Читать книгу On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set - Coolidge Dane - Страница 39

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The iron hand of the law after hovering long above the Verde at last descended suddenly and with crushing force upon the unsuspecting cowmen. For a year Boone Morgan had been dallying around, even as other sheriffs had done before him, and the first fears of the wary mountain men had speedily been lulled into a feeling of false security. Then the fall round-ups came on and in the general scramble of that predatory period Morgan managed to scatter a posse of newly appointed deputies, disguised as cowboys, throughout the upper range. They returned and reported the tally at every branding and the next week every cowman on the Verde received notice that his taxes on so many head of cattle, corral count, were due and more than due. They were due for several years back but Mr. Boone Morgan, as deputy assessor, deputy tax-collector, and so forth, would give them a receipt in full upon the payment of the fiscal demand. This would have sounded technical in the mouth of an ordinary tax-collector but coming from a large, iron-gray gentleman with a six-shooter that had been through the war, it went. Upton paid; Crittenden paid; they all paid—all except Pecos Dalhart.

It was at the store, shortly after he had put the thumb-screws on Ike Crittenden and extracted the last ultimate cent, that Boone Morgan tackled Pecos for his taxes. He had received a vivid word-picture of the lone resident of Lost Dog from his deputy, Bill Todhunter, and Pecos had been equally fortified against surprise by Angevine Thorne. They came face to face as Pecos was running over the scare-heads of the Voice of Reason, and the hardy citizens of Verde Crossing held their breaths and listened for thunder, for Pecos had stated publicly that he did not mean to pay.

"Ah, Mr. Dalhart, I believe," began the sheriff in that suave and genial manner which most elected officials have at their command. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Dalhart. There's a little matter of business I'd like to discuss, if you'll jest step outside a moment. Yes, thank you. Nice weather we're having now—how's the feed up on your range? That's good—that's fine. Now, Mr. Dalhart, I don't suppose you get your mail very regular, and mebby you ain't much of a correspondent anyway, but my name's Morgan—I'm a deputy tax-collector right now—and I'd like to have you fill out this blank, giving the number of assessable cattle you have. Sent you one or two by mail, but this is jest as good. Sorry, you understand, but the county needs the money."

"Yes, I'm sorry, too," observed Pecos, sardonically, "because it'll never git none from me."

"Oh, I dunno," replied the sheriff, sizing his man up carefully, "Geronimo County has been able to take care of itself, so far; and when I put the matter in its proper light to men who have been a little lax in the past—men like Upton and Mr. Crittenden, for instance—they seem perfectly willing to pay. These taxes are to support the county government, you understand—to build roads and keep up the schools and all that sort of thing—and every property-owner ought to be glad to do his share. Now about how many head of cows have you got up at Lost Dog Cañon?"

"I've got jest about enough to keep me in meat," answered Pecos, evasively.

"Um, that'd be about two hundred head, wouldn't it?"

Two hundred was a close guess, and this unexpected familiarity with his affairs startled the cowboy, but his face, nevertheless, did not lose its defiant stare. Two hundred was really the difference between what U cows Upton had lost last spring and the total of Crittenden's Wine-glass bunch, and Boone Morgan was deeply interested in the whereabouts of that particular two hundred head. To Old Crit, this tax-collecting was only a mean raid on his pocket-book—to Morgan it was the first step in his campaign against cattle rustling. When he had determined the number of head in every brand he might be able to prove a theft—but not till then.

"Call it two hundred," he suggested, holding out the paper encouragingly, but Pecos drew back his hand scornfully.

"Not if it was a cow and calf," he said, "I wouldn't pay a cent. D'ye think I want to pay a government of robbers? What does yore dam' government do for me, or any other pore man, but make us trouble?"

"Well, sometimes that's all a government can do for a certain class of people," observed the sheriff, eying him coldly, "and I'd like to say right now, Mr. Dalhart, that in such a case it can make a hell of a lot of trouble."

