Chapter XVIII
A Stampede
Clanton took his turn at night herding for the first time the day ofWarren's visit to the camp. Under a star-strewn sky he circled thesleeping herd, humming softly a stanza of a cowboy song. Occasionally hemet Billie Prince or Tim McGrath circling in the opposite direction. Thescene was peaceful as old age and beautiful as a fairy tale. For underthe silvery light of night the Southwest takes on a loveliness foreign toit in the glare of the sun. The harsh details of day are lost in aluminous glow of mystic charm.
Jim had just ridden past Billie when the silence was shattered by asudden fury of sound. The popping of revolvers, the clanging of cowbells, the clash of tin boilers--all that medley of discord which lendsvolume to the horror known as a charivari--tore to shreds the harmony ofthe night.
"What's that?" called Billie.
The hideous dissonance came from the side of the herd farthest from thecamp. Together the two riders galloped toward it.
"Peg-Leg Warren's work," guessed Clanton.
"Sure," agreed Billie. "Trying to stampede the herd."
Already the cattle were bawling in wild terror, surging toward the campto escape this unknown danger. Both of the punchers drew their revolversand fired rapidly into the herd. It was impossible to check the rush, butthey succeeded in deflecting it from the sleeping men. Before the weaponswere empty, the ground shook with a thunder of hoofs as the herd fledinto the darkness.
Billie found himself in the van of the stampede. He was caught in therush and to save himself from being trampled down was forced to join theflight. He was the center of a moving sea of backs, so hemmed in that ifhis pony stumbled life would be trodden out of him in an instant. Exceptfor occasional buffalo wallows the ground was level, but at any momenthis mount might break a leg in a prairie-dog hole.
For the first mile or two the cattle were packed in a dense mass,shoulder to shoulder, all lumbering forward in wild-eyed panic. The noiseof their hoofs was like the continuous roll of thunder and the cloud ofdust so thick that the throat of Prince was swollen with it. It was onlyafter the stampeded cattle had covered several miles that the formationof their aimless charge grew looser. The pace slackened as the steersbecame leg-weary. Now and again small bunches dropped from the drag orfrom one of the flanks. Gradually Billie was able to work toward theoutskirts. His chance came when the herd poured into a swale and from itemerged into a more broken terrain. Directly in front of the leaders wasa mesa with a sharp incline. Instead of taking the hill, the stampedesplit, part flowing to the right and part to the left. The cow-puncherurged his flagged horse straight up the hill.
He had escaped with his life, but the bronco was completely exhausted.Billie unsaddled and freed the cowpony. He knew it would not wander farnow. Stretched out at full length on the buffalo grass, the cowboy drankinto his lungs the clean, cold night air. His tongue was swollen, hislips cracked and bleeding. The alkali dust, sifting into His eyes, hadleft them red and sore. Every inch of his unshaven face, his hands, andhis clothes was covered with a fine, white powder. For a long drink ofmountain water he would gladly have given a month's pay.
Within the hour Billie resaddled and took the back trail. There was notime to lose. He must get back to camp, notify Webb where the stampedewas moving, and join the other riders in an all-night and all-dayround-up of the scattered herd. Since daybreak he had been in the saddle,and he knew that for at least twenty-four hours longer he would not leaveit except to change from a worn-out horse to a fresh one.
When Prince reached camp shortly after midnight he found that thestampede of the cattle had for the moment fallen into second place in theminds of his companions. They were digging a grave for the body of TimMcGrath. The young Irishman had been shot down just as the attack on theherd began. It was a reasonable guess to suppose that he had come face toface with the raiders, who had shot him on the theory that dead men tellno tales.
But the cowpuncher had lived till his friends reached him. He had toldthem with his dying breath that Mysterious Pete had shot him without aword of warning and that after he fell from his horse Peg-Leg Warren rodeup and fired into his body.
Jim Clanton called his friend to one side. "I'm goin' to sneak out an'take a lick at them fellows, Billie. Want to go along?"
"What's yore notion? How're you goin' to manage it?"
"Me, I'm goin' to bushwhack Warren or some of his killers from thechaparral."
Prince had seen once before that cold glitter in the eyes of the hillman. It was the look that comes into the face of the gunman when he isintent on the kill.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you, Jim," Billie advised. "This ain't ourpersonal fight. We're under orders. We'd better wait an' see what theold man wants us to do. An? I don't reckon I would shoot from ambushanyhow."
"Wouldn't you? I would," The jaw of the younger man snapped tight."What chance did they give poor Tim, I'd like to know? He was one of thebest-hearted pilgrims ever rode up the trail, an' they shot him down likea coyote. I'm goin' to even the score."
