and forehead. On hearing this Lafe glanced in his direction and asked, good-naturedly enough, what was the matter.
"Nothing," said the half-breed quickly, "only you haven't sung anything else in two days but that song, and my nerves ain't good after the time we had at the ranch."
Several times in the course of the evening, as the outfit loafed in camp after supper, the boss had occasion to pass Baptismo where he lay by the fire. Each time he either hummed or whistled a line of "The Dying Cowboy."
Johnson had spread his tarp about thirty yards removed from his men. He was a very light sleeper, accustomed to wake at least once in the course of the night to look all around the camp and make sure that everything was well. Therefore he heard Baptismo when the latter stood over him, and he knew almost what each second of hesitation meant. Had the half-breed moved, the boss would have shot him dead. After an interval, Baptismo turned away and went softly to his own bed.
In the gray of dawn, as the Anvil men were roping their mounts from the remuda and the horses were plunging wildly into the press of their brethren, Lafe called his strawboss and told him to take charge of the work for the day. To Baptismo he said, placing a hand carelessly on the half-breed's six-shooter: "I reckon you'd better come along with me, Baptismo." With that he took possession of the gun.
The man's nostrils flared quickly and he grew pallid about the lips, but he neither inquired why Lafe wanted him nor offered any objection. Instead, he glanced in apprehension toward the group of riders now ready and waiting for the chief's orders to be off. The horses were restless to the tang in the air.
It was not until the two were a mile from camp and well on their way to the county town that Baptismo broke silence. Then it was to protest vehemently against suspicions which Johnson had not voiced. The boss made no answer, but kept a vigilant watch over his movements.
There was a crowd gathered in the town. They had a man in their midst and were dragging him at the end of a rope. As Johnson and his prisoner came down the single street, they encountered this mob. A cloud of dust enveloped the wretch they were dragging and Lafe had to check the rush before it cleared sufficiently for him to discover the victim's identity. It was Bass. He was unconscious and was bleeding from wounds inflicted by his captors' boots and ropes. A goodly portion of the crowd was composed of the Tilsons, relatives of Sellers, and the remainder were members of the outfit for which Jerry had worked. Johnson held up his hand, palm outward, and called for order.
"What the hell do you want?" they inquired.
"I used to be sheriff of Badger," cried Lafe, "and I'm boss now of the Anvil range. I arrested that man you've got there. This looks like a lynching. What's the idea?"
Gustfully they explained that the idea was to hang Mr. Bass to a tree adjacent. Lafe heard them in seeming patience, piecing together from the confusion of cries just how strong their passions ran. He inquired in a civil tone as to their reasons for hanging Mordecai.
"What for?" they echoed. "Why, damn it all, he done killed Jerry Sellers. Stabbed him in the back. Do you hear that? Stabbed him in the back!"
Lafe touched his horse with his heel and advanced on them a few steps.
"Men," said he, "Bass never killed Jerry Sellers. I done arrested him for it, but I made a mistake. The man who knifed him—"
The mob interrupted with hoots and a roar of abuse. Some of them pushed past Lafe and began to drag Bass forward once more. Others demanded to know what warrant the sheriff had for this extraordinary statement. They still called him "sheriff."
"Let's give him a trial," Lafe plead loudly; "let's try each of these men in turn. This man I've got here—"
He broke off, afraid to proceed further lest the swift rage of the mob include Baptismo also, and neither man secure justice. Once started, and two might swing as lightly as one.
"Why," bawled a man close to Johnson, "Bass, he done confessed. We done made him."
"You've made a mistake—" said Lafe, but they swept by him.
In the turmoil Baptismo edged off. Perceiving it, Johnson stuck a gun to his head and ordered him to ride in front or there would be no trial nor any chance for justice—simply a speedy arraignment before the Judgment Seat for Baptismo. Then he urged his horse into the thickest of the mob and, despite some rough handling, cut the rope by which the prisoner was being dragged.
"Men," he cried, "if you hang him, you've got to put me out of the way first. This man never killed Jerry Sellers."
Not one man in a hundred but would have been taken at his word. They hesitated, but the sheriff sat his horse coolly in the midst of it all, and the half-breed clung at his knee. It was impossible to argue against the outcry, or to obtain anything coherent from the medley of shouts.
