Arizona Nights
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Stewart Edward White >> Arizona Nights
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So it came about that a little army crossed the drift fences and
entered the border country. Two days later it came out, and
mighty pleased to be able to do so. The rope had not been used.
The reason for the defeat was quite simple. The thief had run
his cattle through the lava beds where the trail at once became
difficult to follow. This delayed the pursuing party; they ran
out of water, and, as there was among them not one man well
enough acquainted with the country to know where to find more,
they had to return.
"No use, Buck," said Jed. "We'd any of us come in on a gun play,
but we can't buck the desert. We'll have to get someone who
knows the country."
"That's all right--but where?" queried Johnson.
"There's Pereza," suggested Parker. "It's the only town down
near that country."
"Might get someone there," agreed the Senor.
Next day he rode away in search of a guide. The third evening he
was back again, much discouraged.
"The country's no good," he explained. "The regular inhabitants
're a set of Mexican bums and old soaks. The cowmen's all from
north and don't know nothing more than we do. I found lots who
claimed to know that country, but when I told 'em what I wanted
they shied like a colt. I couldn't hire'em, for no money, to go
down in that country. They ain't got the nerve. I took two days
to her, too, and rode out to a ranch where they said a man lived
who knew all about it down there. Nary riffle. Man looked all
right, but his tail went down like the rest when I told him what
we wanted. Seemed plumb scairt to death. Says he lives too
close to the gang. Says they'd wipe him out sure if he done it.
Seemed plumb SCAIRT." Buck Johnson grinned. "I told him so and
he got hosstyle right off. Didn't seem no ways scairt of me. I
don't know what's the matter with that outfit down there.
They're plumb terrorised."
That night a bunch of steers was stolen from the very corrals of
the home ranch. The home ranch was far north, near Fort Sherman
itself, and so had always been considered immune from attack.
Consequently these steers were very fine ones.
For the first time Buck Johnson lost his head and his dignity.
He ordered the horses.
"I'm going to follow that -- -- into Sonora," he shouted to Jed
Parker. "This thing's got to stop!"
"You can't make her, Buck," objected the foreman. "You'll get
held up by the desert, and, if that don't finish you, they'll
tangle you up in all those little mountains down there, and
ambush you, and massacre you. You know it damn well."
"I don't give a --" exploded Senor Johnson, "if they do. No man
can slap my face and not get a run for it."
Jed Parker communed with himself.
"Senor," said he, at last,"it's no good; you can't do it. You
got to have a guide. You wait three days and I'll get you one."
"You can't do it," insisted the Senor. "I tried every man in the
district."
"Will you wait three days?" repeated the foreman.
Johnson pulled loose his latigo. His first anger had cooled.
"All right," he agreed, "and you can say for me that I'll pay
five thousand dollars in gold and give all the men and horses he
needs to the man who has the nerve to get back that bunch of
cattle, and bring in the man who rustled them. I'll sure make
this a test case."
So Jed Parker set out to discover his man with nerve.
CHAPTER TWO
THE MAN WITH NERVE
At about ten o'clock of the Fourth of July a rider topped the
summit of the last swell of land, and loped his animal down into
the single street of Pereza. The buildings on either side were
flat-roofed and coated with plaster. Over the sidewalks extended
wooden awnings, beneath which opened very wide doors into the
coolness of saloons. Each of these places ran a bar, and also
games of roulette, faro, craps, and stud poker. Even this early
in the morning every game was patronised.
The day was already hot with the dry, breathless, but
exhilarating, beat of the desert. A throng of men idling at the
edge of the sidewalks, jostling up and down their centre, or
eddying into the places of amusement, acknowledged the power of
summer by loosening their collars, carrying their coats on their
arms. They were as yet busily engaged in recognising
acquaintances. Later they would drink freely and gamble, and
perhaps fight. Toward all but those whom they recognised they
preserved an attitude of potential suspicion, for here were
gathered the "bad men" of the border countries. A certain
jealousy or touchy egotism lest the other man be considered
quicker on the trigger, bolder, more aggressive than himself,
kept each strung to tension. An occasional shot attracted little
notice. Men in the cow-countries shoot as casually as we strike
matches, and some subtle instinct told them that the reports were
harmless.
As the rider entered the one street, however, a more definite
cause of excitement drew the loose population toward the centre
of the road. Immediately their mass blotted out what had
interested them. Curiosity attracted the saunterers; then in
turn the frequenters of the bars and gambling games. In a very
few moments the barkeepers, gamblers, and look-out men, held
aloof only by the necessities of their calling, alone of all the
population of Pereza were not included in the newly-formed ring.
