Hidden Water. Coolidge Dane

his horse, began to understand why these low-browed barbarians from Mexico were willing to fight, and if need be to die, for their masters. The age of feudalism had returned–the lords of the sheep went forth like barons, sharing every hardship and leading the way in danger, and their men followed with the same unthinking devotion that the Myrmidons showed for noble Achilles or the Crusaders for their white-crossed knights.

      Upon this and many other feats Hardy had ample leisure to meditate, for the sheepmen regarded him no more than if he had been a monument placed high upon the point to give witness to their victory. As the sheep crossed they were even allowed to straggle out along the slopes of the forbidden mesa, untended by their shepherds; and if the upper range was the special reserve of the cowmen the sheep owners showed no knowledge of the fact. For two days the grazing herd crept slowly along the mesquite-covered flat toward Lookout Point, and on the third morning they boiled up over the rocks and spewed down into the valley of the Alamo.

      “Well,” observed Creede, as he watched the slow creeping of the flock, “here’s where I have to quit you, Rufe. In a week this ground around here will be as level as a billiard table and they won’t be enough horse feed in the valley to keep a burro. The town herd pulls out for Bender this mornin’ and the rest of us will move up to Carrizo Creek.”

      He hurried away to oversee the packing, but when all was ready he waved the boys ahead and returned to the conversation.

      “As I was sayin’ a while ago, you won’t see nothin’ but sheep around here now for the next two weeks–and all I want to say is, keep ’em out of the pasture, and f’r God’s sake don’t let ’em corral in the brandin’ pens! They’re dirty enough already, but if you git about six inches of sheep manure in there and then mill a few hundred head of cattle around on top of it, the dust would choke a skunk. Our cows ain’t so over-particular about that sheep smell, but if we poor cowboys has got to breathe sheep and eat sheep and spit up sheep every time we brand, it’s crowdin’ hospitality pretty strong. But if they want grub or clothes or tabac, go to it–and see if you can’t keep ’em off the upper range.”

      He paused and gazed at Hardy with eyes which suggested a world of advice and warning–then, leaving it all unsaid, he turned wearily away.

      “I look to find you with a sprained wrist,” he drawled, “when I come back–throwin’ flapjacks for them sheepmen!” He made the quick motion of turning a pancake in midair, smiled grimly, and galloped after the long line of horses and packs that was stringing along up the Bronco Mesa trail. And, having a premonition of coming company, Hardy went in by the fireplace and put on a big kettle of beef. He was picking over another mess of beans when he heard the clatter of hoofs outside and the next moment the door was kicked violently open.

      It was Jasper Swope who stood on the threshold, his high Texas hat thrust far back upon his head–and if he felt any surprise at finding the house occupied he gave no expression to it.

      “Hello, there!” he exclaimed. “I thought you folks was all gone!”

      “Nope,” replied Hardy, and continued his work in silence.

      “Cookin’ for the outfit?” queried Swope, edging in at the door.

      “Nope,” replied Hardy.

      “Well, who the hell air ye cookin’ fer then?” demanded Swope, drawing nearer. “’Scuse me if I pry into this matter, but I’m gittin’ interested.” He paused and showed a jagged set of teeth beneath his bristling red mustache, sneeringly.

      “Well, I’ll tell you,” answered Hardy easily. “I thought some white man might come along later and I’d ask him to dinner.” He fixed his eyes upon the sheepman with an instant’s disapproval and then resumed his cookery. As for Swope, his gray eyes flashed sudden fire from beneath bushy eyebrows, and then a canny smile crept across his lips.

      “I used to be a white man, myself,” he said, “before I lost my soap. What’s the chance to git a bite of that bymeby?” He threw his hand out toward the pot of beef, which was sending out odors of a rich broth, flavored with onions and chili.

      Hardy looked at him again, little shrimp of a man that he was, and still with disapproval.

      “D’ye call that a white man’s way of entering another man’s house?” he inquired pointedly.

      “Well,” temporized Swope, and then he stopped. “A man in my line of business gits in a hurry once in a while,” he said lamely. “But I’m hungry, all right,” he remarked, sotto voce.

      “Yes,” said Hardy, “I’ve noticed it. But here–sit down and eat.”

      The sheepman accepted the dish of beef, dipped out a spoonful of beans, broke off a slab of bread, and began his meal forthwith, meanwhile looking at Hardy curiously.

      “What’s that you say you’ve noticed?” he inquired, and a quizzical smile lurked beneath his dripping mustache as he reached over and hefted the coffeepot.

      “I’ve noticed,” replied Hardy, “that you sheepmen get in a hurry once in a while. You can’t stop to knock on a door so you kick it open; can’t stop to go around a ranch, so you go through it, and so on.”

      “Ah,” observed Swope slyly, “so that’s what’s bitin’ you, eh? I reckon you must be that new superintendent that Jim was tellin’ about.”

      “That’s right,” admitted Hardy, “and you’re Mr. Swope, of course. Well, I’ll say this for you, Mr. Swope, you certainly know how to get sheep across a river. But when it comes to getting along with cowmen,” he added, as the sheepman grinned his self-approval, “you don’t seem to stack up very high.”

      “Oh, I don’t, hey?” demanded Swope defiantly. “Well, how about the cowmen? Your friend Creede gets along with sheepmen like a house afire, don’t he? Him and a bunch of his punchers jumped on one of my herders last Fall and dam’ nigh beat him to death. Did you ever hear of a sheepman jumpin’ on a cowboy? No, by Gad, and you never will! We carry arms to protect ourselves, but we never make no trouble.”

      He paused and combed the coffee grounds out of his heavy red mustache with fingers that were hooked like an eagle’s talons from clutching at sheep in the cold water.

      “I don’t doubt, Mr. Superintendent,” he said, with sinister directness, “that these cowmen have filled you up about what bad hombres we are–and of course it ain’t no use to say nothin’ now–but I jest want to tell you one thing, and I want you to remember it if any trouble should come up; we sheepmen have never gone beyond our legal rights, and we’ve got the law behind us. The laws of the United States and the statutes of this Territory guarantee us the right to graze our sheep on public lands and to go where we dam’ please–and we’ll go, too, you can bank on that.”

      He added this last with an assurance which left no doubt as to his intentions, and Hardy made no reply. His whole mind seemed centred on a handful of beans from which he was picking out the rocks and little lumps of clay which help to make up full weight.

      “Well!” challenged Swope, after waiting for his answer, “ain’t that straight?”

      “Sure,” said Hardy absently.

      Swope glared at him for a moment disapprovingly.

      “Huh, you’re a hell of a cowman,” he grunted. “What ye goin’ to do about it?”

      “About what?” inquired Hardy innocently.

      “Aw, you know,” replied Swope impatiently. “How about that upper range?” He shoved back his chair as he spoke, and his eyes lit up in anticipation of the battle.

      “Well,” responded Hardy judicially, “if you’ve got the legal right to go up there, and if you’re goin’ where you dam’ please, anyhow, it don’t look like I could do anything.” He paused and smiled patiently at the sheepman.

      “You know very well, Mr. Swope,” he said, “that if you want to go up on that mesa and sheep off the feed we haven’t got any legal means of preventing you. But you know, too, that there isn’t more than enough feed for what cows the boys