"Don't you, Jim; don't you." Billie laid a hand on the shoulder of hispartner in adventure. "Because they don't fight in the open is no reasonfor us to bushwhack too. That's no way for a white man to attack hisenemies."
But the inheritance from feudist ancestors was strong in young Clanton.He had seen a comrade murdered in cold blood. All the training of hisprimitive and elemental nature called for vengeance.
"No use beefin', Billie. You don't have to go if you don't want to. ButI'm goin'. I didn't christen myself Jimmie-Go-Get-'Em for nothin'."
"Put it up to Webb first. Let's hear what he has got to say about it,"urged Prince. "We've all got to pull together. You can't play a lone handin this."
"I'll put it up to Webb when I've done the job. He won't be responsiblefor it then. He can cut loose from me if he wants to. So long, Billie.I'll sleep on Peg-Leg Warren's trail till I git him."
"Give up that fool notion, Jim. I can't let you go. It wouldn't be fairto you or to Webb either. We're all in this together."
"What'll you do to prevent my goin'?"
"I'll tell the old man if I have to. Sho, kid! Let's not you an' me havetrouble." Billie's gentle smile pleaded for their friendship. "We've beenpals ever since we first met up. Don't go off on this crazy idea like ahalf-cocked hogleg."
"We're not goin' to quarrel, Billie. Nothin' to that. But I'm goin'through." The boyish jaw clamped tight again. The eyes that looked at hisfriend might have been of tempered steel for hardness.
"No."
"Yes."
Clanton was leaning against the rump of his horse. He turned, indolently,gathered his body suddenly, and vaulted to the saddle. Like a shot he wasoff into the night.
Billie, startled at the swiftness of his going, could only stare afterhim impotently. He knew that it would be impossible to find one lonerider in the darkness.
Slowly he walked back to the grave. The riders of the Flying V Y weregathered round in a quiet and silent group. They were burying the body ofhim who had been the gayest and lightest-hearted of their circle only afew hours before.
As soon as the last shovelful of earth had been pressed down upon themound, Webb turned to business. The herd scattered over thirty miles ofcountry must be gathered at once and he set about the round-up. He hadhad bad runs on the trail before and he knew the job before his men wasno easy one.
They jogged out on a Spanish trot in the trail of the stampede. The chuckwagon was to meet them at Spring River next morning, where the firstgather of beeves would be brought and held. All night they rode, tough ashickory, strong as whip-cord. Into the desert sky sifted the gray lightwhich preceded the coming of day. Banners of mauve and amethyst and topazwere flung across the horizon, to give place to glorious splashes ofpurple and pink and crimson. The sun, a flaming ball of fire, rose big asa washtub from the edge of the desert.
In that early morning light crept over the plain little bunches of cattlefollowed by brown, lithe riders. Like
spokes of a wheel each group movedto a hub. Old Black Ned, the cook, was the focus of their travel. For atSpring River he had waiting for them hot coffee, flaky biscuits, steakshot from the coals. Each rider seized a tin cup, a tin plate, a knife andfork, and was ready for the best Uncle Ned had to offer.
The remuda had been brought up by the wranglers. While the horses milledabout in a cloud of dust, each puncher selected another mount. Hemoved forward, his loop trailing, eye fixed on the one pony, out of onehundred and fifty, that he wanted for the day's work. Suddenly a ropewould snake forward past half a dozen broncos and drop about the neck ofan animal near the heart of the herd. The twisting, dodging cowpony wouldsurrender instantly and submit to being cut out from the band. Saddleswere slapped on in a hurry and the riders were again on their way.
Through the mesquite they rode, slackening speed for neither gullies norbarrancas. Webb gave orders crisply, disposed of his men in such a wayas to make of them a drag-net through which no cattle could escape, andbegan to tighten the loops for the drive back to camp.
By the middle of the afternoon the chuck wagon was in sight. The ponieswere fagged, the men weary. For thirty-six hours these riders, whosemuscles seemed tough as whalebone, had been almost steadily in thesaddle. They slouched along now easily, always in a gray cloud of dustraised by the bellowing cattle.
The new gather of cattle was thrown in with those that had been roundedup during the night. The punchers unsaddled their worn mounts and driftedto the camp-fire one by one. Ravenously they ate, then rolled up in theirblankets and fell asleep at once. To-night they had neither heart norenergy for the gay badinage that usually flew back and forth.
