Читать книгу On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set - Coolidge Dane - Страница 33

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A month passed, drearily; and while Ike Crittenden and his punchers gathered U cows on one side of the Four Peaks and shoved them over the summit Pecos Dalhart roped them as they came in to Carrizo Springs for water and doctored over their brands. The boys were following in the wake of Upton's round-up and the brands on the calves were freshly made and therefore easy to change, but it called for all of Pecos's professional skill to alter the cow brands to match. In order not to cause adverse comment it is necessary that the cow and calf shall show the same mark and since the mother's brand was always old and peeled Pecos called into requisition a square of wet gunny-sack or blanket to help give the antique effect. Spreading this over the old U he retraced the letter through it with a red-hot iron and then extended the brand downward until it formed a neat Wine-glass (), scalded rather than seared into the hair. Such a brand would never look fresh or peel, though it might grow dim with years, and after working the ear-marks over on cow and calf the transformation was complete. But while the results of his labor was a fine little bunch of Wine-glass cows hanging around Carrizo Springs, to Pecos himself, tying a knot in a buckskin string to count off each weary day, the month seemed interminable.

There was a sound of music in the store as he rode into Verde Crossing and he spurred forward, eager for the sight of a human face and a chance to sit down and talk. But at the thud of hoofs and the chink of spurs Angevine Thorne brought his song to an untimely close and, as Pecos dismounted, Marcelina Garcia slipped out through the door and started towards home, favoring him in passing with a haughty stare.

"Good-morning, Mex!" he exclaimed, bowing and touching his heart in an excess of gallantry, "fine large day, ain't it?"

"Gringo!" shrilled Marcelina, flaunting her dark hair, "Pendejo Texano! Ahhr!" She shuddered and thrust out her tongue defiantly, but as the "fool Texan" only laughed and clattered into the store she paused and edged back towards the door for further observations.

"W'y, hello, Angy!" cried Pecos, racking jovially up to the bar, "how's the champeen? Sober as a judge, hey? Well, gimme another shot of that snake-pisen and if it don't kill me I may swear off too, jest to be sociable! Say, what does 'pendayho' mean?" He glanced roguishly back towards the door, where he knew Marcelina was listening, and laughed when he got the translation.

"Dam' fool, hey? Well, I thought it was something like that—kinder p'lite and lady-like, you know. Marcelina hung that on me as I come in, but I called her a Mex and I'll stand by it. Where's Old Crit?"

Angevine Thorne drew himself up and regarded the cowboy with grave displeasure.

"Mr. Crittenden is out riding," he said, "and I'll thank you not to refer to the nativity of my friend, Miss Garcia."

"Certainly not—to be sure!" protested Pecos Dalhart. "If you will jest kindly give me an introduction to the young lady I'll—"

"See you in hell first," broke in Angy, with asperity. "Where you been all the time?"

"Ramblin' around, ramblin' around," answered Pecos, waving his hand vaguely. "What's the chances for a little music and song to while the time away? I'm lonely as a dog."

"Joe Garcia tells me he's been packin' grub out to you at Carrizo—what you been doin' in that God-forsaken hole?"

"Yore friend Joe talks too much," observed Pecos, briefly, "and I reckon you tell everything you know, don't you? Well and good, then, I'll keep you out of trouble with the Boss by listenin' to what you know already. Can you sing the 'Ranger,' or 'California Joe'? No? Can't even sing 'Kansas,' can you? Well, it's too bad about you, but I'm going to show you that they's another canary bird on the Verde, and he can sure sing." With this declaration Pecos leaned back against the bar, squared his shoulders, and in a voice which had many a time carolled to a thousand head of cattle burst into a boastful song.

"Ooh, I can take the wildest bronco

Of the wild and woolly West;

I can back him, I can ride him,

Let him do his level best.

I can handle any creature

Ever wore a coat of hair,

And I had a lively tussle

With a tarnal grizzly bear."

He glanced slyly towards the door, threw out his chest, and essayed once more to attract the attention of his girl, if she was anywhere within a mile.