Pecos grunted.

"Now, jest for instance," continued Morgan, warming up a little, "in case you don't pay your taxes on them two hundred head of cattle I can get judgment against you, seize any or all of 'em, and sell the whole shooting-match for taxes. I'll do it, too," he added.

"Well, turn yoreself loose, then," flared back Pecos, "the bars are down. But I'll tell you right now, the first deputy tax-collector that puts a rope on one of my cows, I'll bounce a rock off'n him—or something worse!"

"I ain't accustomed to take no threats, Mr. Dalhart," bellowed Boone Morgan, his temper getting away with him, "and especially from a man in your line of business! Now you go your way, and go as far as you please, but if I don't put the fear of God into your black, cattle-rustling heart my name is 'Sic 'em' and I'm a dog. I'll collect them taxes, sir, next week!"

"Like hell you will," snarled Pecos, throwing out his chin. He scowled back at the irate officer, cast a baleful glance at the IC punchers, and mounted from the far side of his horse, but when he rode away Ike Crittenden went out behind the corral and laughed until he choked. After all the trouble this man Dalhart had made him, just to think of him locking horns with Boone Morgan! And all from his crazy reading of the Voice of Reason! The memory of his own enforced tax-paying fell away from him like a dream at the thought of Pecos Dalhart putting up a fight against the sheriff of Geronimo County, and on the strength of it he took a couple of drinks and was good-natured for a week.

If Pecos had had some self-appointed critic to point out just how foolish he was he might have seen a new light, gathered up about twenty head of Monkey-wrench steers and sold them to pay his taxes; but his only recourse in this extremity was to the Voice of Reason, and whatever its other good qualities are, that journal has never been accused of preaching moderation and reason. It was war to the knife with Pecos, from the jump, and the day after his return he took his carbine, his cigarette makings, and the last Voice of Reason and went up the trail to lie in wait for Boone Morgan. The country around Lost Dog Cañon is mostly set on edge and the entrance to the valley is through a narrow and crooked ravine, filled with bowlders and faced with sun-blackened sandstone rocks, many of which, from some fracture of their weathered surface, are pock-marked with giant "wind-holes." Into one of these natural pockets, from the shelter of which a single man could stand off a regiment, Pecos hoisted himself with the dawn, and he did not leave it again till dark. As the wind came up and, sucking in through the opening, hollowed out each day its little more, the loose sand from the soft walls blew into Pecos's eyes and he gave up his fervid reading; but except for that and for the times when from the blackness of his cavern he searched the narrow trail for his enemies, he pored over the Voice of Reason as a Christian martyr might brood over his Bible. It was his religion, linked with that far more ancient religion of revenge, and if Boone Morgan or any other deputy tax collector had broken in upon his reveries they certainly would have stopped something worse than a bouncing stone.

