Arizona Nights Read online

  After a time the gorge widened. We came out into the box canon with its trees. Here the water spread and shoaled to a depth of only two or three inches. We splashed along gaily enough, for, with the exception of an occasional quicksand or boggy spot, our troubles were over.

  Jed Parker and I happened to ride side by side, bringing up the rear and seeing to it that the pack animals did not stray or linger. As we passed the first of the rustlers’ corrals, he called my attention to them.

  “Go take a look,” said he. “We only got those fellows out of here two years ago.”

  I rode over. At this point the rimrock broke to admit the ingress of a ravine into the main canon. Riding a short distance up the ravine, I could see that it ended abruptly in a perpendicular cliff. As the sides also were precipitous, it became necessary only to build a fence across the entrance into the main canon to become possessed of a corral completely closed in. Remembering the absolute invisibility of these sunken canons until the rider is almost directly over them, and also the extreme roughness and remoteness of the district, I could see that the spot was admirably adapted to concealment.

  “There’s quite a yarn about the gang that held this hole,” said Jed Parker to me, when I had ridden back to him “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  We climbed the hill, descended on the Double R, built a fire in the stove, dried out, and were happy. After a square meal—and a dry one—I reminded Jed Parker of his promise, and so, sitting cross-legged on his “so-gun” in the middle of the floor, he told us the following yarn:

  There’s a good deal of romance been written about the “bad man,” and there’s about the same amount of nonsense. The bad man is justa plain murderer, neither more nor less. He never does get into a real, good, plain, stand-up gunfight if he can possibly help it. His killin’s are done from behind a door, or when he’s got his man dead to rights. There’s Sam Cook. You’ve all heard of him. He had nerve, of course, and when he was backed into a corner he made good; he was sure sudden death with a gun. But when he went for a man deliberate, he didn’t take no special chances. For a while he was marshal at Willets. Pretty soon it was noted that there was a heap of cases of resisting arrest, where Sam as marshal had to shoot, and that those cases almost always happened to be his personal enemies. Of course, that might be all right, but it looked suspicious. Then one day he killed poor old Max Schmidt out behind his own saloon. Called him out and shot him in the stomach. Said Max resisted arrest on a warrant for keepin’ open out of hours! That was a sweet warrant to take out in Willets, anyway! Mrs. Schmidt always claimed that she saw that deal played, and that, while they were talkin’ perfectly peacable, Cook let drive from the hip at about two yards’ range. Anyway, we decided we needed another marshal. Nothin’ else was ever done, for the Vigilantes hadn’t been formed, and your individual and decent citizen doesn’t care to be marked by a gun of that stripe. Leastwise, unless he wants to go in for bad-man methods and do a little ambusheein’ on his own account.

  The point is, that these yere bad men are a low-down, miserable proposition, and plain, cold-blood murderers, willin’ to wait for a sure thing, and without no compunctions whatsoever. The bad man takes you unawares, when you’re sleepin’, or talkin’, or drinkin’, or lookin’ to see what for a day it’s goin’ to be, anyway. He don’t give you no show, and sooner or later he’s goin’ to get you in the safest and easiest way for himself. There ain’t no romance about that.

  And, until you’ve seen a few men called out of their shacks for a friendly conversation, and shot when they happen to look away; or asked for a drink of water, and killed when they stoop to the spring; or potted from behind as they go into a room, it’s pretty hard to believe that any man can be so plumb lackin’ in fair play or pity or just natural humanity.

  As you boys know, I come in from Texas to Buck Johnson’s about ten year back. I had a pretty good mount of ponies that I knew, and I hated to let them go at prices they were offerin’ then, so I made up my mind to ride across and bring them in with me. It wasn’t so awful far, and I figured that I’d like to take in what New Mexico looked like anyway.