The stranger pushed his horse resolutely to the outer edge of the
crowd where, from his point of vantage, he could easily overlook
their heads. He was a quiet-appearing young fellow, rather
neatly dressed in the border costume, rode a "centre fire," or
single-cinch, saddle, and wore no chaps. He was what is known as
a "two-gun man": that is to say, he wore a heavy Colt's revolver
on either hip. The fact that the lower ends of his holsters were
tied down, in order to facilitate the easy withdrawal of the
revolvers, seemed to indicate that he expected to use them. He
had furthermore a quiet grey eye, with the glint of steel that
bore out the inference of the tied holsters.
The newcomer dropped his reins on his pony's neck, eased himself
to an attitude of attention, and looked down gravely on what was
taking place. He saw over the heads of the bystanders a tall,
muscular, wild-eyed man, hatless, his hair rumpled into staring
confusion, his right sleeve rolled to his shoulder, a
wicked-looking nine-inch knife in his hand, and a red bandana
handkerchief hanging by one corner from his teeth.
"What's biting the locoed stranger?" the young man inquired of
his neighbour.
The other frowned at him darkly.
"Dare's anyone to take the other end of that handkerchief in his
teeth, and fight it out without letting go."
"Nice joyful proposition," commented the young man.
He settled himself to closer attention. The wild-eyed man was
talking rapidly. What he said cannot be printed here. Mainly
was it derogatory of the southern countries. Shortly it became
boastful of the northern, and then of the man who uttered it.
He swaggered up and down, becoming always the more insolent as
his challenge remained untaken.
"Why don't you take him up?" inquired the young man, after a
moment.
"Not me!" negatived the other vigorously. "I'll go yore little
old gunfight to a finish, but I don't want any cold steel in
mine. Ugh! it gives me the shivers. It's a reg'lar Mexican
trick! With a gun it's down and out, but this knife work is too
slow and searchin'."
The newcomer said nothing, but fixed his eye again on the raging
man with the knife.
"Don't you reckon he's bluffing? "be inquired.
"Not any!" denied the other with emphasis. "He's jest drunk
enough to be crazy mad."
The newcomer shrugged his shoulders and cast his glance
searchingly over the fringe of the crowd. It rested on a Mexican.
"Hi, Tony! come here," he called.
The Mexican approached, flashing his white teeth.
"Here," said the stranger, "lend me your knife a minute."
The Mexican, anticipating sport of his own peculiar kind, obeyed
with alacrity.
"You fellows make me tired," observed the stranger, dismounting.
"He's got the whole townful of you bluffed to a standstill. Damn
if I don't try his little game."
He hung his coat on his saddle, shouldered his way through the
press, which parted for him readily, and picked up the other
corner of the handkerchief.
"Now, you mangy son of a gun," said he.
CHAPTER THREE
THE AGREEMENT
Jed Parker straightened his back, rolled up the bandana
handkerchief, and thrust it into his pocket, hit flat with his
hand the touselled mass of his hair, and thrust the long hunting
knife into its sheath.
"You're the man I want," said he.
Instantly the two-gun man had jerked loose his weapons and was
covering the foreman.
"AM I!" he snarled.
Not jest that way," explained Parker. "My gun is on my hoss, and
you can have this old toad-sticker if you want it. I been
looking for you, and took this way of finding you. Now, let's go
talk."
The stranger looked him in the eye for nearly a half minute
without lowering his revolvers.
"I go you," said he briefly, at last.
But the crowd, missing the purport, and in fact the very
occurrence of this colloquy, did not understand. It thought the
bluff had been called, and naturally, finding harmless what had
intimidated it, gave way to an exasperated impulse to get even.
"You -- -- -- bluffer!" shouted a voice, "don't you think you can
run any such ranikaboo here!"
Jed Parker turned humorously to his companion.
"Do we get that talk?" he inquired gently.
For answer the two-gun man turned and walked steadily in the
direction of the man who had shouted. The latter's hand strayed
uncertainly toward his own weapon, but the movement paused when
the stranger's clear, steel eye rested on it.
"This gentleman," pointed out the two-gun man softly, "is an old
friend of mine. Don't you get to calling of him names."
His eye swept the bystanders calmly.
"Come on, Jack," said be, addressing Parker.
On the outskirts be encountered the Mexican from whom he bad
borrowed the knife.
"Here, Tony," said he with a slight laugh, "here's a peso.
You'll find your knife back there where I had to drop her."