Night was still heavy over the land when Uncle Ned's gong wakened them.The moon was disappearing behind a scudding cloud, but stars could beseen by thousands. Across the open plain a chill wind blew.
All was bustle and confusion, but out of the turmoil emerged order. Thewranglers, already fed, moved into the darkness to bring up the remuda.Tin cups and plates rattled merrily. Tongues wagged. Bits of repartee,which are the salt of the cowpuncher's life, were flung across the firefrom one; to another. Already the death of Tim McGrath was falling intothe background of their swift, turbulent lives. After all the cowboy diesyoung. Tim's soul had wandered out across the great divide only a fewmonths before that of others among them.
Out of the mist emerged the desert, still gray and vague and withoutdetail. The day's work was astir once more. With the nickering of horses,the bawling of cattle, and the shouts of men as an orchestralaccompaniment, light filtered into the valley for the drama of the newsunrise. Once more the tireless riders swept into the mesquite throughthe clutching cholla to comb another segment of country in search of thebeeves not yet reclaimed.
That day's drive brought practically the entire herd together again. Afew had not been recovered, but Webb set these down to profit and loss.What he regretted most was that the cattle were not in as good conditionas they had been before the stampede.
The drover spent the next day cutting out the animals that did not belongto him. Of these a good many had been collected in the round-up. It wasclose to evening before the job was finished and the outfit returned tocamp.
Billie rode up to the wagon with the old man. Leaning against a saddle onthe ground, a flank steak in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other,lounged Jim Clanton.
Webb, hard-eyed and stiff, looked at the young man, "Had a pleasantvacation, Clanton?"
"I don't know as I would call it a vacation, Mr. Webb. I been attendingto some business," explained Jim.
"Yours or mine?"
"Yours an' mine."
"You've been gone forty-eight hours. The rest of us have worked our headsoff gettin' together the herd. I reckon you can explain why you weren'twith us."
Yellow with dust, unshaven, mud caked in his hair, hands torn by thecat-claw, Homer Webb was red-eyed from lack of sleep and from theirritation of the alkali powder. This young rider had broken the firstlaw of the cowpuncher, to be on the job in time of trouble and to staythere as long as he could back a horse. The owner of the Flying V Y wasangry clear through at his desertion and he intended to let the boy knowit.
"I went out to look for Peg-Leg Warren" said Clanton apologetically.
Webb stopped in his stride. "You did? Who told you to do that?"
"I didn't need to be told. I've got horse sense myself." Jim spoke alittle sulkily. He knew that he ought to have stayed with his employer.
"Well, what did you do when you found Peg-Leg--make him a visit for acouple of days?" demanded the drover with sarcasm.
"No, I don't know him well enough to visit--only well enough to shootat."
"What's that?" asked Webb sharply.
"Think I was goin' to let 'em plug Tim McGrath an' get away with it?"snapped Jim.
"That's my business--not yours. What did you do? Come clean."
"Laid out in the chaparral till I got a chance to gun him," the youngfellow answered sullenly.
"And then?"
"Plugged a hole through him an' made my get-away."
"You mean you've killed Peg-Leg Warren?"
"He'll never be any deader," said Clanton coolly.
The dark blood flushed into Webb's face. He wasted no pity on Warren. Theman was a cold-hearted murderer and had reaped only what he had sowed.But this was no excuse for Clanton, who had deliberately dragged theFlying V Y into trouble without giving its owner a chance to determinewhat form retribution should take. The cowpuncher had gone back toprimitive instincts and elected the blood feud as the necessary form ofreprisal. He had plunged Webb and the other drovers into war without evena by-your-leave. His answer to murder had been murder. To encouragethis sort of thing would be subversive of all authority and would lead toanarchy.
"Get yore time from Yankie, Clanton," said his employer harshly. "Sleepin camp to-night if you like, but hit the trail in the mornin'. I can'tuse men like you."
He turned away and left the two friends alone.
Prince was sick at heart. He had warned the young fellow and it had doneno good. His regret was for Jim, not for Warren. He blamed himself fornot having prevented the killing of Peg-Leg. Yet he knew he had done allthat he could.
"I'm sorry, Jim," he said at last.
"Oh, well! What's done is done."
But Billie could not dismiss the matter casually. He saw clearly thatClanton had come to the parting of the ways and had unconsciously madehis choice for life. From this time he would be known as a bad man. Thebrand of the killer would be on him and he would have to make good hisreputation. He would have to live without friends, without love, in thedreadful isolation of one who is watched and feared by all. Prince felt agreat wave of sympathy for him, of regret for so young a soul gone sototally astray. Surely the cards had been marked against Jim Clanton.