The Cattle Rustlers

: ARIZONA NIGHTS
: Arizona Nights

Dawn broke, so we descended through wet grasses to the canon. There,

after some difficulty, we managed to start a fire, and so ate

breakfast, the rain still pouring down on us. About nine o'clock, with

miraculous suddenness, the torrent stopped. It began to turn cold.

The Cattleman and I decided to climb to the top of the butte after

meat, which we entirely lacked.



It was rather a stiff ascent, but onc above the sheer cliffs we found

ourselves on a rolling meadow tableland a half-mile broad by, perhaps,

a mile and a half in length. Grass grew high; here and there were

small live oaks planted park-like; slight and rounded ravines

accommodated brooklets. As we walked back, the edges blended in the

edges of the mesa across the canon. The deep gorges, which had

heretofore seemed the most prominent elements of the scenery, were

lost. We stood, apparently, in the middle of a wide and undulating

plain, diversified by little ridges, and running with a free sweep to

the very foot of the snowy Galiuros. It seemed as though we should be

able to ride horseback in almost any given direction. Yet we knew that

ten minutes' walk would take us to the brink of most stupendous

chasms--so deep that the water flowing in them hardly seemed to move;

so rugged that only with the greatest difficulty could a horseman make

his way through the country at all; and yet so ancient that the bottoms

supported forests, rich grasses, and rounded, gentle knolls. It was a

most astonishing set of double impressions.



We succeeded in killing a nice, fat white-tail buck, and so returned to

camp happy. The rain, held off. We dug ditches, organised shelters,

cooked a warm meal. For the next day we planned a bear hunt afoot, far

up a manzanita canon where Uncle Jim knew of some "holing up" caves.



But when we awoke in the morning we threw aside our coverings with some

difficulty to look on a ground covered with snow; trees laden almost to

the breaking point with snow, and the air filled with it.



"No bear today" said the Cattleman.



"No," agreed Uncle Jim drily. "No b'ar. And what's more, unless yo're

aimin' to stop here somewhat of a spell, we'll have to make out to-day."



We cooked with freezing fingers, ate while dodging avalanches from the

trees, and packed reluctantly. The ropes were frozen, the hobbles

stiff, everything either crackling or wet. Finally the task was

finished. We took a last warming of the fingers and climbed on.



The country was wonderfully beautiful with the white not yet shaken

from the trees and rock ledges. Also it was wonderfully slippery. The

snow was soft enough to ball under the horses' hoofs, so that most of

the time the poor animals skated and stumbled along on stilts. Thus we

made our way back over ground which, naked of these difficulties, we

had considered bad enough.



Imagine riding along a slant of rock shelving off to a bad tumble, so

steep that your pony has to do more or less expert ankle work to keep

from slipping off sideways. During the passage of that rock you are

apt to sit very light. Now cover it with several inches of snow, stick

a snowball on each hoof of your mount, and try again. When you have

ridden it--or its duplicate--a few score of times, select a steep

mountain side, cover it with round rocks the size of your head, and

over that spread a concealing blanket of the same sticky snow. You are

privileged to vary these to the limits of your imagination.



Once across the divide, we ran into a new sort of trouble. You may

remember that on our journey over we had been forced to travel for some

distance in a narrow stream-bed. During our passage we had scrambled

up some rather steep and rough slopes, and hopped up some fairly high

ledges. Now we found the heretofore dry bed flowing a good eight

inches deep. The steep slopes had become cascades; the ledges,

waterfalls. When we came to them, we had to "shoot the rapids" as best

we could, only to land with a PLUNK in an indeterminately deep pool at

the bottom. Some of the pack horses went down, sousing again our

unfortunate bedding, but by the grace of fortune not a saddle pony lost

his feet.



After a time the gorge widened. We came out into the box canon with

its trees. Here the water spread and shoaled to a depth of only two or

three inches. We splashed along gaily enough, for, with the exception

of an occasional quicksand or boggy spot, our troubles were over.



Jed Parker and I happened to ride side by side, bringing up the rear

and seeing to it that the pack animals did not stray or linger. As we

passed the first of the rustlers' corrals, he called my attention to

them.



"Go take a look," said he. "We only got those fellows out of here two

years ago."



