by the hope of peaceful truce, he rode furtively along the river waving a white handkerchief whenever he saw a sheep-herder, and motioning him to cross. But however anxious he was for an interview the desires of the sheepmen did not lean in that direction, and they only stared at him stolidly or pretended not to see.
Thwarted in his efforts for peace the judge returned to camp deep in thought. The sheep were at his very door and nothing had been done to stay them; a deadly apathy seemed to have settled down upon the cowmen; after all their threats there were no preparations for defence; the river was not even patrolled; and yet if quick action was not taken the upper range might be irreparably ruined before the reserve was proclaimed. Not that he would countenance violence, but a judicious show of resistance, for instance, might easily delay the crossing until the President could act, or even so daunt the invaders that they would go around. It was not strictly legal, of course, but the judge could see no harm in suggesting it, and as soon as the cowmen were gathered about their fire that evening he went out and sat down by Creede, who lay sprawled on his back, his head pillowed on his hands, smoking.
“Well, Jefferson,” he began, feeling his way cautiously, “I see that the sheep have come down to the river –– they will be making a crossing soon, I suppose?”
Creede sucked studiously upon his cigarette, and shifted it to a corner of his mouth.
“W’y yes, Judge,” he said, “I reckon they will.”
“Well –– er –– do you think they intend to invade our upper range this year?”
“Sure thing,” responded Creede, resuming his smoke, “that’s what they come up here for. You want to take a last long look at this grass.”
“Yes, but, Jefferson,” protested the judge, opening up his eyes, “what will our cattle feed upon then?”
“Same old thing,” answered Creede, “palo verde and giant cactus. I’ve got most of mine in the town herd.”
“What!” exclaimed Judge Ware, astounded at the suggestion, “you don’t mean to say that you are preparing to go out of business? Why, my dear Jefferson, this country may be set aside as a forest reserve at any minute –– and think of the privileges you will be giving up! As an owner of cattle already grazing upon the range you will be entitled to the first consideration of the Government; you will be granted the first grazing permit; there will be forest rangers to protect you; the sheep, being transient stock and known to be very destructive to forest growth, will undoubtedly be confined to a narrow trail far below us; by the payment of a nominal grazing fee you will be absolutely guaranteed in all your rights and watched over by the Federal Government!”
“Oh, hell!” exclaimed the big cowboy, rising up suddenly from his place, “don’t talk Government to me, whatever you do! W’y, Judge,” he cried, throwing out his hands, “they ain’t no Government here. They ain’t no law. I could go over and kill one of them sheep-herders and you wouldn’t see an officer in two days. I’ve lived here for nigh onto twenty-six years and the nearest I ever come to seein’ the Government was a mule branded ‘U. S.’”
He stopped abruptly and, striding out into the darkness, picked up a log of wood and laid it carefully upon the fire.
“Judge,” he said, turning suddenly and wagging an accusing finger at his former employer, “I’ve heard a lot from you about this reserve, how the President was goin’ to telegraph you the news the minute he signed the proclamation, and send a ranger in to protect the range, and all that, but I ain’t seen you do nothin’! Now if you’re goin’ to make good you’ve got jest about three days to do it in –– after that the sheep will have us dished. Maybe you could use your pull to kinder hurry things up a little –– do a little telegraphin’, or somethin’ like that.”
“I’ll do it!” cried the judge, taking the bait like a fish, “I’ll do it at once! I want your best horse, Jeff, and a guide. I’ll wire the chief forester from Bender!”
“Keno!” said Creede sententiously, “and give my regards to Teddy.”
As the old judge disappeared over the western rim the next morning the rodéo boss smiled grimly behind his hand, and glanced significantly at Hardy. Then, with the outfit behind him, he rode slowly up the cañon, leaving his partner to his steady job as “family man” –– entertaining the boss.
For two days the sheepmen watched the river eagerly, waiting for a drop; then suddenly, as the snow water ran by and a cool day checked the distant streams, it fell, and the swift pageant of the crossing began. At sun-up a boss herder rode boldly out into the current and swam it with his horse; brawny Mexicans leapt into the thicket of palo verdes that grew against the cliff and cut branches to build a chute; Jasper Swope in his high sombrero and mounted on his black mule galloped down from the hidden camp and urged his men along. Still the same ominous silence hung about the shore where Juan Alvarez lay buried beneath the cross. There was no watcher on Lookout Point, no horsemen lurking in the distance; only the lowing of the day herd, far up the cañon, and the lapping of muddy waters. Across the river the low malpai cliffs rose up like ramparts against them and Black Butte frowned down upon them like a watch tower, but of the men who might be there watching there was no sign.
The sheepman studied upon the situation for a while; then he sent a messenger flying back to camp and soon a hardy band of wethers came down, led by an advance guard of goats, and their plaintive bleating echoed in a confused chorus from the high cliffs as they entered the wings of the chute. Already the camp rustlers had driven them out on the slanting rock and encircled the first cut with their canvas wagon cover, when Jasper Swope held up his hand for them to stop. At the last moment and for no cause he hesitated, touched by some premonition, or suspicious of the silent shore. One after another the herders clambered back and squatted idly against the cool cliff, smoking and dangling their polished carbines; the sheep, left standing upon the rock, huddled together and stood motionless; the goats leapt nimbly up on adjacent bowlders and gazed across the river intently; then, throwing up his hand again, the sheepman spurred his black mule recklessly into the water, waving his big hat as he motioned for the sheep to cross.
As the long hours of that portentous morning wore on, palpitating to the clamor of the sheep, a great quiet settled upon Hidden Water. Sitting just within the door Hardy watched Lucy as she went about her work, but his eyes were wandering and haggard and he glanced from time to time at the Black Butte that stood like a sentinel against the crossing. In the intervals of conversation the bleating of the sheep rose suddenly from down by the river, and ceased; he talked on, feverishly, never stopping for an answer, and Lucy looked at him strangely, as if wondering at his preoccupation. Again the deep tremolo rose up, echoing from the cliffs, and Hardy paused in the midst of a story to listen. He was still staring out the doorway when Lucy Ware came over and laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Rufus,” she said, “what is it you are always listening for? Day after day I see you watching here by the door, and when I talk you listen for something else. Tell me –– is it –– are you watching for Kitty?”
“Kitty?” repeated Hardy, his eyes still intent. “Why no; why should I be watching for her?”
At his answer, spoken so impassively, she drew away quickly, but he caught her hand and stopped her.
“Ah no,” he said, “if I could only listen for something else it would be better –– but all I hear is sheep. I’m like old Bill Johnson; I can still shoot straight and find my way in the mountains, but every time I hear a sheep blat I change. Poor old Bill, he’s over across the river there now; the boys have heard his hounds baying up in the high cliffs for a week. I’ve seen him a time or two