He entered a saloon, nodded to the proprietor, and led the way
through it to a boxlike room containing a board table and two
chairs.
"Make good,"he commanded briefly.
"I'm looking for a man with nerve," explained Parker, with equal
succinctness. "You're the man."
"Well?"
"Do you know the country south of here?"
The stranger's eyes narrowed.
"Proceed," said he.
"I'm foreman of the Lazy Y of Soda Springs Valley range,"
explained Parker. "I'm looking for a man with sand enough and
sabe of the country enough to lead a posse after cattle-rustlers
into the border country."
"I live in this country," admitted the stranger.
"So do plenty of others, but their eyes stick out like two raw
oysters when you mention the border country. Will you tackle
it?"
"What's the proposition?"
"Come and see the old man. He'll put it to you."
They mounted their horses and rode the rest of the day. The
desert compassed them about, marvellously changing shape and
colour, and every character, with all the noiselessness of
phantasmagoria. At evening the desert stars shone steady and
unwinking, like the flames of candles. By moonrise they came to
the home ranch.
The buildings and corrals lay dark and silent against the
moonlight that made of the plain a sea of mist. The two men
unsaddled their horses and turned them loose in the wire-fenced
"pasture," the necessary noises of their movements sounding
sharp and clear against the velvet hush of the night. After a
moment they walked stiffly past the sheds and cook shanty, past
the men's bunk houses, and the tall windmill silhouetted against
the sky, to the main building of the home ranch under its great
cottonwoods. There a light still burned, for this was the third
day, and Buck Johnson awaited his foreman.
Jed Parker pushed in without ceremony.
"Here's your man, Buck," said he.
The stranger had stepped inside and carefully closed the door
behind him. The lamplight threw into relief the bold, free lines
of his face, the details of his costume powdered thick with
alkali, the shiny butts of the two guns in their open holsters
tied at the bottom. Equally it defined the resolute countenance
of Buck Johnson turned up in inquiry. The two men examined each
other--and liked each other at once.
"How are you," greeted the cattleman.
"Good-evening," responded the stranger.
"Sit down,"invited Buck Johnson.
The stranger perched gingerly on the edge of a chair, with an
appearance less of embarrassment than of habitual alertness.
"You'll take the job?" inquired the Senor.
"I haven't heard what it is," replied the stranger.
"Parker here--?"
"Said you'd explain."
"Very well," said Buck Johnson. He paused a moment, collecting
his thoughts. "There's too much cattle-rustling here. I'm going
to stop it. I've got good men here ready to take the job, but no
one who knows the country south. Three days ago I had a bunch of
cattle stolen right here from the home-ranch corrals, and by one
man, at that. It wasn't much of a bunch--about twenty head--but
I'm going to make a starter right here, and now. I'm going to
get that bunch back, and the man who stole them, if I have to go
to hell to do it. And I'm going to do the same with every case
of rustling that comes up from now on. I don't care if it's only
one cow, I'm going to get it back--every trip. Now, I want to
know if you'll lead a posse down into the south country and bring
out that last bunch, and the man who rustled them?"
"I don't know--" hesitated the stranger.
"I offer you five thousand dollars in gold if you'll bring back
those cows and the man who stole 'em," repeated Buck Johnson.
"And I'll give you all the horses and men you think you need."
"I'll do it,"replied the two-gun man promptly.
"Good!" cried Buck Johnson, "and you better start to-morrow."
"I shall start to-night--right now."
"Better yet. How many men do you want, and grub for how long?"
"I'll play her a lone hand."
"Alone!" exclaimed Johnson, his confidence visibly cooling.
"Alone! Do you think you can make her?"
"I'll be back with those cattle in not more than ten days."
"And the man," supplemented the Senor.
"And the man. What's more, I want that money here when I come
in. I don't aim to stay in this country over night."
A grin overspread Buck Johnson's countenance. He understood.
"Climate not healthy for you?" he hazarded. "I guess you'd be
safe enough all right with us. But suit yourself. The money
will be here."
"That's agreed?" insisted the two-gun man.
"Sure."
"I want a fresh horse--I'll leave mine--he's a good one. I want
a little grub."
"All right. Parker'll fit you out."
The stranger rose.
"I'll see you in about ten days."
"Good luck," Senor Buck Johnson wished him.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ACCOMPLISHMENT
The next morning Buck Johnson took a trip down into the "pasture"
of five hundred wire-fenced acres.
"He means business," he confided to Jed Parker, on his return.
"That cavallo of his is a heap sight better than the Shorty horse
we let him take. Jed, you found your man with nerve, all right.