  About down by Albuquerque I tracked up with another outfit headed my way. There was five of them, three men, and a woman, and a yearlin’ baby. They had a dozen hosses, and that was about all I could see. There was only two packed, and no wagon. I suppose the whole outfit—pots, pans, and kettles—was worth five dollars. It was just supper when I run across them, and it didn’t take more’n one look to discover that flour, coffee, sugar, and salt was all they carried. A yearlin’ carcass, half-skinned, lay near, and the fry-pan was, full of meat.

  “Howdy, strangers,” says I, ridin’ up.

  They nodded a little, but didn’t say nothin’. My hosses fell to grazin’, and I eased myself around in my saddle, and made a cigareet. The men was tall, lank fellows, with kind of sullen faces, and sly, shifty eyes; the woman was dirty and generally mussed up. I knowed that sort all right. Texas was gettin’ too many fences for them.

  “Havin’ supper?” says I, cheerful.

  One of ‘em grunted “Yes” at me; and, after a while, the biggest asked me very grudgin’ if I wouldn’t light and eat, I told them “No,” that I was travellin’ in the cool of the evenin’.

  “You seem to have more meat than you need, though,” says I. “I could use a little of that.”

  “Help yourself,” says they. “It’s a maverick we come across.”

  I took a steak, and noted that the hide had been mighty well cut to ribbons around the flanks and that the head was gone.

  “Well,” says I to the carcass, “No one’s going to be able to swear whether you’re a maverick or not, but I bet you knew the feel of a brandin’ iron all right.”

  I gave them a thank-you, and climbed on again. My hosses acted some surprised at bein’ gathered up again, but I couldn’t help that.

  “It looks like a plumb imposition, cavallos,” says I to them, “after an all-day, but you sure don’t want to join that outfit any more than I do the angels, and if we camp here we’re likely to do both.”

  I didn’t see them any more after that until I’d hit the Lazy Y, and had started in runnin’ cattle in the Soda Springs Valley. Larry Eagen and I rode together those days, and that’s how I got to know him pretty well. One day, over in the Elm Flat, we ran smack on this Texas outfit again, headed north. This time I was on my own range, and I knew where I stood, so I could show a little more curiosity in the case.

  “Well, you got this far,” says I.

  “Yes,” says they.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Over towards the hills.”

  “What to do?”

  “Make a ranch, raise some truck; perhaps buy a few cows.”

  They went on.

  “Truck” says I to Larry, “is fine prospects in this country.”

  He sat on his horse looking after them.

  “I’m sorry for them” says he. “It must he almighty hard scratchin’.”

  Well, we rode the range for upwards of two year. In that time we saw our Texas friends—name of Hahn—two or three times in Willets, and heard of them off and on. They bought an old brand of Steve McWilliams for seventy-five dollars, carryin’ six or eight head of cows. After that, from time to time, we heard of them buying more—two or three head from one man, and two or three from another. They branded them all with that McWilliams iron—T 0—so, pretty soon, we began to see the cattle on the range.

  Now, a good cattleman knows cattle just as well as you know people, and he can tell them about as far off. Horned critters look alike to you, but even in a country supportin’ a good many thousand head, a man used to the business can recognise most every individual as far as he can see him. Some is better than others at it. I suppose you really have to be brought up to it. So we boys at the Lazy Y noted all the cattle with the new T 0, and could estimate pretty close that the Hahn outfit might own, maybe, thirty-five head all told.

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p; That was all very well, and nobody had any kick comin’. Then one day in the spring, we came across our first “sleeper.”

  What’s a sleeper? A sleeper is a calf that has been ear-marked, but not branded. Every owner has a certain brand, as you know, and then he crops and slits the ears in a certain way, too. In that manner he don’t have to look at the brand, except to corroborate the ears; and, as the critter generally sticks his ears up inquirin’-like to anyone ridin’ up, it’s easy to know the brand without lookin’ at it, merely from the ear-marks. Once in a great while, when a man comes across an unbranded calf, and it ain’t handy to build a fire, he just ear-marks it and let’s the brandin’ go till later. But it isn’t done often, and our outfit had strict orders never to make sleepers.