In his agony of suspense Baptismo drew a pair of dice from the pocket of his chaps and began to click them in his hand. It was characteristic of the half-breed that he should be able to smile brilliantly upon the crowd even when most fearful. The sheriff saw the dice. His face lighted and he thrust forward again, shouting for quiet.
"You say that Bass is guilty. You say he's confessed. I say that I've got the murderer here. You want to hang Mordecai without a trial. I want a trial—a trial for both—and that's all we'll need. Let's throw dice."
It is probable that not more than four or five of the mob caught Johnson's words, but they happened to be in the forefront, and when they halted, progress was immediately arrested.
"Throw dice?" one asked eagerly. "Thunderation, what for?"
"You think this man killed Jerry Sellers. I know that Baptismo killed him. I've got Baptismo here. Let the two of 'em throw dice to see which is innocent. If Baptismo didn't kill him—why, he just couldn't throw lowest."
The leaders looked at one another. It was just such a suggestion as appealed to their heated minds. They began to argue and Lafe breathed in relief. When men start argument, action need not be feared immediately. Gradually order was restored. Everybody waited on the man who held the rope, who was spokesman.
"I ain't so sure," said he, "that this'll prove anything. But we aim to hang this feller Bass. You aim to hang that yellow-belly. If it's agreeable to them, I reckon we cain't raise any objections. We'll have a hanging anyhow, and Jerry'll rest easier."
Baptismo still clicked the dice automatically. He wetted his lips and assured them in a dry voice that this would be satisfactory to him and eminently fair. Perhaps Baptismo was not unbiased. The dice were his, and he knew that if held in a certain position in the palm of the hand, they could be thrown to suit the needs of the player.
Their minds diverted by the possibilities of this trial by luck, the crowd fell in quickly with the suggestion. It savored of the rough justice to which they were accustomed, and if the parties principally concerned were willing, why should they withhold sanction to the ordeal? Moreover, it gave an opportunity for divine intervention.
Johnson got down from his horse and removed the rope from Mordecai's neck.
"Here, you! Wake up!" cried several, shaking him by the shoulders. Somebody shoved a bottle to his lips and he groaned and speedily revived. Then they explained to him as clearly as several tongues talking at once could do, what the nature of the test was.
"I reckon you'll hang me anyhow, if I don't?" he asked.
They signified that such was their intent.
"Then, of course, I'll throw," said he. "It ain't fair, but it's my only chance."
Bass was still too weak to realize fully what was transpiring. The mob took no account of this, but surged forward to the spot originally selected for the hanging. It was a tree, which grew back of a flat rock. The advantage of this site was that the two could roll the dice on the rock, and then the one who was guilty could be hanged from the tree without further inconvenience.
Lafe went ahead, piloting the two principals by the arms, one on each side of him. He placed them side by side in front of the rock. The half-breed picked up the dice.
"One throw, or best out of three?" he inquired.
There was a pause, while the crowd looked to Bass.
"One will do as well as a hundred, I reckon," said he.
Baptismo gave a grunt of satisfaction and shook the dice in his hand. With a twist along his two first fingers he spun them on the rock. A double six! Twelve! A long sigh came from the crowd, and then they all began to talk. Somebody cheered. Assuredly this proved everything. A double six was the highest that could be thrown. Baptismo could not be beaten. True, his throw might be tied—so, too, an elephant might fly. The odds against Bass seemed utterly hopeless. He looked at the dice dully for a minute and then turned to Lafe.
"I reckon I'm done for," said he, "but God knows I didn't do it."
"If you did," Johnson said, his eyes troubled, "you fight mighty well for a feller who'd stab in the back."
And then, before them all, Bass fell on his knees beside the rock and sank his face in his arms. None but Lafe knew that he was praying. The crowd thought that he had fainted from weakness and sought to rouse him, urging him to go on with the test. At last he rose.
"It ain't fair," he said in a loud voice, "it isn't fair. And the dice are loaded. But—well, I'll try. I'm innocent, and I reckon He'll see me through, somehow."
Saying this, Bass rattled the dice in his hand and clapped them down with all his strength. So violent was his passion that they rolled off the rock upon the ground.
"The throw counts!" the crowd yelled—"the throw's got to count. He's trying to gain time."
Lafe bent to examine the dice. As he did so he began to shout frantically, and he waved the crowd back.
