The Free Range

CHAPTER XIII

THE HEATHEN CHINEE

Hard-winter Sims, lying at full length on the grass, indulging in another of his frequent siestas, was rudely awakened by one of his herders.

“More sheep they come,” said the man.

“Great Michaeljohn!” swore Sims, heaving his long length erect. “More?”

“Yes; it is Rubino with the third flock.”

Sims cast a practiced eye over the sides of the swelling hills, where already two thousand animals, the second consignment, were feeding. It was now a week since he had met Bud Larkin after the stampede, and he was worried over the non-appearance of his chief. Here, in the hills of the southern hook of the Big Horn Mountains, he had fed the second flock up one valley and down the next, waiting for Larkin’s arrival or some word from him.

Hurrying south after that midnight meeting, he had reached his destination just in time to check the advance of the second two thousand that had come the night before. Knowing the hard march north, but ignorant of the conditions now prevailing on the Bar T range, he had hesitated to expose more of Larkin’s animals to ruin.

The arrival of this third flock complicated matters in the extreme, since the feeding-ground became constantly farther away from the original rendezvous.

He looked in the direction indicated by the herder and saw the cloud of dust that betokened the advance of the new flock. Soon the tinkle of the bells and the blethering of the animals themselves reached him, and he started leisurely back to meet Rubino.

He found the sheep in good physical shape, for they had been traveling at a natural pace, a condition not always easily brought about, and totally dependent on the skill of the herder. If the dogs or men follow constantly behind the animals, they, feeling that they are being constantly urged, will go faster and faster, neglecting to crop, and so starve on their feet in the midst of abundant feed. For this reason herders often walk slowly ahead of their flock, holding them back.

“Where are the next two thousand?” Sims asked Rubino.

“Two days behind, and coming slowly.”

“And the last?”

“Three days behind them, but farther to the east.”

Sims whistled. He realized that in five days, if nothing were done, he would have eight thousand sheep on his hands, scattered over the hills in every direction and subject to heavy loss both by wild animals and straying.

With the aplomb of a general disposing his forces, Sims indicated the rising hill on which Rubino should bed his flock down, and watched critically as they went through this evolution.

Sheep are the most unresponsive to human affection of any domesticated animal. Never, in all the thousands of years of shepherding, have they come to recognize man as an integer. They still cling to the flock life. Even when attacked by wild animals at night they do not seek the shepherd, but stand and bawl to the valiant (?) rams to beat off the enemy. On the march, the dogs do the actual herding, so that the “muttons” do not look to man for their orders.

The only occasion that they appeal to a human being is when their bodies crave salt. Then they run to him with a peculiar guttural cry, and, having been supplied, forget the herder immediately. Some people have tried to prove that this trait predicates a recognition of the human being as such, but it seems far more likely that they regard him with the same indifference as a giver that they do the water-hole which quenches their thirst.

Without intelligence, or the direct appreciation of man, they are entirely unattractive, ranking far below the dog, horse, or even cow. Consequently but few men in the sheep business have any affection for them. Of these few, Hard-winter Sims was probably the leader. Something closely akin to a maternal obligation was constantly at work in him, and the one thing that brought instant response was the cry of distress of a lamb or ewe.

Now, as Rubino’s flock dotted itself over the hillside in the sunset, Sims watched what was to him the most beautiful thing in the world. The sounds were several – the mothering mutter of the ewes, the sharp blat of some lamb skipping for dinner, the plaintive cries of the “grannies” – wethers who, through some perverted maternal instinct, seek to mother some stray lamb as their own – and the deeper, contented throating of the rams.

The dogs, panting and thirsty with the long day’s march, saw that their charges were finally settled, except for the few lone sentinels against the cobalt sky. Then they trotted with lolling tongues to the little stream that trickled down the valley and waded in to drink. After that they sought out their masters and sat beside them with pricked ears, wondering why no preparations for supper were going forward.

To the herders after the long trail the luxury of a cook wagon was appreciated. Only the first and last detachments carried one, and Rubino’s men had cooked their meals over tiny fires made in the barren places, as the herdsmen have done since time immemorial.