  Well, one day in the spring, as I say, Larry and me was ridin’, when we came across a Lazy Y cow and calf. The little fellow was ear-marked all right, so we rode on, and never would have discovered nothin’ if a bush rabbit hadn’t jumped and scared the calf right across in front of our hosses. Then we couldn’t help but see that there wasn’t no brand.

  Of course we roped him and put the iron on him. I took the chance to look at his ears, and saw that the marking had been done quite recent, so when we got in that night I reported to Buck Johnson that one of the punchers was gettin’ lazy and sleeperin’. Naturally he went after the man who had done it; but every puncher swore up and down, and back and across, that he’d branded every calf he’d had a rope on that spring. We put it down that someone was lyin’, and let it go at that.

  And then, about a week later, one of the other boys reported a Triangle-H sleeper. The Triangle-H was the Goodrich brand, so we didn’t have nothin’ to do with that. Some of them might be sleeperin’ for all we knew. Three other cases of the same kind we happened across that same spring.

  So far, so good. Sleepers runnin’ in such numbers was a little astonishin’, but nothin’ suspicious. Cattle did well that summer, and when we come to round up in the fall, we cut out maybe a dozen of those T 0 cattle that had strayed out of that Hahn country. Of the dozen there was five grown cows, and seven yearlin’s.

  “My Lord, Jed,” says Buck to me, “they’s a heap of these youngsters comin’ over our way.”

  But still, as a young critter is more apt to stray than an old one that’s got his range established, we didn’t lay no great store by that neither. The Hahns took their bunch, and that’s all there was to it.

  Next spring, though, we found a few more sleepers, and one day we came on a cow that had gone dead lame. That was usual, too, but Buck, who was with me, had somethin’ on his mind. Finally he turned back and roped her, and threw her.

  “Look here, Jed,” says he, “what do you make of this?”

  I could see where the hind legs below the hocks had been burned.

  “Looks like somebody had roped her by the hind feet,” says I.

  “Might be,” says he, “but her heels lame that way makes it look more like hobbles.”

  So we didn’t say nothin’ more about that neither, until just by luck we came on another lame cow. We threw her, too.

  “Well, what do you think of this one?” Buck Johnson asks me.

  “The feet is pretty well tore up,” says I, “and down to the quick, but I’ve seen them tore up just as bad on the rocks when they come down out of the mountains.”

  You sabe what that meant, don’t you? You see, a rustler will take a cow and hobble her, or lame her so she can’t follow, and then he’ll take her calf a long ways off and brand it with his iron. Of course, if we was to see a calf of one brand followin’ of a cow with another, it would be just too easy to guess what had happened.

  We rode on mighty thoughtful. There couldn’t be much doubt that cattle rustlers was at work. The sleepers they had ear-marked, hopin’ that no one would discover the lack of a brand. Then, after the calf was weaned, and quit followin’ of his mother, the rustler would brand it with his own iron, and change its ear-mark to match. It made a nice, easy way of gettin’ together a bunch of cattle cheap.

  But it was pretty hard to guess off-hand who the rustlers might be. There were a lot of renegades down towards the Mexican line who made a raid once in a while, and a few oilers [2] livin’ near had water holes in the foothills, and any amount of little cattle holders, like this T 0 outfit, and any of them wouldn’t shy very hard at a little sleeperin’ on the side. Buck Johnson told us all to watch out, and passed the word quiet among the big owners to try and see whose cattle seemed to have too many calves for the number of cows.

  The Texas outfit I’m tellin’ you about had settled up above in this Double R canon where I showed you those natural corrals this morning. They’d built them a ‘dobe, and cleared some land, and planted a few trees, and made an irrigated patch for alfalfa. Nobody never rode over this way very much, ‘cause the country was most too rough for cattle, and our ranges lay farther to the southward. Now, however, we began to extend our ridin’ a little.

  I was down towards Dos Cabesas to look over the cattle there, and they used to send Larry up into the Double R country. One evenin’ he took me to one side.

  “Look here, Jed,” says he, “I know you pretty well, and I’m not ashamed to say that I’m all new at this cattle business—in fact, I haven’t been at it more’n a year. What should be the proportion of cows to calves anyhow?”