I rode over. At this point the rim-rock broke to admit the ingress of

a ravine into the main canon. Riding a short distance up the ravine, I

could see that it ended abruptly in a perpendicular cliff. As the

sides also were precipitous, it became necessary only to build a fence

across the entrance into the main canon to become possessed of a corral

completely closed in. Remembering the absolute invisibility of these

sunken canons until the rider is almost directly over them, and also

the extreme roughness and remoteness of the district, I could see that

the spot was admirably adapted to concealment.



"There's quite a yarn about the gang that held this hole," said Jed

Parker to me, when I had ridden back to him "I'll tell you about it

sometime."



We climbed the hill, descended on the Double R, built a fire in the

stove, dried out, and were happy. After a square meal--and a dry

one--I reminded Jed Parker of his promise, and so, sitting cross-legged

on his "so-gun" in the middle of the floor, he told us the following

yarn:



There's a good deal of romance been written about the "bad man," and

there's about the same amount of nonsense. The bad man is justa plain

murderer, neither more nor less. He never does get into a real, good,

plain, stand-up gunfight if he can possibly help it. His killin's are

done from behind a door, or when he's got his man dead to rights.

There's Sam Cook. You've all heard of him. He had nerve, of course,

and when he was backed into a corner he made good; he was sure sudden

death with a gun. But when he went for a man deliberate, he didn't

take no special chances. For a while he was marshal at Willets.

Pretty soon it was noted that there was a heap of cases of resisting

arrest, where Sam as marshal had to shoot, and that those cases almost

always happened to be his personal enemies. Of course, that might be

all right, but it looked suspicious. Then one day he killed poor old

Max Schmidt out behind his own saloon. Called him out and shot him in

the stomach. Said Max resisted arrest on a warrant for keepin' open

out of hours! That was a sweet warrant to take out in Willets, anyway!

Mrs. Schmidt always claimed that she saw that deal played, and that,

while they were talkin' perfectly peacable, Cook let drive from the hip

at about two yards' range. Anyway, we decided we needed another

marshal. Nothin' else was ever done, for the Vigilantes hadn't been

formed, and your individual and decent citizen doesn't care to be

marked by a gun of that stripe. Leastwise, unless he wants to go in

for bad-man methods and do a little ambusheein' on his own account.



The point is, that these yere bad men are a low-down, miserable

proposition, and plain, cold-blood murderers, willin' to wait for a

sure thing, and without no compunctions whatsoever. The bad man takes

you unawares, when you're sleepin', or talkin', or drinkin', or lookin'

to see what for a day it's goin' to be, anyway. He don't give you no

show, and sooner or later he's goin' to get you in the safest and

easiest way for himself. There ain't no romance about that.



And, until you've seen a few men called out of their shacks for a

friendly conversation, and shot when they happen to look away; or asked

for a drink of water, and killed when they stoop to the spring; or

potted from behind as they go into a room, it's pretty hard to believe

that any man can be so plumb lackin' in fair play or pity or just

natural humanity.



As you boys know, I come in from Texas to Buck Johnson's about ten year

back. I had a pretty good mount of ponies that I knew, and I hated to

let them go at prices they were offerin' then, so I made up my mind to

ride across and bring them in with me. It wasn't so awful far, and I

figured that I'd like to take in what New Mexico looked like anyway.



About down by Albuquerque I tracked up with another outfit headed my

way. There was five of them, three men, and a woman, and a yearlin'

baby. They had a dozen hosses, and that was about all I could see.

There was only two packed, and no wagon. I suppose the whole

outfit--pots, pans, and kettles--was worth five dollars. It was just

supper when I run across them, and it didn't take more'n one look to

discover that flour, coffee, sugar, and salt was all they carried. A

yearlin' carcass, half-skinned, lay near, and the fry-pan was, full of

meat.



"Howdy, strangers," says I, ridin' up.



They nodded a little, but didn't say nothin'. My hosses fell to

grazin', and I eased myself around in my saddle, and made a cigareet.

The men was tall, lank fellows, with kind of sullen faces, and sly,

shifty eyes; the woman was dirty and generally mussed up. I knowed

that sort all right. Texas was gettin' too many fences for them.



"Havin' supper?" says I, cheerful.



One of 'em grunted "Yes" at me; and, after a while, the biggest asked

me very grudgin' if I wouldn't light and eat, I told them "No," that I

was travellin' in the cool of the evenin'.



"You seem to have more meat than you need, though," says I. "I could

use a little of that."



"Help yourself," says they. "It's a maverick we come across."



I took a steak, and noted that the hide had been mighty well cut to

ribbons around the flanks and that the head was gone.