"Look there!" he yelled, and pointed to three pieces of ivory on the ground.
The force of Bass's throw had broken a dice. One of them registered a six. The half of the other showed a six. And the broken half showed one. The total was thirteen. He had done the impossible; he had beaten the half-breed by a point.
Baptismo gazed down at the fragments in stupefaction. His mouth was open, but for a minute at least no sound came from it. Then he whispered: "It's the judgment of God."
He collapsed and huddled in an abject heap, clasping Lafe's knees. And in that position he sobbed out his confession. Yes, he had killed Sellers—killed him there by the spring. They had long been enemies, and Sellers had insulted him in front of Florence Steel. He had followed when Jerry went to the spring. Sellers was singing. Sellers had angered the girl and she urged him to pick a quarrel. When he struck, Florence was coming down the path close behind. She saw it all, for she was quite close. He threw away the knife—he had found it—and ran to the barn. There he saw Bass coming from the bushes beside the spring. He knew of Mordecai's quarrel with Sellers, and when he perceived that Bass was about to ride off, he resolved to stay at the ranch.
"I reckon," said Lafe, as he and Bass moved along the homeward trail that night, "I reckon you'd best leave Florence be, Mordecai. What do you think? Seems to me she set more store by that feller swinging back there."
"Don't," Bass entreated. "Yes, I reckon she did, Lafe. She must have loved him a heap."
"Women are queer," said Lafe.
"Say," he said suddenly again, "if you were in the bushes there, you must have seen the killing. Why didn't you speak out?"
His companion flushed and looked uncomfortable. Luckily it was dark.
"No, I didn't see who stabbed him, at all. I didn't see Baptismo there. I only saw Florence coming along the path. And I'd lent her my knife, and—"
Both were silent a long time. Their ponies went steadily forward, their riders' legs occasionally touching. Finally Bass roused.
"What beats me," he said, "is how you happened to pick on Baptismo."
"Why," said Lafe, in a satisfied voice, "that was simple. I happened to sing that song. You know—'Oh, bury me not'—the one poor ol' Jerry was singing when Baptismo sneaked up behind. I was shuffling the cards and happened to look up sudden. And when I saw his face, I knew right away."
"It's a wonder," said Johnson to his wife one day, "it's a wonder we ain't never heard anything from Steve Moffatt."
She looked up from her sewing in curiosity. "Surely you don't want to hear from him, do you? I declare, one would think, to hear you talk, that you were sorry."
Lafe did not dispute this, but got down on his knees that his son might mount and ride him. Lafe, Jr., was pleased to consider his father a bucking bronco on these occasions and used to dig his heels gleefully into his ribs. Time—two months after Mordecai Bass and the half-breed shook dice against death, and they hanged Baptismo to a stout tree.
The boss of the Anvil freed himself from his rider by pitching him over his shoulder, and rose and dusted his knees.
"Well, anyhow," he said, "you remember what he done wrote to me when me and you were married. He said 'adios,' you mind. And he told me he wouldn't bother me until after the honeymoon."
"I remember well enough. What of it?"
"It's a mighty long time since the honeymoon," said her husband, shaking his head dubiously.
Hetty laughed, but the look she turned on Lafe was not wholly devoid of anxiety. For this was but one of a series of incidents. His behavior and recent trend of thought worried her. Since Jerry's tragic death, he seemed another individual. Lafe had grown subject to fits of depression and frequently gave utterance to the gloomiest forebodings. What had he on his mind? Nothing—not a thing in the world. Yet he continued to hint darkly that it would be just their luck if he fell ill, or were killed, leaving Hetty and the boy alone to starve.
"Nonsense!" cried Hetty, after she had listened patiently to several repetitions of this obsession. "We're doing fine. You've got this place and six hundred dollars saved. And Mr. Horne pays you a hundred and twenty-five a month, and Bob owes you three hundred—"
Lafe gave a hollow laugh. "Yes," said he, "Bob owes me three hundred. Ha-ha! That's a fine asset—what Bob owes—ain't it?"
"So you think he's going to rob you? Say it. Say it right out. What did you lend it to him for, then?" she exclaimed.
"Because you done worried me into it," he retorted, but perceiving that he had offended her, he began to weaken, and ended by apologizing. Although he scoffed at the prospect of his brother-in-law ever repaying the loan, it is my belief that Johnson had full confidence in Bob and would have resented with bodily injury any imputation from an outsider.