How did you do it?"
The two settled down to wait, if not with confidence, at least
with interest. Sometimes, remembering the desperate character of
the outlaws, their fierce distrust of any intruder, the wildness
of the country, Buck Johnson and his foreman inclined to the
belief that the stranger had undertaken a task beyond the powers
of any one man. Again, remembering the stranger's cool grey eye,
the poise of his demeanour, the quickness of his movements, and
the two guns with tied holsters to permit of easy withdrawal,
they were almost persuaded that he might win.
"He's one of those long-chance fellows," surmised Jed. "He likes
excitement. I see that by the way he takes up with my knife
play. He'd rather leave his hide on the fence than stay in the
corral."
"Well, he's all right," replied Senor Buck Johnson,"and if he
ever gets back, which same I'm some doubtful of, his dinero'll be
here for him."
In pursuance of this he rode in to Willets, where shortly the
overland train brought him from Tucson the five thousand dollars
in double eagles.
In the meantime the regular life of the ranch went on. Each
morning Sang, the Chinese cook, rang the great bell, summoning
the men. They ate, and then caught up the saddle horses for the
day, turning those not wanted from the corral into the pasture.
Shortly they jingled away in different directions, two by two, on
the slow Spanish trot of the cow-puncher. All day long thus they
would ride, without food or water for man or beast, looking the
range, identifying the stock, branding the young calves,
examining generally into the state of affairs, gazing always with
grave eyes on the magnificent, flaming, changing, beautiful,
dreadful desert of the Arizona plains. At evening when the
coloured atmosphere, catching the last glow, threw across the
Chiricahuas its veil of mystery, they jingled in again, two by
two, untired, unhasting, the glory of the desert in their
deep-set, steady eyes.
And all the day long, while they were absent, the cattle, too,
made their pilgrimage, straggling in singly, in pairs, in
bunches, in long files, leisurely, ruminantly, without haste.
There, at the long troughs filled by the windmill of the
blindfolded pump mule, they drank, then filed away again into the
mists of the desert. And Senor Buck Johnson, or his foreman,
Parker, examined them for their condition, noting the increase,
remarking the strays from another range. Later, perhaps, they,
too, rode abroad. The same thing happened at nine other ranches
from five to ten miles apart, where dwelt other fierce, silent
men all under the authority of Buck Johnson.
And when night fell, and the topaz and violet and saffron and
amethyst and mauve and lilac had faded suddenly from the
Chiricahuas, like a veil that has been rent, and the ramparts had
become slate-grey and then black--the soft-breathed night
wandered here and there over the desert, and the land fell under
an enchantment even stranger than the day's.
So the days went by, wonderful, fashioning the ways and the
characters of men. Seven passed. Buck Johnson and his foreman
began to look for the stranger. Eight, they began to speculate.
Nine, they doubted. On the tenth they gave him up--and he came.
They knew him first by the soft lowing of cattle. Jed Parker,
dazzled by the lamp, peered out from the door, and made him out
dimly turning the animals into the corral. A moment later his
pony's hoofs impacted softly on the baked earth, he dropped from
the saddle and entered the room.
"I'm late," said he briefly, glancing at the clock, which
indicated ten; "but I'm here."
His manner was quick and sharp, almost breathless, as though he
had been running.
"Your cattle are in the corral: all of them. Have you the
money?"
"I have the money here," replied Buck Johnson, laying his hand
against a drawer, "and it's ready for you when you've earned it.
I don't care so much for the cattle. What I wanted is the man
who stole them. Did you bring him?"
"Yes, I brought him," said the stranger. "Let's see that money."
Buck Johnson threw open the drawer, and drew from it the heavy
canvas sack.
"It's here. Now bring in your prisoner."
The two-gun man seemed suddenly to loom large in the doorway.
The muzzles of his revolvers covered the two before him. His
speech came short and sharp.
"I told you I'd bring back the cows and the one who rustled
them," he snapped. "I've never lied to a man yet. Your stock is
in the corral. I'll trouble you for that five thousand. I'm the
man who stole your cattle!"
PART III THE RAWHIDE
CHAPTER ONE
THE PASSING OF THE COLT'S FORTY-FIVE
The man of whom I am now to tell you came to Arizona in the early
days of Chief Cochise. He settled in the Soda Springs Valley,
and there persisted in spite of the devastating forays of that
Apache. After a time he owned all the wells and springs in the
valley, and so, naturally, controlled the grazing on that
extensive free range. Once a day the cattle, in twos and threes,
in bands, in strings, could be seen winding leisurely down the
deep-trodden and converging trails to the water troughs at the
home ranch, there leisurely to drink, and then leisurely to drift
away into the saffron and violet and amethyst distances of the
desert. At ten other outlying ranches this daily scene was
repeated. All these cattle belonged to the man, great by reason
of his priority in the country, the balance of his even
character, and the grim determination of his spirit.