But no one played into his hand to that extent. They say the Apaches educated the whole United States army in the art of modern warfare and Boone Morgan as a frontier Indian fighter had been there to learn his part. In the days when Cochise and Geronimo were loose he had travelled behind Indian scouts over all kinds of country, and one of the first things he had mastered was the value of high ground. He had learned also that one man in the rocks is worth a troop on the trail and while he was gathering up a posse to discipline Pecos Dalhart he sent Bill Todhunter ahead to prospect. For two long days that wary deputy haunted the rim-rock that shut in Lost Dog Cañon, crawling on his belly like a snake, and at last, just at sundown, his patience was rewarded by the sight of the lost Pecos, carbine in hand, rising up from nowhere and returning to his camp. As the smoke rose from his newly lighted fire Todhunter slipped quietly down the ravine and, stepping from rock to rock, followed the well-trampled trail till he came to the mouth of the wind-cave. Peering cautiously in he caught the odor of stale tobacco smoke and saw the litter of old papers on the sandy floor, signs enough that Pecos lived there—then, as the strategy and purpose of the cattle-rustler became plain, he picked his way back to his lonely camp and waited for another day. With the dawn he was up again and watching, and when he saw Pecos come back and hide himself in his wind-cave he straightened up and set about his second quest—the search for the Monkey-wrench cattle. At the time of his first visit to Lost Dog he had seen a few along the creek but there must be more of them down the cañon, and the farther away they could be found the better it would suit his chief. It was not Boone Morgan's purpose to start a war—all he wanted was enough Monkey-wrench cattle to pay the taxes, and a way to get them out. The indications so far were that Pecos had them in a bottle and was waiting at the neck, but if the water ran down the cañon there must be a hole somewhere, reasoned the deputy, or better than that, a trail. Working his way along the rim Bill Todhunter finally spied the drift-fence across the box of the cañon, and soon from his high perch he was gazing down into that stupendous hole in the ground that Pecos had turned into a pasture. From the height of the towering cliffs the cattle seemed like rabbits feeding in tiny spots of green, but there they were, more than a hundred of them, and when the deputy beheld the sparkling waters of the Salagua below them and the familiar pinnacles of the Superstitions beyond he laughed and fell to whistling "Paloma" through his teeth. Boone Morgan had hunted Apaches in the Superstitions, and he knew them like a book. With one man on the rim-rocks to keep tab on Pecos, Boone and his posse could take their time to it, if there was any way to get in from that farther side. Anyhow, he had located the cattle—the next thing was to get word to the Old Man.

As a government scout Boone Morgan had proved that he was fearless, but they did not keep him for that—they kept him because he brought his men back to camp, every time. The effrontery of Pecos Dalhart's daring to challenge his authority had stirred his choler, but when Bill Todhunter met him at the river and told him how the ground lay he passed up the temptation to pot Pecos as he crawled out of his hole in the rock, and rode for the lower crossing of the Salagua. The trail which the hardy revolutionist of Lost Dog Cañon was guarding was, indeed, the only one on the north side of the river. From the pasture where his cows were hidden the Salagua passed down a box cañon so deep and precipitous that the mountain sheep could not climb it, and even with his cowboy-deputies Boone Morgan could hardly hope to run the Monkey-wrench cows out over the peaks without drawing the fire of their owner. But there was a trail—and it was a bad one—that led across the desert from the Salagua until it cut the old Pinal trail, far to the south, and that historic highway had led many a war party of Apaches through the very heart of the Superstitions. East it ran, under the frowning bastions of the great mountain, and then northeast until it came out just across the river from Pecos Dalhart's pasture. It was a long ride—sixty miles, and half of it over the desert—but the river was at its lowest water, just previous to the winter rains, and once there Boone Morgan felt certain they could make out to cross the cattle.

"And mind you, boys," he said to his posse, as they toiled up the wearisome grade, "don't you leave a single cow in that pasture or I'm going to be sore as a goat. The county pays mileage for this, and the taxes will be a few cents, too—but I'm going to put one rustler out of business at the start by a hell-roaring big sheriff's sale. I'm going to show some of these Texas hold-ups that Arizona ain't no cow-thief's paradise—not while old Boone's on the job."

The second night saw them camped on the edge of the river just across from the pasture, and in the morning they crossed on a riffle, every man with his orders for the raid. By noon the cattle began to come down the valley, tail up and running before the drive; not a word was spoken, for each man knew his business, but when the thirsty herd of Monkey-wrench cows finally waded out into the river to drink, a sudden rush of horsemen from behind crowded the point animals into swimming water, and before the leaders knew what had happened they were half way across the river and looking for a landing.

"Ho—ho—ho—ho—ho!" shouted the sheriff, riding in to turn them upstream, and behind him a chorus of cowboy yells urged the last bewildered stragglers into the current. They crossed, cows and calves alike, and while the jubilant posse came splashing after them or rode howling up to the ford Boone Morgan poured the water out of his boots and smiled pleasantly.