"If a man can't roast his friends, who can?" said he once, when I remonstrated with him concerning a criticism of Ferrier. "My friends knock me, I reckon. If they don't, then they can't think such a heap of me. No, sir. Bob's behaved like a no-account. Why, man alive, I had to let him have forty dollars more yesterday. What do you think of that—hey?"
Every one of his acquaintance had remarked the transformation in Johnson and all of us were at a loss. The change was revolutionary. It had never been my fortune to meet with an individual so reckless of the morrow as Lafe had been before marriage. Not only had he gambled daily with his life, but had held to it that money was to spend, and the prospect of poverty never appeared to enter into his calculations. Indeed, he had scorned those who showed reluctance to toss their hard-won earnings to the winds. Himself had always been penniless or in debt, but he had gone his way cheerily, indulging no worry over his plight.
Then he married, and now he talked like this: "I swan, Dan, when I think of what I married Hetty on, it sure makes me shake like a leaf. It's a wonder we didn't starve. A man's pluckier or he don't think of these things when he's younger—don't you reckon? I'd never dare do it over again now."
"Pluckier? No. Simply irresponsible—that's all. A lot of 'em hope for a miracle—these young people," said I.
"And damn my eyes if they don't usually get it," Lafe said. "It's most amazing how things will turn up to help people who can't help themselves—just when you think you're done for, too."
"Then why are you worrying so now?"
"Am I worrying?" he asked, looking sharply at me.
I could see he was displeased, and consequently dropped the subject. But Horne and others told me that Johnson was much concerned about his health merely because he had contracted a cold. This was to them a symptom of hopeless effeminacy.
On a night when Lafe and I were riding under myriads of stars, and a drink of mezcal had contributed to warm the confidential impulses begotten by a long day together in the saddle, the boss inquired abruptly whether I would look after Lafe, Jr., in the event of anything happening to him. I gaped at him.
"What on earth's going to happen to you? You're as healthy as a goat."
"Dan, it makes me ashamed, but, consarn it, I lie awake nights often, wondering what would become of Hetty and the kid if I was to be killed or got hurt or fell sick. We ain't got enough saved to—"
"Oh, pshaw!" I protested. "Forget it. This isn't like you, Lafe."
Really anxious, I took the opportunity to mention to Hetty that her husband was suffering from indigestion and that it behooved her to get him fit again.
"Do you know," said she, "I've been wondering if that wasn't what ailed him. A man is only half a man when his stomach is out of order. He's got to get his meals all proper or he won't amount to anything. Thank you, Dan, I'll attend to it."
Old man Horne put a different interpretation on Lafe's peculiar nervous dread. Very condescendingly he explained to me that, being a bachelor, I could not be expected to probe the mystery, but the fact was that every married man was seized some time with this species of anxiety.
"That is," said Horne, "if he's conscientious and worth his salt. Some of 'em, they never do get rid of it. It isn't cowardice. He's just afraid for his family."
"But Johnson has no real cause for worry. Not like a lot of others. Look at him."
"Sure not. That's why he's worrying. He's got things too easy, the rascal. If he had some real troubles, probably he wouldn't fret at all."
Winter dragged along—a winter of blustering winds, of abrupt, dead calms and terrible cold. The cold did not last, however. Some snow fell in the hills, and under a bright sun ran down in rills to the river. Later, the rains held off and the grass shriveled. The country turned a pale brown.
We never look for the first rains to wash the land until July—for some unexplained reason everybody sets the date at July Fourth. But in early June numberless clouds massed in tumbled glory above the mountains and the rain drove down in sheets. Three days later the country showed green and pure, the trees put forth new leaves and the ocatilla flared turkey-red on the ridges.
"The cattle are looking fine," Lafe reported. "Their hides are loose. We've had a good calf crop. It'll run to seventy per cent, Horne. And there ain't no worms, or likely will be."
"Start the roundup next week," said Horne.
Accordingly, the Anvil outfit gathered its horses, packed its chuckwagon with food and bedding, and set out for Zacaton Bottom, there to pitch the first camp. They would not reach the mountain pastures, where the wild steers roamed, until late in the autumn.
