10 Classics Western Stories. Samuel Merwin

and for the first time an Americano agreed with him.

      “One thing more, then,” said Don Pablo, lowering his voice and glancing toward the house, where Creede was conversing with the Señora. “The papá of Don Jeff yonder was a good man, but he was a fighting Texano––and Jeff is of the same blood. Each year as the sheep come through I have fear for him, lest he should kill some saucy borreguero and be sent to prison; for he has angry fits, like his father, and there are many bad men among the sheep-herders,––escaped criminals from Old Mexico, ladrones, and creatures of low blood, fathered by evil Americanos and the nameless women of towns.

      “In Sonora we would whip them from our door, but the sheepmen make much of their herders, calling them brothers and cuñados and what not, to make them stay, since the work is hard and dangerous. And to every one of them, whether herder or camp rustler, the owners give a rifle with ammunition, and a revolver to carry always. So they are drunk with valor. But our Jeff here has no fear of them, no, nor decent respect. He overrides them when the fit is on him, as if they were unfanged serpents––and so far he has escaped.”

      The old man leaned closer, and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, acting out his words dramatically.

      “But some day––” he clasped his heart, closed his eyes, and seemed to lurch before a bullet. “No?” he inquired, softly. “Ah, well, then, you must watch over him, for he is a good man, doing many friendships, and his father was a buen hombre, too, in the days when we all were rich. So look after him––for an old man,” he added, and trudged wearily back to the house.

      Chapter 5 HIDDEN WATER

      The trail to Hidden Water leads up the Salagua, alternately climbing the hard mesa and losing itself in the shifting sand of the river bottom until, a mile or two below the mouth of the box cañon, it swings in to the edge of the water. But the Salagua is no purling brook, dignified by a bigger name; it is not even a succession of mill ponds like the dammed-up streams of the East: in its own name the Salagua is a Rio, broad and swift, with a current that clutches treacherously at a horse’s legs and roars over the brink of stony reefs in a long, fretful line of rapids. At the head of a broad mill race, where the yellow flood waters boiled sullenly before they took their plunge, Creede pulled up and surveyed the river doubtfully.

      “Swim?” he inquired, and when Hardy nodded he shrugged his shoulders and turned his horse into the water. “Keep your head upstream, then,” he said, “we’ll try it a whirl, anyhow.”

      Head to tail the two horses plodded heavily across the ford, feeling their way among the submerged bowlders, while twenty feet below them the irresistible onrush of the current slipped smoothly over the rim, sending up a roar like the thunder of breakers. As they struggled up the opposite bank after a final slump into a narrow ditch Creede looked back and laughed merrily at his bedraggled companion.

      “How’s that for high?” he inquired, slapping his wet legs. “I tell you, the old Salagua is a hell-roarer when she gits started. I wouldn’t cross there this afternoon for a hundred dollars. She’s away up since we took the wagon over last night, but about to-morrow you’ll hear her talk––snow’s meltin’ on the mountains. I wish to God she’d stay up!” he added fervently, as he poured the water out of his boots.

      “Why?” asked Hardy innocently. “Won’t it interfere with your bringing in supplies?”

      “Sure thing,” said Creede, and then he laughed maliciously. “But when you’ve been up here a while,” he observed, “you’ll savvy a lot of things that look kinder curious. If the old river would git up on its hind legs and walk, forty feet high, and stay there f’r a month, we cowmen would simply laugh ourselves to death. We don’t give a dam’ for supplies as long as it keeps the sheep out.

      “Begin to see light, eh?” he queried, as he pushed on up the river. “Well, that’s the only thing in God’s world that wasn’t made to order for these sheepmen; the old Salagua cuts right square across the country east and west without consultin’ nobody, not even Jim Swope, and the sheep move north and south.

      “How’d you like to have the job of crossing a hundred thousand borregos and half of ’em with lambs, when the rio was on a bender? I’ve seen some of these sheepmen wadin’ around up to their chins for two weeks, tryin’ to float twenty-five hundred head across the river––and there wasn’t turkey buzzards enough in the country when they got through.

      “Last year they had the sand bars up around Hidden Water lined with carcasses two deep where they’d jest naturally crowded ’em into the river and let ’em sink or swim. Them Chihuahua Mexicans, you savvy. After they’d wore out their shoes and froze their marrow-bones wadin’ they got tired and shoved ’em in, regardless. Well, if this warm weather holds we’ll be able to git our rodér good and started before the sheep come in. That’s one reason why I never was able to do much with these sheepmen,” he added. “They hit me right square in the middle of the round-up, Spring and Fall, when I’m too busy gatherin’ cattle to pay much attention to ’em. I did plan a little surprise party last year––but that was somethin’ special. But now you’re on the job, Rufe,” he continued reassuringly, “I’m goin’ to leave all sheep and sheepmen strictly alone––you can bank on that. Bein’ as we are goin’ to try the expeeriment I want to see it done right. I never made a cent fightin’ ’em, that’s a cinch, and if you can appeal to their better natures, w’y, go to it! I’d help you if I could, but bein’ as I can’t I’ll git out of the road and give you a chanst.

      “Now I’ll tell you how it’ll be,” he continued, turning in his saddle and hooking one leg over the horn, “the boys’ll come in for the rodér to-morrow or next day; we begin to gather on the first, and it takes us about a month. Well, we look for the sheep to come in on us at about the same time––first of April––and we ain’t been fooled yet. They’ll begin to stack up on the other side any time now, and as soon as the water goes down they’ll come across with a rush. And if they’re feelin’ good-natured they’ll spread out over The Rolls and drift north, but if they’re feelin’ bad they’ll sneak up onto Bronco Mesa and scatter the cattle forty ways for Sunday, and bust up my rodér and raise hell generally. We had a little trouble over that last year,” he added parenthetically.

      “Well, I’ll turn over the house and the grub and the whole business to you this year and camp out with the boys under the mesquite––and then you can entertain them sheepmen and jolly ’em up no end. They won’t have a dam’ thing––horse feed, grub, tobacco, matches, nothin’! Never do have anythin’. I’d rather have a bunch of Apaches camped next to me––but if you want to be good to ’em there’s your chanst. Meanwhile, I’m only a cow-punch pullin’ off a round-up, and your name is Mr.––you’re the superintendent of the Dos S. Your job is to protect the upper range, and I begin to think you can do it.”

      There was a tone of half-hearted enthusiasm about this talk which marked it for a prepared “spiel,” laboriously devised to speed the new superintendent upon his way; but, not being schooled in social deceit, Creede failed utterly in making it convincing.

      “That’s good,” said Hardy, “but tell me––what has been your custom in the past? Haven’t you been in the habit of feeding them when they came in?”

      “Feed ’em?” cried Creede, flaring up suddenly. “Did I feed ’em? Well, I should guess yes––I never turned one away hungry in my life. W’y, hell, man,” he exclaimed, his anger growing on him, “I slep’ in the same blanket with ’em––until I become lousy,” he added grimly.

      “What!” exclaimed Hardy, aghast. “You don’t mean to say––”

      “No,” interrupted Creede ironically, “I don’t mean to say anythin’––not from now on. But while we’re on the subject and to avoid any future misunderstandin’ I might just as well tell you right now that I can’t see nothin’ good in a sheepman––nothin’!