"Jest hold 'em in the willows a while, boys," he said, "until they git quieted down and drink, and then we'll hit the trail. There's over a hundred head of cattle there, but I'm going to sell every dam' one of 'em—sheriff's sale. Then when that crazy Texican gets back on the reservation I'll give him back his money—what's left—along with some good advice."

He motioned to the boys to string the cattle out and soon in a long line the much-stolen Monkey-wrench cows were shambling over the rough trail, lowing and bellowing for the peaceful valley that lay empty of its herd. From the high cliffs above Lost Dog Cañon, Bill Todhunter saw the slow procession wending its way toward town and he made haste to follow its example. The old silence settled down upon the valley of Perro Perdito, a silence unbroken even by the lowing of cattle, and as Pecos lay by his fire that night he felt the subtle change. His mind, so long set against his enemies, opened up, and he began to wonder. Boone Morgan had certainly said he would collect those taxes within a week, and the week was up. Moreover, hiding in a wind-hole from daylight till dark was getting decidedly monotonous. From the beginning Pecos had realized that he was one man against many but he had hoped, by remaining hid, to catch them at a disadvantage. If they sneaked up and looked over into the lonely cañon they might easily think he had fled and come in boldly—but somehow nothing came out as he had expected. He slept on the matter, and woke again to that peculiar hushed silence. What was it that he missed? His horses were safe in their pole corral; Old Funny-face and her speckled calf were still hanging around the camp; the cattle were along the creek as usual—ah, yes! It was the lowing of cows against the drift-fence bars! With a vigorous kick he hurled his blanket aside, stamped on his boots and ran, only stopping to buckle on his six-shooter. At the bars he paused long enough to see that there were no fresh tracks and then dashed down the pent-in gorge that led to the pasture rim. The shadow of the high cliffs lay across the sunken valley like a pall, but there were no humped-up cattle sleeping beneath the trees. It was time for them to be out and feeding in the sun, but the meadows and hillsides were bare. He was astounded and could not believe his eyes—the pasture was empty as the desert. Cursing and panting Pecos plunged madly down the steep trail until he came to the first water, and there he threw down his gun and swore. Fresh and clean on the margin of the water-hole was the track of a shod horse, pointing toward the river! It was enough—Pecos knew that he was cleaned! Indians and mountain renegades do not ride shod horses, and if Boone Morgan had his cows across the river already he could never get them back. Another thought came to Pecos, and he scrambled wildly up the trail to defend his remaining herd, but there was no one there to fight him—his upper cattle were safe. Yet how long would it take to get them, in order to finish him up? All Boone Morgan and Upton had to do was to wait until he went down to the store for provisions and then they could rake his upper range the same way. And would they do it? Well, say! Pecos pondered on the matter for a day or two, keeping mostly behind the shelter of some rock, and the sinister import of Morgan's remarks on what a government can do for a certain class of people bore in upon him heavily. Undoubtedly he was included in that class of undesirables and if he was any reader of character Boone Morgan was just the kind of a man to make him a lot of trouble. Upton was against him because he had stolen his U cows, and Crit was against him worse because he had given him the cross—every cowman on the range would be against him because he was a rustler. Pecos watched the rim-rock vindictively after that, hoping to get a chance to pot some meddlesome cowman, but no inquisitive head was poked over. At last he stole up the ravine one morning and took to the high ground at dawn. There, sure enough, were the boot-marks among the rocks and he noticed with a vague uneasiness that some one had been watching him for days—watching his wind-hole, too,—probably could have shot him a hundred times, but now the tracks were old. A hot and unreasonable resentment rose up in Pecos at the implication. Nobody cared for him now, even to the extent of watching him! He could crawl into his hole and die now, and everybody would just laugh. Well, he would show Mr. Everybody what kind of a sport he was. After which circumlocuted reasoning Pecos Dalhart, the bad man from Perro Perdito Cañon, being really lonely as a dog, threw the saddle on his horse and hit the trail for the Verde.