The cook, a sullen man at best, grumbled audibly at the increase of his duties. Where before he had cooked for six men, now he must cook and clean up for twelve. All things considered, it was a “helluva” note, he declared, until Sims, overhearing his remarks, booted him a couple of times around the cook wagon, so that he much preferred the arduous duties of his calling.

“If yuh could only make every man love his job by contrast with somethin’ else a lot worse, what a peaceful world this would be,” thought Sims. “Now, sheep-herdin’ ain’t so plumb gentle yuh could call it a vacation, but when I think of cows an’ a round-up I shore do bless them old blackfaces for bein’ alive.”

Finally the long-drawn yell of the cook gave notice that the meal was ready and all hands fell to with a will. They had hardly got started, however, when there came a sound of galloping feet from the north that brought them all upstanding and reaching for their weapons.

Over a near-by hill swept a body of perhaps fifty horsemen, each with a rifle across his saddle and a revolver at hip. They were typical plainsmen, and as the last radiance of the sun lighted them up, Sims could see that they wore the regular broad-brimmed white Stetsons of the cattle men.

“Put down yore guns, boys,” said Sims after a moment’s thought. “Let’s get out o’ this peaceable if we can.”

The men put away their weapons and waited in silence. The horsemen swept up at the tireless trot of the plains until they recognized the tall, gaunt figure of the chief herdsman. Then, with a yell, they galloped into camp, drew rein abruptly, and dismounted.

Sims recognized the leader as Jimmie Welsh, the foreman of Larkin’s Montana sheep ranch, and a happy, contented grin spread over his face.

“Glory be, boys!” he yelled, going forward to meet the horsemen. “Rustle around there, cookee,” he called back over his shoulder, “yuh got company fer supper!”

The riders after their long journey were only too glad to see a permanent camp, and dismounted with grunts of pleasure and relief. They had come a distance of nearly two hundred and fifty miles in four days, and their horses were no longer disposed to pitch when their riders got upon them in the morning. The party was composed of all the available men from Larkin’s ranch and others from the neighboring places.

In these men the hatred of cowmen and their ways was even more intense than vice versa, this being a result, no doubt, of the manifold insults they had suffered, and the fact that, as a rule, cowboys far outnumber sheep-herders and run them off the country at will. The call to arms taken north by Miguel had met with instant and enthusiastic response, and these men had come south to wipe out in one grand mêlée their past disgraces.

During supper Sims told of Larkin’s offer of five dollars a day, and the riders nodded approvingly; it was the customary hire of fighting men in the range wars.

“But how did you get down over the Bar T range?” asked the chief herder.

“We done that at night,” replied Jimmie Welsh, who was a little man with a ruddy face, bright eyes and a crisp manner of speech. “Tell me what’s that ungodly mess up in Little River; it was night an’ we couldn’t see?”

“Two thousand of Larkin’s sheep,” replied Sims, laconically, and an angry murmur ran through the men. “Old Bissell, of the Bar T, stampeded ’em when we were just a-goin’ to get ’em through safe. Shot up one herder, lammed cookee over the head an’ raised ructions generally. Yes, boys, I’m plumb shore we have one or two little matters to ask them Bar T punchers about.”

“But what’s your orders, Simmy?” asked Welsh.

“I’m in charge o’ the hull outfit till the boss shows up an’ can do whatever I want. I’m gettin’ real concerned about him though, not hearin’ a word for a week. I ’low if he don’t turn up to-morrow I’ll have to send you boys lookin’ fer him.”

But the morrow brought its own solution of the problem.

In the middle of the morning a lone horseman was seen approaching over the hills, and the restless sheepmen, eager for any sport, spread out into a veritable ambuscade, taking position behind rocks and in depressions along the hills on either hand.

The horseman was very evidently a poor rider, for, instead of holding the reins easily and jauntily in his upturned right hand, he was clinging to the pommel of the saddle, while the pony slipped and slid along the difficult path.

Within a furlong of the camp, the man’s nationality was made apparent by the flapping shirt and trousers he wore, as well as the black, coarse cue that whipped from side to side.

Among the secreted sheepmen a grin spread from face to face at the sight of this distressful figure, evidently in real wo from hours in the hard saddle. About a hundred yards from camp a single shot rang out, and then there arose such a wild chorus of reports and yells as would have terrified a stone image.