The horses were on edge from their winter's freedom. One in every three were broncos just broken. What the Anvil buster facetiously called a broken horse was one that had had three saddles. After those, he was turned into the remuda—not bridle-wise, full of fight and vicious from memory of what the buster had imposed on him. As a result, we had five or six contests of endurance between riders and mounts each morning. One of the boys was thrown and had his collar bone broken.
As boss, Johnson had the privilege of topping the remuda for his string—that is to say, he had first choice of all horses. Yet it was generally a point of honor not to appropriate all the gentle ones; also, not to assign all the bad ones to one particular hand; and it is always a point of honor to retain those selected, and ride them, whatever characteristics they may develop afterwards.
In Lafe's mount was a big J A sorrel that had roved the fastnesses of Paloduro in Texas. The buster had christened him Casey Jones, after the celebrated engineer, because of the desperate quality of his courage. Now, by reason of Lafe's recently developed nervousness concerning himself, I could not repress my impatience for the day to arrive for Casey Jones' saddling—the horses are worked in rotation and, being entirely grass-fed, each can only be used about once in three days.
In a chill dawn the roper called to Johnson: "Want Casey Jones?"
"No-oo. Catch me Tommy," said the boss.
Nobody but the roper, the horse wrangler and myself marked this weakening. We did not even comment on it among ourselves, but I was much cast down. Of course no man after he has got beyond twenty-five years, or has otherwise arrived at some degree of sense, wants to ride a bucking horse; but when it is put up to him, when it becomes his duty, then the man who shirks is discredited. Yet none of us could think of Lafe as really shirking. Perhaps he had some excellent reason. Much more of this, though, and there would be a lessening of his authority.
He mounted Tommy, and we rounded up some foothills, where every patch of weed and mesquite gave up a bunch of cattle. While two of his men were working the herd on the roundup ground, Lafe sat Tommy on the outskirts, making one of the cordon of riders that surrounded the cattle and kept them in. He was talking to a strayman from the Lazy L, who worked with our wagon in order to gather the cattle of his brand which had wandered from their range.
Two bulls started a fight. They were Herefords of tremendous bulk, and when they crashed together in the center of the herd, the mass split apart. Fully a score of bulls had been wandering up and down picking fights, so Lafe and the strayman paid no especial attention.
However, it is the essence of folly to ignore bulls in combat if the combat be anywhere near you. None knew this better than Lafe. The bull that finds himself getting the worst of it will invariably break free, swerve aside and dash at the nearest object, as a diversion. Usually his foe goes in hot pursuit.
The two Herefords pawed and bawled and rumbled and butted. Johnson and the cowboy talked, lolling in the saddle. The bulls drew off from each other a few steps, bellowed and crashed head-on. The impact was terrific. One of them rocketed out of the press of cattle straight at Lafe.
It happened that Tommy—finding that no work faced him—was taking it easy, with one hip down and his eyes half shut. The bull caught the horse under the belly and hurled him and his rider a good ten feet through the air. Lafe struck the ground partly under his mount, his right leg held by Tommy's shoulders. The horse did not rise. He was disemboweled.
The cowboys spurred to his aid and dragged Tommy off him. The bulls had trotted back to the herd and were now engaged in thundering challenges to other range monarchs. Lafe stood up painfully. He put his right foot to the ground, very carefully. A smile of intense satisfaction came over his face.
"Nothing broken," he said—"just shaken up. Jim-in-ee, but I'm sure lucky."
He turned to Tommy, wheezing on the ground and trying weakly to rise.
"Poor li'l devil. Poor ol' Tommy," he said pityingly. After a brief examination, he shot him between the eyes in order to spare him useless suffering.
The boss was very blue throughout the day, and I knew it was for the horse. Tommy had been a pet, and every one of us felt what it had cost Lafe. "Poor li'l devil"—that was all, but Johnson was of the kind who would hardly have said as much audibly for a human being.
Back of his grief I detected a great relief. It was almost a new sense of freedom, revealed in his eyes and his altered manner towards his men. The old quiet authority was his again. Just what he felt was shown when he said to me that night, "I reckon if a big ol' bull can't even hurt me, that I've got a few years to live yet awhile. Hey, Dan?"
"You're whistling. That was a close call, though, Lafe."
"If it had been Casey Jones now—" he began, but something in my face stopped him.
"Did you notice?" he asked, without embarrassment.