"Well," says I to the carcass, "No one's going to be able to swear

whether you're a maverick or not, but I bet you knew the feel of a

brandin' iron all right."



I gave them a thank-you, and climbed on again. My hosses acted some

surprised at bein' gathered up again, but I couldn't help that.



"It looks like a plumb imposition, cavallos," says I to them, "after an

all-day, but you sure don't want to join that outfit any more than I do

the angels, and if we camp here we're likely to do both."



I didn't see them any more after that until I'd hit the Lazy Y, and had

started in runnin' cattle in the Soda Springs Valley. Larry Eagen and

I rode together those days, and that's how I got to know him pretty

well. One day, over in the Elm Flat, we ran smack on this Texas outfit

again, headed north. This time I was on my own range, and I knew where

I stood, so I could show a little more curiosity in the case.



"Well, you got this far," says I.



"Yes," says they.



"Where you headed?"



"Over towards the hills."



"What to do?"



"Make a ranch, raise some truck; perhaps buy a few cows."



They went on.



"Truck" says I to Larry, "is fine prospects in this country."



He sat on his horse looking after them.



"I'm sorry for them" says he. "It must he almighty hard scratchin'."



Well, we rode the range for upwards of two year. In that time we saw

our Texas friends--name of Hahn--two or three times in Willets, and

heard of them off and on. They bought an old brand of Steve McWilliams

for seventy-five dollars, carryin' six or eight head of cows. After

that, from time to time, we heard of them buying more--two or three

head from one man, and two or three from another. They branded them

all with that McWilliams iron--T 0--so, pretty soon, we began to see

the cattle on the range.



Now, a good cattleman knows cattle just as well as you know people, and

he can tell them about as far off. Horned critters look alike to you,

but even in a country supportin' a good many thousand head, a man used

to the business can recognise most every individual as far as he can

see him. Some is better than others at it. I suppose you really have

to be brought up to it. So we boys at the Lazy Y noted all the cattle

with the new T 0, and could estimate pretty close that the Hahn outfit

might own, maybe, thirty-five head all told.



That was all very well, and nobody had any kick comin'. Then one day

in the spring, we came across our first "sleeper."



What's a sleeper? A sleeper is a calf that has been ear-marked, but

not branded. Every owner has a certain brand, as you know, and then he

crops and slits the ears in a certain way, too. In that manner he

don't have to look at the brand, except to corroborate the ears; and,

as the critter generally sticks his ears up inquirin'-like to anyone

ridin' up, it's easy to know the brand without lookin' at it, merely

from the ear-marks. Once in a great while, when a man comes across an

unbranded calf, and it ain't handy to build a fire, he just ear-marks

it and let's the brandin' go till later. But it isn't done often, and

our outfit had strict orders never to make sleepers.



Well, one day in the spring, as I say, Larry and me was ridin', when we

came across a Lazy Y cow and calf. The little fellow was ear-marked

all right, so we rode on, and never would have discovered nothin' if a

bush rabbit hadn't jumped and scared the calf right across in front of

our hosses. Then we couldn't help but see that there wasn't no brand.



Of course we roped him and put the iron on him. I took the chance to

look at his ears, and saw that the marking had been done quite recent,

so when we got in that night I reported to Buck Johnson that one of the

punchers was gettin' lazy and sleeperin'. Naturally he went after the

man who had done it; but every puncher swore up and down, and back and

across, that he'd branded every calf he'd had a rope on that spring.

We put it down that someone was lyin', and let it go at that.



And then, about a week later, one of the other boys reported a

Triangle-H sleeper. The Triangle-H was the Goodrich brand, so we

didn't have nothin' to do with that. Some of them might be sleeperin'

for all we knew. Three other cases of the same kind we happened across

that same spring.



So far, so good. Sleepers runnin' in such numbers was a little

astonishin', but nothin' suspicious. Cattle did well that summer, and

when we come to round up in the fall, we cut out maybe a dozen of those

T 0 cattle that had strayed out of that Hahn country. Of the dozen

there was five grown cows, and seven yearlin's.



"My Lord, Jed," says Buck to me, "they's a heap of these youngsters

comin' over our way."



But still, as a young critter is more apt to stray than an old one

that's got his range established, we didn't lay no great store by that

neither. The Hahns took their bunch, and that's all there was to it.



