On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane

the left and crop the right. The swallow-fork was deep in the left, to take in an underbit that Pecos had cut, and Old Funny-face, who had returned home with the herd, lost the fancy Mexican window and anzuelo in her right ear altogether, along with all other signs of a former ownership. But even then the artistic knife-work of José Garcia was not allowed to perish from the earth. As Funny-face rose up from this last indignity and menaced the perspiring cowboys with her horns, the little Garcia children, hanging over the fence, dashed out through the dust and turmoil and rescued the close-cropped ears. Already, in spite of threats and admonitions, they had gathered quite a collection of variegated crops and swallow-forks to serve as play-cows in their toy corral; but when Marcelina came upon this last bloody evidence of the despite that was shown her lover she snatched the ears away and hid them in the thatched roof. Old Funny-face was Pecos's cow—she knew that as well as she knew the red-spotted, dun-colored ears that had adorned her speckled head. Pecos had bought Funny-face and her calf from her father for thirty dollars, to keep around his camp to milk, and now there was nothing to show for his ownership but the ears. But perhaps Pecos would be glad even for them, if ever he came back. In a letter to Babe he had said he was coming back, now that the sheriff was his friend. But Crit—ha-ah, Ol' Creet—he was stealing all of Pecos's cows, and the sheriff did not care! She stood by a post of the brush ramada and scowled at him as he raged about on his horse, cursing and shouting and waving his arms and hurrying his men along. He was a bad man—ahr, how she hated him—and now he was such a thief!

      As the quick work of branding was brought to an end and the herd driven pell-mell down the river and into the heavy willows, the Boss of Verde Crossing sent half of his cowboys down to guard them and began to clean up the corral. First he put out the fires and quenched the hot running-irons and rings; then he removed the branding outfit, dug a deep hole in the river-bed and set his men to work in details, gathering up the clipped ears and swallow-forks from the trampled dirt of the corral. A single ear left lying would be a record of his theft, and when one of the Garcia niños, by an ill-timed dash for more ears, set Crit upon the trail of their play cows he rushed in and ravished all their toy corrals, even though Marcelina stood by the ramada and curled her lip at his haste.

      "You will rob even the cheeldren, Meester Creet!" she remarked, as he dumped them all into his hat.

      "Mind your own business!" he answered, sharply, and scuttled away like a crab, bearing his plunder with him.

      "Ah, you ba-ad man!" observed Marcelina, making faces at his bent back. "I hope Paycos come back and keel you!"

      But Isaac Crittenden was not worrying about any such small fry as Pecos Dalhart. Boone Morgan and John Upton were the men he had on his mind and it was about time for Upton to show up. A solitary horseman, high up on the shoulder of the peaks, had watched their departure from Carrizo Springs that morning, and if Upton had not known before he certainly knew very well now that the Monkey-wrench brand was no more. As for Boone Morgan—well, there was an IC cow in the corral, altered by John Upton to JIC, and it was just as big a crime to steal one cow as it was to steal a hundred. One thing was certain, no man from the IC outfit would call on the sheriff for aid; and if Upton was the red-headed terror that he claimed to be, the matter would be settled out of court.

      In this particular incident Mr. Crittenden was more than right. The matter was already adjudicated by range law, and entirely to the satisfaction of Upton. For while Crit was hustling his Monkey-wrench herd over to Verde Crossing, the U outfit—also forty strong—had hopped over the shoulder of the Peaks, rounded up every Wine-glass cow that they could gather, and were at that moment busily engaged at Carrizo Springs in altering them to a Circle-cross (). It made a very pretty brand too; but after studying on it for a while and recalling his past experience with Crit, Upton decided to play safe and make it a double cross (). No more ICU2's for John Upton—he had been there once—and Circle Double-cross it went on every animal they marked. The next morning, with every cow and calf well in hand, the U boys began to drift the Circle Double-cross herd back over the mountain, and just as Crittenden was marshalling his fighting men to win back the ravished stock there was a clatter of hoofs down at the Crossing and Boone Morgan rode into camp, followed by a posse of deputies.

      "Well, what's the trouble up here, Mr. Crittenden?" he inquired, glancing with stern displeasure at the armed men who gathered about their chief. "Is there an Injun uprisin' or have you gone on the warpath yourse'f?"

      "You jest come down to my corral," spat back Crittenden, "and I'll show you what's the matter! That low-lived John Upton has been burnin' my brand!" He led the way at a gallop to where the IC cow that had been altered to JIC was tied by the horns to a post. "You see that brand?" he inquired, "well, that was made three days ago by John Upton—you can see the J is still raw."

      "Umph!" grunted the sheriff, after a careful scrutiny of the brand, "did anybody see him do it?"

      "No, but he done it, all right!"

      "Would you swear to it? Can you prove it? How do you know somebody else didn't do it?"

      "No, I can't swear to it—and I can't prove it, neither—but one of my boys picked that cow up three days ago right in the track of Upton's outfit, and, knowin' the little whelp as I do, I don't need no lawyer's testimony to make a case!"

      "Well, I do," replied Boone Morgan, resolutely, "and I don't want this to go any further until I get the facts! What you goin' to do with all those two-gun cowboys?"

      "I'm goin' to take over the mesa after John Upton and his dam', cow-stealin' outfit," cried Crittenden, vehemently, "and if you're lookin' for legal evidence, he went out of Carrizo Springs this mornin' drivin' nigh onto two hundred head of Wine-glass cows, as one of my boys jest told me. Law, nothin'!" shouted the cowman, recklessly. "I ain't goin' to sit around here, twiddlin' my fingers, and waitin' for papers and evidence! What I want is action!"

      "Well, you'll get it, all right," replied Morgan, "and dam' quick, too, if you think you can run it over me! I want you to understand, Mr. Crittenden, that I am the sheriff of this county, and the first break you make to go after John Upton I'll send you down to Geronimo with the nippers on, to answer for resisting an officer! Now as for these men of yours, I give every one of 'em notice, here and now, that I want this racket to stop, and the first man that goes up against me will wind up in the county jail. Bill," he continued, turning to his trusted deputy, "I leave you in charge of this layout while I go after John Upton. Keep the whole outfit in camp until I come back, if you have to kill 'em. I've got enough of this."

      He rode down to the store with his posse, bought a feed of grain for his horses and provisions for his men, and half an hour afterward went galloping out the Carrizo trail, his keen eye scanning the distant ridges and reading the desert signs like a book. It did not take an Indian trailer to interpret the deep-trampled record of that path. Two days before a big herd of cows and calves had come into Verde Crossing from Carrizo, driven by many shod horses and hustled along in a hurry. As he approached Carrizo fresher tracks cut across the old signs, the tracks of cows and calves fleeing from scampering ponies, and at the Springs the fresh signs closed in and trampled out all evidence of the old drive. It was the last page of the story, written indelibly in the sandy earth. On the open parada ground the cropped ears had all been gathered, but the bruised bushes, the blood and signs of struggle told the plain story of Upton's branding, just as the vacancy of the landscape and the long trail leading to the north spelled the material facts of the drama. The Wine-glass cows that used to be about Carrizo Springs were gone—John Upton had driven them north. But why? The answer lay beyond Carrizo Springs, where the white trail leads down from Lost Dog Cañon. There the trampled tracks that led into Verde Crossing stood out plain again in the dust—three days old and pressed on by hurrying horses. If the law could accept the record of Nature's outspread book Crit and Upton were condemned already, the one for stealing Pecos Dalhart's herd, the other for branding over the Wine-glasses. But the law demands more than that. It demands evidence that a lawyer can read; the sworn testimony of honest and