  “There ought to be about twice as many cows as there’re calves,” I tells him.

  “Then, with only about fifty head of grown cows, there ought not to be an equal number of yearlin’s?”

  “I should say not,” says I. “What are you drivin’ at?”

  “Nothin’ yet,” says he.

  A few days later he tackled me again.

  “Jed,” says he, “I’m not good, like you fellows are, at knowin’ one cow from another, but there’s a calf down there branded T 0 that I’d pretty near swear I saw with an X Y cow last month. I wish you could come down with me.”

  We got that fixed easy enough, and for the next month rammed around through this broken country lookin’ for evidence. I saw enough to satisfy me to a moral certainty, but nothin’ for a sheriff; and, of course, we couldn’t go shoot up a peaceful rancher on mere suspicion. Finally, one day, we run on a four-months’ calf all by himself, with the T 0 iron onto him—a mighty healthy lookin’ calf, too.

  “Wonder where HIS mother is!” says I.

  “Maybe it’s a ‘dogie,’” says Larry Eagen—we calls calves whose mothers have died “dogies.”

  “No,” says I, “I don’t hardly think so. A dogie is always under size and poor, and he’s layin’ around water holes, and he always has a big, sway belly onto him. No, this is no dogie; and, if it’s an honest calf, there sure ought to be a T 0 cow around somewhere.”

  So we separated to have a good look. Larry rode up on the edge of a little rimrock. In a minute I saw his hoss jump back, dodgin’ a rattlesnake or somethin’, and then fall back out of sight. I jumped my hoss up there tur’ble quick, and looked over, expectin’ to see nothin’ but mangled remains. It was only about fifteen foot down, but I couldn’t see bottom ‘count of some brush.

  “Are you all right?” I yells.

  “Yes, yes!” cries Larry, “but for the love of God, get down here as quick as you can.”

  I hopped off my hoss and scrambled down somehow.

  “Hurt?” says I, as soon as I lit.

  “Not a bit—look here.”

  There was a dead cow with the Lazy Y on her flank.

  “And a bullet-hole in her forehead,” adds Larry. “And, look here, that T 0 calf was bald-faced, and so was this cow.”

  “Reckon we found our sleepers,” says I.

  So, there we was. Larry had to lead his cavallo down the barranca to the main canon. I followed along on the rim, waitin’ until a place gave me a chance to get down, too, or Larry a chance to get up. We were talkin’ back and forth when, all at once, Larry shouted again.

  “Big game this time,�
�� he yells. “Here’s a cave and a mountain lion squallin’ in it.”

  I slid down to him at once, and we drew our six-shooters and went up to the cave openin’, right under the rimrock. There, sure enough, were fresh lion tracks, and we could hear a little faint cryin’ like woman.

  “First chance,” claims Larry, and dropped to his hands and knees at the entrance.

  “Well, damn me!” he cries, and crawls in at once, payin’ no attention to me tellin’ him to be more cautious. In a minute he backs out, carryin’ a three-year-old goat.

  “We seem to be in for adventures to-day,” says he. “Now, where do you suppose that came from, and how did it get here?”

  “Well,” says I, “I’ve followed lion tracks where they’ve carried yearlin’s across their backs like a fox does a goose. They’re tur’ble strong.”

  “But where did she come from?” he wonders.

  “As for that,” says I, “don’t you remember now that T 0 outfit had a yearlin’ kid when it came into the country?”

  “That’s right,” says he. “It’s only a mile down the canon. I’ll take it home. They must be most distracted about it.”

  So I scratched up to the top where my pony was waitin’. It was a tur’ble hard climb, and I ‘most had to have hooks on my eyebrows to get up at all. It’s easier to slide down than to climb back. I dropped my gun out of my holster, and she went way to the bottom, but I wouldn’t have gone back for six guns. Larry picked it up for me.

  So we went along, me on the rimrock and around the barrancas, and Larry in the bottom carryin’ of the kid.