Next spring, though, we found a few more sleepers, and one day we came

on a cow that had gone dead lame. That was usual, too, but Buck, who

was with me, had somethin' on his mind. Finally he turned back and

roped her, and threw her.



"Look here, Jed," says he, "what do you make of this?"



I could see where the hind legs below the hocks had been burned.



"Looks like somebody had roped her by the hind feet," says I.



"Might be," says he, "but her heels lame that way makes it look more

like hobbles."



So we didn't say nothin' more about that neither, until just by luck we

came on another lame cow. We threw her, too.



"Well, what do you think of this one?" Buck Johnson asks me.



"The feet is pretty well tore up," says I, "and down to the quick, but

I've seen them tore up just as bad on the rocks when they come down out

of the mountains."



You sabe what that meant, don't you? You see, a rustler will take a

cow and hobble her, or lame her so she can't follow, and then he'll

take her calf a long ways off and brand it with his iron. Of course,

if we was to see a calf of one brand followin' of a cow with another,

it would be just too easy to guess what had happened.



We rode on mighty thoughtful. There couldn't be much doubt that cattle

rustlers was at work. The sleepers they had ear-marked, hopin' that no

one would discover the lack of a brand. Then, after the calf was

weaned, and quit followin' of his mother, the rustler would brand it

with his own iron, and change its ear-mark to match. It made a nice,

easy way of gettin' together a bunch of cattle cheap.



But it was pretty hard to guess off-hand who the rustlers might be.

There were a lot of renegades down towards the Mexican line who made a

raid once in a while, and a few oilers [2] livin' near had water holes

in the foothills, and any amount of little cattle holders, like this T

0 outfit, and any of them wouldn't shy very hard at a little sleeperin'

on the side. Buck Johnson told us all to watch out, and passed the

word quiet among the big owners to try and see whose cattle seemed to

have too many calves for the number of cows.



The Texas outfit I'm tellin' you about had settled up above in this

Double R canon where I showed you those natural corrals this morning.

They'd built them a 'dobe, and cleared some land, and planted a few

trees, and made an irrigated patch for alfalfa. Nobody never rode over

this way very much, 'cause the country was most too rough for cattle,

and our ranges lay farther to the southward. Now, however, we began to

extend our ridin' a little.



I was down towards Dos Cabesas to look over the cattle there, and they

used to send Larry up into the Double R country. One evenin' he took

me to one side.



"Look here, Jed," says he, "I know you pretty well, and I'm not ashamed

to say that I'm all new at this cattle business--in fact, I haven't

been at it more'n a year. What should be the proportion of cows to

calves anyhow?"



"There ought to be about twice as many cows as there're calves," I

tells him.



"Then, with only about fifty head of grown cows, there ought not to be

an equal number of yearlin's?"



"I should say not," says I. "What are you drivin' at?"



"Nothin' yet," says he.



A few days later he tackled me again.



"Jed," says he, "I'm not good, like you fellows are, at knowin' one cow

from another, but there's a calf down there branded T 0 that I'd pretty

near swear I saw with an X Y cow last month. I wish you could come

down with me."



We got that fixed easy enough, and for the next month rammed around

through this broken country lookin' for evidence. I saw enough to

satisfy me to a moral certainty, but nothin' for a sheriff; and, of

course, we couldn't go shoot up a peaceful rancher on mere suspicion.

Finally, one day, we run on a four-months' calf all by himself, with

the T 0 iron onto him--a mighty healthy lookin' calf, too.



"Wonder where HIS mother is!" says I.



"Maybe it's a 'dogie,'" says Larry Eagen--we calls calves whose mothers

have died "dogies."



"No," says I, "I don't hardly think so. A dogie is always under size

and poor, and he's layin' around water holes, and he always has a big,

sway belly onto him. No, this is no dogie; and, if it's an honest

calf, there sure ought to be a T 0 cow around somewhere."



So we separated to have a good look. Larry rode up on the edge of a

little rimrock. In a minute I saw his hoss jump back, dodgin' a

rattlesnake or somethin', and then fall back out of sight. I jumped my

hoss up there tur'ble quick, and looked over, expectin' to see nothin'

but mangled remains. It was only about fifteen foot down, but I

couldn't see bottom 'count of some brush.



"Are you all right?" I yells.



"Yes, yes!" cries Larry, "but for the love of God, get down here as

quick as you can."



I hopped off my hoss and scrambled down somehow.



"Hurt?" says I, as soon as I lit.



"Not a bit--look here."