"Yes. Why did you do it?"
"I got to thinking about Hetty and the kid. And then I quit—quit cold—laid down. Just watch me ride ol' Casey Jones to-morrow, though. I'll sure clean that fine gentleman."
I watched him. We all did. It was a joy to behold. The sorrel was in high fettle and the ground was hard. So furiously did Casey Jones pitch—squalling through his gaping mouth at every jump—that one of his hoofs was split in two. Lafe sat him firmly, his poise yielding to every new move of the bronco, and he shouted in delight as he plied quirt and spur. Time and again Casey Jones leaped straight into the air and turned back under his rider. Johnson's head would snap back, but his seat was never shaken, and he raked the sorrel from shoulder to flank-cinch. At last Casey Jones stopped, his legs wide apart, his head drooped and his breath whistling. The Anvil men gazed in silence, but with deep approval.
"Crackee," said a cowboy to me, "the boss is sure some peeler."
"He certainly hasn't forgotten how."
"Me and some of the boys," he went on, "we'd been figuring as how Lafe had sort of lost his nerve. It seemed queer, too, but he's been mighty low-sperited. Did you notice? I reckon that was just a mistake, don't you? It must have been."
"A big mistake," I agreed. "He was just a bit worried. That was all. He'll never be that way again."
Another episode during this roundup gave Lafe a lasting reputation among cowmen for cool judgment.
The outfit was working the foothills country. In nearly all the draws of this region nesters had settled, for one could grow corn and alfalfa in abundance, and some had laid out small peach orchards. They farmed in quarter-sections, and generally six or eight miles separated the farms. Some of them owned a few head of cattle, which grazed on the open range with the herds of the big companies.
Consequently, when the Anvil wagon went on its roundup and began gathering cows and calves from valley and hill and brakes, it was joined at various points by nesters. They came to see that the calves belonging to any of their cows that might be in a roundup got the proper brand; and they received free chuck, and worked as members of the outfit.
Late one afternoon a horseman ambled into camp and alighted leisurely close to the wagon. He left his mount standing almost on top of the pots whilst he secured a match from a drawer in the chuckbox. Now, it is contrary to camp tradition to bring one's horse within a certain radius. Fat Dave stuck his arms akimbo and surveyed the visitor with ill-concealed rage.
"What for you don't hitch him to the coffee pot?" he sneered. "Perhaps you'd best put that ol' skate in my bed."
"Pshaw!" said the other, laughing. "I clean forgot, Dave."
He led the beast beyond the woodpile and returned to the fire. Dave was lifting some coals with a shovel, to put under a pot.
"Going to be with us, Ben?" he inquired, considerably mollified.
"I was sort of figuring on it."
A long silence, while the cook spread live coals on top of the Dutch oven wherein the bread was baking.
"Why, I didn't know you run any cattle, Ben."
"A few ol' cows. They're my nephew's," said the other.
He squatted on a pile of bedding and engaged the cook in conversation. A close observer might have remarked that Dave was wary in his replies—at least, wary for Dave, who was accustomed to call a spade a damned shovel.
"How're the boys off for beddin'?" asked the visitor.
"Right scarce. These nights get right cold now, I can tell you."
"Somebody'll find room for me, don't you reckon?"
Dave considered a moment.
"You can sleep with me, Ben," he said finally.
When the boys rode in to supper, tired and quiet from a punishing day, the cook seized an opportunity to speak to the boss. Lafe was adding up figures in a tally-book on the rim of a wagon wheel.
"Say, Lafe," began the cook, "this here nester, Ben Walsh, that just come in—"
"Well?" said Johnson.
"What's he doing here? What does he want? That's what I'd like to know. Hey?"
"He came to get his cattle, I reckon."
"Cattle?" Dave snorted. "Him? Why, he never had even a dogie calf. No, sir; no, Lafe, that Walsh is a bad hombre. He's mean. Meaner'n poison. None of the Moffatts ain't no meaner."
"The Moffatts?" Lafe repeated, pausing with his pencil in midair. "What's this nester got to do with Steve Moffatt or his kin?"
"Why," said the cook, "this Ben done married Moffatt's sister. He sure thinks he's some gunman, too, Ben does—most as good as Steve."