When he had first entered Soda Springs Valley his companions had
called him Buck Johnson. Since then his form had squared, his
eyes had steadied to the serenity of a great authority, his
mouth, shadowed by the moustache and the beard, had closed
straight in the line of power and taciturnity. There was about
him more than a trace of the Spanish. So now he was known as
Senor Johnson, although in reality he was straight American
enough.
Senor Johnson lived at the home ranch with a Chinese cook, and
Parker, his foreman. The home ranch was of adobe, built with
loopholes like a fort. In the obsolescence of this necessity,
other buildings had sprung up unfortified. An adobe bunkhouse
for the cow-punchers, an adobe blacksmith shop, a long, low
stable, a shed, a windmill and pond-like reservoir, a whole
system of corrals of different sizes, a walled-in vegetable
garden--these gathered to themselves cottonwoods from the
moisture of their being, and so added each a little to the green
spot in the desert. In the smallest corral, between the stable
and the shed, stood a buckboard and a heavy wagon, the only
wheeled vehicles about the place. Under the shed were rows of
saddles, riatas, spurs mounted with silver, bits ornamented with
the same metal, curved short irons for the range branding, long,
heavy "stamps" for the corral branding. Behind the stable lay
the "pasture," a thousand acres of desert fenced in with wire.
There the hardy cow-ponies sought out the sparse, but nutritious,
bunch grass, sixty of them, beautiful as antelope, for they were
the pick of Senor Johnson's herds.
And all about lay the desert, shimmering, changing, many-tinted,
wonderful, hemmed in by the mountains that seemed tenuous and
thin, like beautiful mists, and by the sky that seemed hard and
polished like a turquoise.
Each morning at six o'clock the ten cow-punchers of the home
ranch drove the horses to the corral, neatly roped the dozen to
be "kept up" for that day, and rewarded the rest with a feed of
grain. Then they rode away at a little fox trot, two by two.
All day long they travelled thus, conducting the business of the
range, and at night, having completed the circle, they jingled
again into the corral.
At the ten other ranches this programme had been duplicated. The
half-hundred men of Senor Johnson's outfit had covered the area
of a European principality. And all of it, every acre, every
spear of grass, every cactus prickle, every creature on it,
practically belonged to Senor Johnson, because Senor Johnson
owned the water, and without water one cannot exist on the
desert.
This result had not been gained without struggle. The fact could
be read in the settled lines of Senor Johnson's face, and the
great calm of his grey eye. Indian days drove him often to the
shelter of the loopholed adobe ranch house, there to await the
soldiers from the Fort, in plain sight thirty miles away on the
slope that led to the foot of the Chiricahuas. He lost cattle
and some men, but the profits were great, and in time Cochise,
Geronimo, and the lesser lights had flickered out in the winds of
destiny. The sheep terror merely threatened, for it was soon
discovered that with the feed of Soda Springs Valley grew a burr
that annoyed the flocks beyond reason, so the bleating scourge
swept by forty miles away. Cattle rustling so near the Mexican
line was an easy matter. For a time Senor Johnson commanded an
armed band. He was lord of the high, the low, and the middle
justice. He violated international ethics, and for the laws of
nations he substituted his own. One by one he annihilated the
thieves of cattle, sometimes in open fight, but oftener by
surprise and deliberate massacre. The country was delivered.
And then, with indefatigable energy, Senor Johnson became a
skilled detective. Alone, or with Parker, his foreman, he rode
the country through, gathering evidence. When the evidence was
unassailable he brought offenders to book. The rebranding
through a wet blanket he knew and could prove; the ear-marking of
an unbranded calf until it could be weaned he understood; the
paring of hoofs to prevent travelling he could tell as far as he
could see; the crafty alteration of similar brands--as when a
Mexican changed Johnson's Lazy Y to a Dumb-bell Bar--he saw
through at a glance. In short, the hundred and one petty tricks
of the sneak-thief he ferreted out, in danger of his life. Then
he sent to Phoenix for a Ranger--and that was the last of the
Dumb-bell Bar brand, or the Three Link Bar brand, or the Hour
Glass Brand, or a half dozen others. The Soda Springs Valley
acquired a reputation for good order.
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