Part 27 (2/2)

”Sure,” agreed Creede, ”but suppose one of them big-headed Chihuahua Mexicans should happen to shoot you?”

”Well then, I'd be dead,” said Hardy soberly. ”But wouldn't you rather be dead than shut up in that h.e.l.l-hole down at Yuma?”

”Yes!” cried Creede, holding out his hands as if taking an oath. ”I would, by G.o.d!”

”Well, come on then!” said Hardy, and they shook hands on it like brothers.

When the _rodeo_ outfit was gathered together in the morning Jefferson Creede deliberately unstrapped his cartridge belt and threw his pistol back onto his bed. Then he winked at his partner as if, rightly understood, the action was in the nature of a joke, and led the way to Pocket b.u.t.te.

”You fellows rake the ridges to Bullpit Valley,” he said, briefly a.s.signing every man to his post. ”Rufe 'n me'll hold 'em up for you about four o'clock, but don't rush the funeral--we're goin' to move a few sheep first.”

He smiled mysteriously as he spoke, staving off their pointed queries with equivocal answers.

”See you later,” he observed, turning his horse into a sheep trail, and with that the outfit was forced to be content.

The offending sheep were found feeding along the eastern slope of a long ridge that led down from the upper ground, and the herders were camped on the summit. There were four men gathered about the fire and as the cowboys approached three of them picked up their carbines and sat off to one side, fingering the locks nervously. The appearance of Jeff Creede spelled trouble to all sheepmen and there were few camps on Bronco Mesa which did not contain a herder who had been unceremoniously moved by him. But this time the fire-eating cowman rode grandly into camp without any awe-inspiring demonstrations whatever.

”Are those your sheep?” he inquired, pointing to the grazing herd.

”_Si senor_,” responded the boss herder humbly.

”Very well,” said Creede, ”move 'em, and move 'em quick. I give you three days to get through that pa.s.s.” He stretched a heavily muscled arm very straight toward the notch in the western hills and turned abruptly away. Hardy swung soberly in behind him and the frightened Chihuahuanos were beginning to breathe again after their excitement when suddenly Jeff stopped his horse.

”Say,” he said, turning to the boss, ”what you carryin' that cow's horn for?”

At this pointed inquiry the boss herder flinched and looked downcast, toying uneasily with the primitive instrument at his side.

”To blow,” he answered evasively.

”Well, go ahead and blow it, then,” suggested Creede amiably. ”No--go on! _I_ don't care what happens. Aw here, let me have it a minute!”

He grabbed the horn away impatiently, wiped the mouthpiece with his sleeve, drew a long breath, and blew. A deep ba.s.s roar answered to his effort, a bellow such as the skin-clad hunters of antiquity sent forth when they wound the horn for their hounds, and the hills and valleys of Carrizo and the upper mesa echoed to the blast.

”Say, that's great!” exclaimed the big cowboy, good-naturedly resisting the appeals of the herder. ”I used to have one like that when I was a boy. Oh, I'm a blower, all right--listen to this, now!”

He puffed out his chest, screwed his lips into the horn, and blew again, loud and long.

”How's that for high?” he inquired, glancing roguishly at his partner.

”And I could keep it up all day,” he added, handing the horn back, ”only I've got business elsewhere.”

”_Oyez, amigo_,” he said, bending his brow suddenly upon the Mexican herder, ”remember, now--in three days!” He continued the sentence by a comprehensive sweep of the hand from that spot out through the western pa.s.s, favored each of the three Chihuahuanos with an abhorrent scowl, and rode slowly away down the hogback.

”Notice anything funny over on that ridge?” he asked, jerking his head casually toward the east. ”That's Swope and Co.--the Sheepmen's Protective a.s.sociation--coming over to rescue _companero_.” A line of rapidly moving specks proved the truth of his observation, and Creede's shoulders shook with laughter as he noted their killing pace.

”I tumbled to the idee the minute I set eyes on that cow's horn,” he said. ”It's like this. Every boss herder has a horn; if he gits into trouble he blows it and all hands come a-runnin' to shoot holes in Mr.

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