The boss was very thoughtful as they ate their meal. He spoke civilly to Walsh and discussed with him the condition of cattle and grass, and the water supply. He even offered Dave an extra blanket on learning that the cook had proffered the visitor a bed.
During the work next day, as Lafe was dispersing his riders, he stopped to ask of Walsh: "Where do you figure you're most like to find yours, Mr. Walsh?"
The nester mentioned a stretch of chaparral, and Johnson assigned him to that strip. He noted that Walsh performed his tasks indolently. Once, too, while they were working the herd, he caught a criticism of his methods that the nester was voicing to a cowboy. Lafe did not show any resentment, although the tone employed was raised purposely that he might hear, but bode his time.
A couple of days passed and the boss became aware that he was being made a butt by the nester. Malcontents can be found in every outfit. So there were some in the Anvil who listened to Walsh's low-voiced talk and joined readily in the laugh. After supper on the third evening, one of the old hands told Lafe that Walsh was "knocking" him.
"I know," said Johnson.
"But it hurts you with the boys," the other protested. "They don't work so good. Why, to-day, when you put Walsh on day herd and he went to the spring instead, a lot of 'em laughed and joked."
"Sure," said Lafe, evenly, "I know. I'm just waiting. Thanks, all the same, Mit."
Unvarying civility for another day on Johnson's part; on Walsh's, a cautious expansion of his policy of weakening discipline. The next night somebody inaugurated a game of pitch on a saddle-blanket by lantern light. Although the boss had not absolutely tabooed gambling, of late he had discountenanced it among the Anvil boys on the roundup. He was about to order the game stopped, when he perceived that Walsh was one of the players. Upon that he walked over and asked to be allowed to take a hand.
The game ran with varying fortune. The players praised or cursed the cards with gusto, according to their luck, as is the way with cowboys—except Johnson, who won or lost with equal imperturbability. During a pause, someone told a story. Next deal, Walsh capped it with another. Just as he reached the point, he paused suddenly to examine his cards.
"And what," said Lafe, whose mind was on other things, "what did the girl do then?"
Walsh promptly sprang the point, a time-worn catch which under any other circumstances Lafe would have readily foreseen. The majority of the spectators around the blanket broke into crackling laughter. A few kept silent, for there was a venom, a calculated malice in Walsh's tone which did not escape the older men. The boss felt it, and for a moment his eyes held Walsh's steadily. Both wore guns, as did every man during roundup. Then Lafe threw back his head and laughed with such unaffected heartiness that the nester seemed puzzled. Throughout the remainder of the game he looked rather crestfallen.
Dave was cooking dinner about noon. The nester lolled in camp, having advanced a plea of sickness to avoid work that morning. When the sun was past its height, the outfit galloped in. Behind came Johnson, his horse moving at a sober walk. He was dragging a cow at the end of his rope. Arrived close to the fire, he ordered Mit to heel the animal, and when she was stretched out, borrowed a sharp knife from the cook. Then he went to the cow's head and took hold of her tongue.
"Land's sake, Lafe," cried Dave, "what do you aim to do now?"
"Split her tongue," said Johnson.
"Oh," said the cook. Everybody seemed satisfied.
"Split her tongue?" Walsh echoed, raising himself from a tarpaulin. "That's a new one on me. What're you going to do that for?"
"So she can lick both sides of her calf at once," Lafe drawled, and released the animal.
A perfect gale of laughter swept from the Anvil outfit.
"Damn my fat haid! Damn my ol' fat haid!" bellowed the cook.
A fig for Walsh and his prowess as a gunfighter! Dave feared no man. He went his way, grouchy and unreckoning, secure in the sanctity that hedges a cook. Besides, if that failed him, he had usually a pothook handy. Now, he threw himself flat on his back and kicked his heels in the air.
One must give Walsh his due. He had pluck to spare, but ridicule is the hardest thing to face in life. Besides, what earthly use was there in defying a whole outfit? He gave a sickly smile and returned to his tarpaulin.
To him came Lafe after dinner.
"How're you feeling?" he asked.
"Better."
"Well," said the boss, "we're moving to-day, Walsh. You don't seem to have found any of your stuff. It's certain you won't, where we're heading. So I reckon it'd save you trouble if you got moving."
Walsh eyed him expectantly.
"All right," he said at last. "You're the boss."
In this manner was discipline restored among the Anvil men.