led by the high-horned goats, they struck out for the opposite shore. Below, yelling and throwing stones to frighten them, a line of Mexicans danced up and down along the rocky shore, and to keep them from drifting into the whirlpool Jasper Swope plunged boldly into the water on his mule.
Sink or swim, the sheep were in the water, and for a minute there was a tense silence along the river; then, as the goats lined out, a rifle shot echoed from the cliffs and a white column of water rose up before the leader. He shook his head, hesitated and looked back, and once more the water splashed in his face, while the deep ploomp of the bullet answered to the shot. Fighting away from the sudden stroke the goat lost his headway and, drifting, fouled those below him; a sudden confusion fell upon the orderly ranks of the invaders and, like a flock of geese whose leader is killed, they jostled against one another, some intent on the farther shore and some struggling to turn back. Instantly a chorus of savage shouts rose up from along the river, the shrill yells of the cowboys mingling with the whooping and whistling of the sheepmen, until at last, overcome by the hostile clamor, the timid sheep turned back toward the main herd, drawing with them the goats. For a minute Jasper Swope fought against them, waving his hat and shouting; then, rather than see them drift too far and be drawn into the clutch of the whirlpool, he whipped his mule about and led them back to the shore.
A second time, calling out all his men to help, the boss sheepman tried to cross the goats alone, intending to hold them on the shore for a lure; but just as they were well lined out the same careful marksman behind the malpai threw water in their faces and turned them back. But this time Jasper Swope did not lead the retreat. Slapping his black mule over the ears with his hat he held straight for the opposite shore, cursing and brandishing his gun.
“You dam’, cowardly passel of tail-twisters!” he cried, shaking his fist at the bluffs, “why don’t you come out into the open like men?”
But a grim silence was his only answer.
“Hey, you bold bad man from Bitter Creek, Texas!” he shouted, riding closer to the beach. “Why don’t you come down and fight me like a man?” His big voice was trembling with excitement and he held his pistol balanced in the air as if awaiting an attack, but Jefferson Creede did not answer him.
“I’ll fight you, man to man, you big blowhard!” thundered Swope, “and there goes my pistol to prove it!” He rose in his stirrups as he spoke and hurled it away from him, throwing his cartridge belt after it. “Now,” he yelled, “you’ve been sayin’ what you’d do; come out of your hole, Jeff Creede, I want ye!”
“Well, you won’t git me, then,” answered Creede, his voice coming cold and impassive from over the rim. “I’ll fight you some other time.”
“Ahrr!” taunted Swope, “hear the coward talk! Here I stand, unarmed, and he’s afraid to come out! But if there’s a man amongst you, send him down, and if he licks me I’ll go around.”
“You’ll go around anyhow, you Mormon-faced wool-puller!” replied the cowman promptly, “and we’re here to see to it, so you might as well chase yourself.”
“No, I like this side,” said the sheepman, pretending to admire the scenery. “I’ll jest stay here a while, and then I’ll cross in spite of ye. If I can’t cross here,” he continued, “I’ll wait for the river to fall and cross down below –– and then I’ll sheep you to the rocks, you low-lived, skulkin’ murderers! It’s a wonder some of you don’t shoot me the way you did Juan Alvarez, down there.” He waved his hand toward the point where the wooden cross rose against the sky, but no one answered the taunt.
“Murderers, I said!” he shouted, rising up in his saddle. “I call you murderers before God A’mighty and there ain’t a man denies it! Oh, my Mexicans can see that cross –– they’re lookin’ at it now –– and when the river goes down they’ll come in on you, if it’s only to break even for Juan.”
He settled back in his saddle and gazed doubtfully at the bluff, and then at the opposite shore. Nature had placed him at a disadvantage, for the river was wide and deep and his sheep were easy to turn, yet there was still a chance.
“Say,” he began, moderating his voice to a more conciliatory key, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. There’s no use shooting each other over this. Send down your best man –– if he licks me I go around; if I lick him I come across. Is it a go?”
There was a short silence and then an argument broke out along the bluff, a rapid fire of exhortation and protest, some urging Creede to take him up, others clamoring for peace.
“No!” shouted Jefferson Creede, raising his voice angrily above the uproar. “I won’t do it! I wouldn’t trust a sheepman as far as I could throw a bull by the tail! You’d sell your black soul for two bits, Jasp Swope,” he observed, peering warily over the top of the rock, “and you’d shoot a man in the back, too!”
“But look at me!” cried Swope, dropping off his mule, “I’m stripped to my shirt; there goes my gun into the water –– and I’m on your side of the river! You’re a coward, Jeff Creede, and I always knowed it!”
“But my head ain’t touched,” commented Creede dryly. “I’ve got you stopped anyhow. What kind of a dam’ fool would I be to fight over it?”
“I’ll fight ye for nothin’, then!” bellowed the sheepman. “I’ll –– ” He stopped abruptly and a great quiet fell upon both shores. From the mouth of the hidden ravine a man had suddenly stepped into the open, unarmed, and now he was coming out across the sands to meet him. It was Rufus Hardy, dwarfed like David before Goliath in the presence of the burly sheepman, but striding over the hard-packed sand with the lithe swiftness of a panther.
“I’ll fight you,” he said, raising his hand in challenge, but Swope’s answer was drowned in a wild yell from Creede.
“Come back here, Rufe, you durn’ fool!” he called. “Come back, I tell ye! Don’t you know better than to trust a sheepman?”
“Never mind, now,” answered Hardy, turning austerely to the bluff. “I guess I can take care of myself.”
He swung about and advanced to the stretch of level sand where Swope was standing. “What guarantee do I get,” he demanded sharply, “that if I lick you in a fair fight the sheep will go around?”
“You –– lick –– me!” repeated the sheepman, showing his jagged teeth in a sardonic grin. “Well, I’ll tell ye, Willie; if you hit me with that lily-white hand of yourn, and I find it out the same day, I’ll promise to stay off’n your range for a year.”
“All right,” replied Hardy, suddenly throwing away his hat. “You noticed it when I hit you before, didn’t you?” he inquired, edging quickly in on his opponent and beginning an amazing bout of shadow boxing. “Well, come on, then!” He laughed as Swope struck out at him, and continued his hectoring banter. “As I remember it your head hit the ground before your heels!”
Then in a whirlwind of blows and feints they came together. It was the old story of science against brute strength. Jasper Swope was a rough-and-tumble fighter of note; he was quick, too, in spite of his weight, and his blows were like the strokes of a sledge; but Hardy did not attempt to stand up against him. For the first few minutes it was more of a chase than a fight, and in that the sheepman was at his worst, cumbered by his wet clothes and the water in his shoes. Time and again he rushed in upon his crouching opponent, who always seemed in the act of delivering a blow and yet at the moment only sidestepped and danced away. The hard wet