"Ooh, I can rope and tie a long-horn,

Of the wildest Texas brand,

And in any disagreement,

I can play a leading hand.

I—"

A dark mass of hair shading a pair of eyes as black and inquisitive as a chipmunk's appeared suddenly in the vacant square of the doorway and instantly the bold cowboy stopped his song.

"Good-morning, Miss Garcia," he said, bowing low, "won't you come in—now, Angy, do your duty or I'll beat you to death!" At this hasty aside Angevine Thorne did the honors, though with a bad grace.

"Marcelina, this is Mr. Dalhart—you better go home now, your mother's callin' you."

"I will not shake hands with a Texano!" pronounced Marcelina, stepping into the open and folding her arms disdainfully.

"Come on in then and hear the music," suggested Pecos, peaceably.

"Pah! The Tehannos sing like coyotes!" cried Marcelina, twisting up her lips in derision. "They are bad, bad men—mi madre say so. No, I go home—and when you are gone Babe will sing sweet moosic for me." She bowed, with a little smile for Babe, and glided through the doorway; and though he lingered about until Old Crit came in, Pecos Dalhart failed to catch another glimpse of this new queen of his heart.

It was dusk when Crittenden rode into camp, and at sight of Pecos Dalhart sitting by the fire the cowman's drawn face, pinched by hunger and hard riding, puckered up into a knot.

"What you doin' down here?" he demanded, when he had beckoned him to one side.

"Come down for my pay," responded the cowboy, briefly.

"Your pay," fumed Crittenden, "your pay! What do you need with money up at Carrizo? Say, have you been gittin' many?" he whispered, eagerly. "Have they been comin' in on you?"

"Sure thing. Branded forty-two cows, thirty calves, and sixteen twos. But how about it—do I draw?"

"Only thirty calves! W'y, what in the world have you been doin'? I could pick up that many mavericks on the open range. You must've been layin' down under a tree!"

"That's right," agreed Pecos, "and talkin' to myse'f, I was that lonely. But if you'll kindly fork over that eighty that's comin' to me we'll call it square, all the same—I only branded about a thousand dollars' worth of cows for you."

"Eighty dollars!" cried Old Crit. "W'y, I never agreed to nothin' like that—I said I'd give you sixty. But I'll tell you what I'll do," he added, quickly, "I'll make it eighty if you'll go up there for another month."

"After I git my first month's pay they will be time to discuss that," replied Pecos Dalhart, and after a thousand protestations the cowman finally went down into his overalls and produced the money.

"Now what about next month?" he demanded, sharply.

"Nope," said Pecos, pocketing his eighty dollars, "too lonely—too much trouble collectin' my pay—don't like the job."

"Give you eighty dollars," urged Crit, "that's a heap o' money for one month."

"Nope, this'll last me a while—so long." He started toward the corral but Crittenden caught him by the arm instantly.

"Here, wait a minute," he rasped, "what's the matter with you anyhow? I'm ridin' early and late on my round-up and dependin' on you to finish this job up! You ain't goin' to quit me right in the middle of it, are you?"

"That's what," returned Pecos. "I ain't so particular about brandin' a maverick once in a while—every cowman does that—but this idee of stealin' from a man you never saw goes agin' me. I git to thinkin' about it, an' it ain't right!"

"Aw, sho, sho, boy," protested Crittenden, "you don't want to mind a little thing like that—I thought you was a man with nerve. Now here, I can't stop to go out there now and I want to git that work finished up—I'll give you eight-y-five dol-lars to stay another month! This man Upton is the biggest cow-thief in the country," he went on, as Pecos shook his head, "it ain't stealin' to rob a thief, is it?"

"Oh, ain't it?" inquired the cow-puncher, gravely, and he smiled grimly to himself as Crittenden endeavored to set his mind at rest. "All right then," he said, cutting short the cowman's labored justification of cattle-rustling, "I'll go you—for a hundred."