The cow pony (which of all horses loathes a bad rider) showed the whites of his eyes wickedly, laid his ears back into his mane and bucked madly with fright. The Chinaman, chattering like a monkey, described a perfect parabola and alighted right side up on the only tuft of grass within ten yards.

In an instant he bounced to his feet, took one look at the surrounding society, and made a bolt for the cook-wagon, the one place that was familiar to him.

At the door he encountered the sheepmen’s regular cook coming out to see what the trouble was, and the next moment witnessed the near-annihilation of the yellow peril.

Sims and Jimmie Welsh pulled the burly cook off in time to save the Oriental, and the latter sat up with a dazed, frightened air.

“Yah! Makee much damee hellee!” he announced.

“Too much damee hellee,” said Sims sententiously. “John, you good fighter. Me like you. What you do here?”

“Me bling message,” and he reached into his blouse and drew out a piece of paper folded and pinned.

This he handed to Sims, who promptly opened it and started to read. In a minute he stopped and yelled for everyone who was not in the immediate circle to gather round and listen. Then, haltingly, he read aloud the following:

Dear Sims:

Ah Sin who brings you this is a bang-up cook, and I am sending him to you to get a job. Pay him fifty dollars on the spot in advance for his first month. I told him you would. He was the Bar T cook, I am sorry to say, but there was no other way of getting a message to you than to send him.

For the last few days I have been a prisoner in the “guest room” of the Bar T ranch-house. This is the middle room on the northwest side. After a certain row here I was clapped into confinement, and the Chinaman had to do the honors for me at all meals. I got friendly with him and found he was getting only thirty a month.

When he told me he owned one of the horses in the corral the whole thing was easy. I offered him fifty, gave him exact directions how to find your camp, and told him the best time to start.

If he ever reaches you, you will know where I am, and I want some of you to come and get me out of this. The cattlemen from all over are here, and they accuse me of standing in with the rustlers. What will happen to me I don’t know, but I’m sure of this, it won’t be healthy.

I should think the boys would be down from the north by this time.

Now, Simmy, keep everything under your hat and work quietly. Let the sheep pile up if you have to. Things aren’t ripe here yet to move ’em north.

I’ll be looking for you any day.

When Sims had read the entire note twice, a puzzled silence ensued. Men lifted their hats and scratched their heads meditatively. Here among fifty men there was plenty of energy for action once the action was suggested, but very little initiative.

“I allow we’ll shore have to get ’im out o’ there,” seemed to be the consensus of opinion.

“Shore, boys, shore,” said Sims impatiently; “but how? That’s the question. There’s about a dozen real smart shooters on that ranch, and I’m plenty sure they don’t all sleep to once. Besides, the worst part of it’ll be gettin’ near the dum place. If a hoss squeals or whinnies the rescuin’ party might as well pick out their graves, ’cause yuh see only two or three can make the trip.”

“Mebbe they can an’ mebbe they can’t,” broke in Jimmie Welsh, his little, bright eyes twinkling with suppressed merriment. “I should think the hull outfit, cook-wagons, an’ all, could make the visit to the Bar T.”

“Yeah?” remarked Sims politely scornful but inquisitive. “Tell us about it.”

And Welsh did.

CHAPTER XIV

SENTENCED

Everybody at the Bar T ranch house was laboring under suppressed excitement. It was now the middle of June when the yearly round-up should be under way, yet, owing to the invasion of the sheep and the recent rustler troubles, the cowboys had not been free to undertake this task.

On other ranches this spring work was well advanced, and the fact that the Bar T had not yet begun was a source of constant worry to Bissell and Stelton. The former, when he had sent out his call for other cowmen of the region, had encountered great difficulty in getting his neighbors to give up their time to the disposal of Bud Larkin’s case.

At last, however, ten owners, impatient at the summons and anxious to return as quickly as possible to their work, had ridden in, some of them alone and others with a cowboy taken from the round-up.

Since the Bar T ranch house was incapable of accommodating them all, the punchers had been ousted from their bunk-house and the structure given over to the visitors.