There was a dead cow with the Lazy Y on her flank.



"And a bullet-hole in her forehead," adds Larry. "And, look here, that

T 0 calf was bald-faced, and so was this cow."



"Reckon we found our sleepers," says I.



So, there we was. Larry had to lead his cavallo down the barranca to

the main canon. I followed along on the rim, waitin' until a place

gave me a chance to get down, too, or Larry a chance to get up. We

were talkin' back and forth when, all at once, Larry shouted again.



"Big game this time," he yells. "Here's a cave and a mountain lion

squallin' in it."



I slid down to him at once, and we drew our six-shooters and went up to

the cave openin', right under the rim-rock. There, sure enough, were

fresh lion tracks, and we could hear a little faint cryin' like woman.



"First chance," claims Larry, and dropped to his hands and knees at the

entrance.



"Well, damn me!" he cries, and crawls in at once, payin' no attention

to me tellin' him to be more cautious. In a minute he backs out,

carryin' a three-year-old goat.



"We seem to be in for adventures to-day," says he. "Now, where do you

suppose that came from, and how did it get here?"



"Well," says I, "I've followed lion tracks where they've carried

yearlin's across their backs like a fox does a goose. They're tur'ble

strong."



"But where did she come from?" he wonders.



"As for that," says I, "don't you remember now that T 0 outfit had a

yearlin' kid when it came into the country?"



"That's right," says he. "It's only a mile down the canon. I'll take

it home. They must be most distracted about it."



So I scratched up to the top where my pony was waitin'. It was a

tur'ble hard climb, and I 'most had to have hooks on my eyebrows to get

up at all. It's easier to slide down than to climb back. I dropped my

gun out of my holster, and she went way to the bottom, but I wouldn't

have gone back for six guns. Larry picked it up for me.



So we went along, me on the rim-rock and around the barrancas, and

Larry in the bottom carryin' of the kid.



By and by we came to the ranch house, stopped to wait. The minute

Larry hove in sight everybody was out to once, and in two winks the

woman had that baby. They didn't see me at all, but I could hear, plain

enough, what they said. Larry told how he had found her in the cave,

and all about the lion tracks, and the woman cried and held the kid

close to her, and thanked him about forty times. Then when she'd wore

the edge off a little, she took the kid inside to feed it or somethin'.



"Well," says Larry, still laughin', "I must hit the trail."



"You say you found her up the Double R?" asks Hahn. "Was it that cave

near the three cottonwoods?"



"Yes," says Larry.



"Where'd you get into the canyon?"



"Oh, my hoss slipped off into the barranca just above."



"The barranca just above," repeats Hahn, lookin' straight at him.



Larry took one step back.



"You ought to be almighty glad I got into the canyon at all," says he.



Hahn stepped up, holdin' out his hand.



"That's right," says he. "You done us a good turn there."



Larry took his hand. At the same time Hahn pulled his gun and shot him

through the middle.



It was all so sudden and unexpected that I stood there paralysed.



Larry fell forward the way a man mostly will when he's hit in the

stomach, but somehow he jerked loose a gun and got it off twice. He

didn't hit nothin', and I reckon he was dead before he hit the ground.

And there he had my gun, and I was about as useless as a pocket in a

shirt!



No, sir, you can talk as much as you please, but the killer is a

low-down ornery scub, and he don't hesitate at no treachery or

ingratitude to keep his carcass safe.





Jed Parker ceased talking. The dusk had fallen in the little room, and

dimly could be seen the recumbent figures lying at ease on their

blankets. The ranch foreman was sitting bolt upright, cross-legged. A

faint glow from his pipe barely distinguished his features.



"What became of the rustlers?" I asked him.



"Well, sir, that is the queer part. Hahn himself, who had done the

killin', skipped out. We got out warrants, of course, but they never

got served. He was a sort of half outlaw from that time, and was

killed finally in the train hold-up of '97. But the others we tried

for rustling. We didn't have much of a case, as the law went then, and

they'd have gone free if the woman hadn't turned evidence against them.

The killin' was too much for her. And, as the precedent held good in a

lot of other rustlin' cases, Larry's death was really the beginnin' of

law and order in the cattle business."



We smoked. The last light suddenly showed red against the grimy

window. Windy Bill arose and looked out the door.



"Boys," said he, returning. "She's cleared off. We can get back to the

ranch tomorrow."







[2] "Oilers"--Greasers--Mexicans.