"A hundred!" repeated Crittenden, aghast. "Well, for—all right, all right," he cried, as Pecos moved impatiently away. "Now you pull out of here the way you did before and I'll have Joe pack you over some more grub. A hundred dollars," he murmured, shaking his head at the thought, "that boy will ruin me."

Early the next morning Pecos Dalhart rode slowly up the trail that led to Carrizo Springs and the deserted country beyond, a land where as yet the cowmen had not extended their sway. To his left rose the sharp granite spires of the Four Peaks, to the right gleamed the silvery thread of the Salagua, that mighty river that flowed in from the east; and all the country between was a jumble of cliffs and buttes and ridges and black cañons, leading from the mountains to the river.

"So it ain't no crime to rob a thief, hey?" he muttered, when, topping the last ridge, he gazed down at Carrizo Springs and across at the white-worn trail which led into the wilderness beyond. "Well, if that's the case I might as well search out that country over there and git busy on Old Crit. A man's a dam' fool to steal a thousand dollars' worth of cattle and only git eighty dollars for it."

Three days later, riding by a trail that led ever to the east, Pecos came upon a narrow valley filled with cottonwoods and wild walnuts and echoing to the music of running water. A fine brook, flowing down from the brushy heights of the Peaks, leaped and tumbled over the bowlders and disappeared through a narrow cleft below, where the two black walls drew together until they seemed almost to block the cañon. As Pecos rode cautiously down the creek-bed he jumped a bunch of cattle from the shade of the alders and, spurring after them as they shambled off, he saw that they bore the familiar U, even to the young calves. Undoubtedly they belonged to the same bunch that he had been working on over at Carrizo Springs—the fresh-branded calves and U cows that Crittenden was shoving over the Peaks. Riding farther down the gulch Pecos came upon a cave at the base of the overhanging cliff. In time past the Indians had camped there, but the ashes of their fires were bedded and only their crude pictures on the smoke-grimed rocks remained to tell the tale. It was the cave of Lost Dog Cañon.

On their trip over the simple-minded José had spoken of a lost cañon somewhere over in the mountains but Pecos had never dreamed of finding a paradise like this. According to José the Cañon of Perro Perdito was haunted by a spirit which was muy malo, throwing down great rocks from the sides of the cañon and howling like a lost dog at night, but in the broad light of noonday Pecos was undaunted and he rode on into the tunnel-like box cañon until it pinched down to a mere cleft. It was an eerie place, but there never was a ghost yet that threw a track like a cow and, led on by their familiar foot-prints among the rocks, Pecos forged ahead until he stepped out suddenly into a new world. Behind him the pent and overhanging walls shut out the light of day but here the sun was shining into a deep valley where in exquisite miniature lay parks and grassy meadows, while cathedral spires of limestone, rising from the cañon floor, joined their mighty flanks to the rim-rock which shut the whole space in. The glittering waters of the Salagua, far below, marked a natural barrier to the south and as Pecos Dalhart looked at the narrow trail which had brought him in he began instinctively to figure on a drift fence, to close the entrance to the pocket, and make the hidden valley a mile-wide pasture and corral. All nature seemed conspiring to make him a cattle-rustler and this hidden pasture, with its grass and water and the gate opening at his very door, cast the die. Two days later he moved his camp to Lost Dog Cañon and flew at the fence with feverish energy. Within a week he had the box cañon barricaded from wall to wall and then, as the U cows came down to the creek to drink, he roped them, worked over their brands, and threw them into his new pasture. By this time, with his tongue in his cheek, he attached a circle instead of a bar to the U and named his new brand the Monkey-wrench (). If he had any qualms as to the morality of this last act Pecos did not let them interfere with his industry in any way. The ethics of the cattle business will not stand too stern a scrutiny, even at this late date, and the joke on Old Crit was so primordial in its duplicity that it obscured the finer moral issues. Like many another cowman of those early days Pecos Dalhart had made his start with the running iron and with luck and judgment he might yet be a cattle king.