Part 14 (1/2)
”Tell me everything, Jesse.”
”Up at the north end of the bench, there's maybe two hundred head of strange cattle. One pedigree short-horn bull is worth all of twenty-five hundred dollars, and there's a Hereford stud I'd take off my hat to anywheres. There's Aberdeens or Angus--I get them poll breeds mixed--and a bunch of Jerseys grazing apart, purty as deer. Anyways, that herd's worth maybe two hundred thousand dollars, every hoof of 'em stolen, and if you raked all them millionaire ranches in California I doubt you'd get that value.”
”How do you know they're stolen?”
”No stock owner needs that amount of stud cattle. We don't raise such in the north, so they've been drifted in here from the States. They're gaunt with famine and driving, and it beats me to think how many more's been left dead crossing the Black Pine country. The Bar Y brands has been faked. The parties herding 'em waits till I'm away, and tries to make a deal with you for pasturage. The gent with the sad eyes is sent dressed up to fool a woman.”
”But how could even robbers collect such a wonderful herd?”
”Kate, in them western states there's just about four hundred cow thieves working together, which you'll see them advertised in the papers robbing coaches, trains, pay for mining-camps, or now and again some bank. Still that's just vacations, and the main business is lifting cattle.
”Ye see, Kate, they'd collect an occasional stud, such as these here imported thoroughbreds, too good to lose, too well-known to sell, too hot to hold. They'd keep 'em in some hid-up pasture. But sometimes the people prods the sheriffs to get a move on, or Uncle Sam sends pony soldiers to play h.e.l.l with the sovereign rights of them holy western states. Then the robbers is apt to scatter down in store clothes, for a drunk at 'Frisco. This time I seen in the papers that Uncle Sam is rounding up his robbers, so naturally the pick of their stealings requires hiding. They'd drive north for the British possessions, but on the plains there's too much mounted police, whereas this British Columbia has one district constable to a district the size of the old country. Yes, they'd come to this province, and this here ranch of ours is a sort of North Pole to the stock range. Since old man Ponder quit out, and I squatted, only the neighbors know that the ranch is claimed.
”Now, Kate,” his great strong arm closed round me like a vise. ”The hull country knows you're clear grit, so there's no shame in leaving. For my sake, dear--”
”Do you think I'd leave you in danger?”
He sighed. ”I knew it. I cayn't help it, and, Kate, it's the truth, I'd rather see you dead than scared. There's Madam Grizzly, and Senora Cougar, there's Lady Elk, and even Mrs. Polecat, brave as lions. I'd hate to have my mate the only one to run like a scalded cat.”
”The program, Jesse?”
”Do you remember, Kate, how we lost five dollars finding out that Dale and me is signalers?”
”And Captain Taylor gave us the signals to raise the district: one fire for feasts, two for help, three for war!”
”That's it, little woman. By dusk I'll be on top of the cliffs, and make my fires back from the rim-rock, where them robbers won't see the glare.”
CHAPTER VII
THE ROUND-UP
_Jesse's Narrative_
While I made signal fires on the top of the cliff, Mr. Robber came to find out from my wife why for I hadn't called to leave my card at the South Cave. He's picturesque, says she, hair like a raven's wing, eyes steel-blue, scarf indigo striped with orange, s.h.i.+rt black silk, woolly shaps out of a Wild West show, gold and silver fixings, Cheyenne saddle, carbine of some foreign breed, or maybe a Krag, manners fit for a king, age thirty-four, height six feet two inches, chest only thirty-eight, and such a sad smile--all of this will be useful to the police.
He tried all he knew to get out of being photographed, which I wisht I'd been there, for it must have been plumb comic, but we all submits when Kate gets after us. That reminds me that if he can't capture the camera and plate, we're apt to be burnt out by accident.
She led him on and made him talk. If his boss knew how much Kate has down in her note-book, this guy with the sad eyes would get kicked all round the pasture. When I axed if the robber made love to her, my wife just laughed, and turned away, telling me not to be a fool; but the blush came round her neck.
I dunno. Perhaps it's my liver, so I'm taking the only medicine I have, which it tastes like liniment. Is it liver, or am I getting to dislike this person?
II
So happens, while I was writing, Billy O'Flynn comes along with the pack outfit on his way to Sky-line. He wanted to know why I made them fires, so I explained I was making a clearing up thar for Kate's spring chrysanthemums. (She spelt that word, which had me bogged down to the hocks.) It may be liver, or my squeam inflamed, but my mind ain't easy, and the Sky-line folk may think I'm only jos.h.i.+ng with them fires.
I can't leave Kate to ride for help, I can't s.h.i.+ft her, I can't send Billy to the constable without breaking my contract with the Sky-line, and I don't divulge nothin' to William O'Flynn, Esquire, who talks to the moon rather than waste conversation.
If I make a letter for Dale, and slip it into the pouch, Billy won't know, or gossip if he happens to meet in with stray robbers. I'll get him up and off by midnight to the Sky-line, in time for the supper pies, and the boys will be surging down to the ferry before to-morrow midnight. Now I must make up some lies to hasten Billy's timid footsteps along the path of duty.