The sudden disappearance of the Chinese cook had added to Bissell’s troubles and shamed the hospitality of his home. This situation had been relieved temporarily by the labors of Mrs. Bissell and Juliet until an incompetent cowboy had been pressed into service at an exorbitant figure.

Therefore it was with short temper and less patience that Bissell began what might be called the trial of Larkin. The meeting-place of the men was under a big cottonwood that stood by the bank of the little stream curving past the Bar T.

As each man arrived from his home ranch he was made acquainted with the situation as it stood, and one afternoon Larkin was brought out from his room to appear before the tribunal. The owners were determined to end the matter that day, mete out punishment, and ride back to their own ranches in the morning.

It was a circle of stern-faced, solemn men that Larkin faced under the cottonwood tree, and as he looked at one after another, his heart sank, for there appeared very little of the quality of mercy in any of them. Knowing as he did the urgency that was drawing them home again, he feared that the swiftness of judgment would be tempered with very little reason.

Bissell as head of the organization occupied a chair, while at each side of him five men lounged on the grass, their guns within easy reach. Larkin was assigned to a seat facing them all, and, looking them over, recognized one or two. There was Billy Speaker, of the Circle-Arrow, whom he had once met, and Red Tarken, of the M Square, unmistakable both because of his size and his flaming hair.

“Now, Larkin,” began Bissell, “these men know what you’ve been tryin’ to do to my range – ”

“Do they know what you did to my sheep?” interrupted Bud crisply.

Bissell’s face reddened at this thrust, for, deep down, he knew that the stampede was an utterly despicable trick, and he was not over-anxious to have it paraded before his neighbors, some of whom had ridden far at his request.

“Shut yore mouth,” he snarled, “an’ don’t yuh open it except to answer questions.”

“Oh, no, yuh can’t do that, Bissell,” and blond Billy Speaker shook his head. “Yuh got to give ’im a chance to defend himself. Now we’re here we want to get all the facts. What did yuh do to his sheep, Beef? I never heard.”

“I run a few of ’em into the Little River, if yore any happier knowin’,” snapped Bissell, glowering on Speaker.

Larkin grinned.

“Two thousand of ’em,” he volunteered. There was no comment.

“These gents know,” went on Bissell, after a short pause, “that yuh were two days with them rustlers and that yuh can tell who they are if yuh will. Now will yuh tell us how you got in with ’em in the first place?”

Bud began at the time of the crossing of the Big Horn and with much detail described how he had outwitted the Bar T punchers with the hundred sheep under Pedro, while the rest of the flock went placidly north. His manner of address was good, he talked straightforwardly, and with conviction and, best of all, had a broad sense of humor that vastly amused these cowmen.

Sympathetic though they were with Bissell’s cause, Larkin’s story of how a despised sheepman had outwitted the cattle-king brought grins and chuckles.

“I allow yuh better steer clear o’ them sheep, Bissell,” suggested one man drolly. “First thing yuh know this feller’ll tell yuh he’s bought the Bar T away from yuh without yore knowin’ it. Better look up yore land grant to-night.”

By this time Bissell had become a caldron of seething rage. His hand actually itched to grab his gun and teach Larkin a lesson. But his position as chairman of the gathering prevented this, although he knew that plains gossip was being made with every word spoken. Among the cowmen about him were some whose ill success or smaller ranches had made them jealous, and, in his mind, he could see them retailing with much relish what a fool Larkin had made of him. He knew he would meet with reminders of this trial during the rest of his life.

However, he stuck to his guns.

“Now what we want to know, young feller, is this: the names an’ descriptions of them rustlers.”

“I will give them to you gladly and will supply men to help run them down at my own expense if you will let the rest of my sheep come north on your range. Not only that, but I will not ask any damages for the animals you have already killed. Now, men,” Larkin added, turning to the others and with a determined ring in his voice, “I want peace. This fighting is cutting our own throats and we are losing money by the hour.

“The range is free, as all of you know; there is a law against fencing it, and that means that no grangers can settle here and make it pay – the animals would eat all their unfenced farm truck. I have a ranch in Montana with about three thousand sheep on it. I tried to buy more there, but couldn’t.