The Flockmaster of Poison Creek Read online

  CHAPTER X

  WILD RIDERS OF THE RANGE

  Joan missed her lessons for three days running, a lapse so unusual asto cause Mackenzie the liveliest concern. He feared that the madcreature who spent his fury tearing sheep limb from limb might havevisited her camp, and that she had fallen into his bloody hands.

  A matter of eight or nine miles lay between their camps; Mackenzie hadno horse to cover it. More than once he was on the point of leavingthe sheep to shift for themselves and striking out on foot; many timeshe walked a mile or more in that direction, to mount the highest hillhe could discover, and stand long, sweeping the blue distance withtroubled eyes. Yet in the end he could not go. Whatever was wrong, hecould not set right at that late hour, he reasoned; to leave the sheepwould be to throw open the gates of their defense to dangers alwaysready to descend upon them. The sheep were in his care; Joan was not.That was what Tim Sullivan would say, in his hard way of holding a manto his bargain and his task.

  Joan came late in the afternoon, rising the nearest hilltop with asuddenness quite startling, waving a cheerful greeting as if to assurehim from a distance that all was well. She stood looking at him inamazement when she flipped to the ground like a bird, her face growingwhite, her eyes big.

  "Well, what in the world! Where did you get those guns?" she said.

  "A fellow left them here the other day."

  "A fellow?" coming nearer, looking sharply at the belt. "That's HectorHall's belt--I've seen him wearing it! There his initials are, workedout in silver tacks! Where did you get it?"

  "Mr. Hall left it here. What kept you, Joan? I've been worried aboutyou."

  "Hector Hall _left_ it here? With both of his guns?"

  "Yes, he left the guns with it. What was the matter, Joan?"

  Joan looked him up and down, her face a study between admiration andfear.

  "Left his guns! Well, what did you do with _him_?"

  "I suppose he went home, Joan. Did anything happen over your way tokeep you?"

  "Charley was sick," she said, shortly, abstractedly, drowned in herwonder of the thing he told with his native reluctance when questionedon his own exploits. "Did you have a fight with Hector?"

  "Is he all right now?"

  "Charley's all right; he ate too many wild gooseberries. Did you havea fight with Hector Hall, Mr. Mackenzie?"

  She came near him as she questioned him, her great, soft eyes pleadingin fear, and laid her hand on his shoulder as if to hold him againstany further evasion. He smiled a little, in his stingy way of doingit, taking her hand to allay her tumult of distress.

  "Not much of a fight, Joan. Mr. Hall came over here to drive me offof this range, and I had to take his guns away from him to keep himfrom hurting me. That's all there was to it."

  "All there was to it!" said Joan. "Why, he's one of the meanest menthat ever lived! He'll never rest till he kills you. I wish you'd lethim have the range."

  "Is it his?"

  "No, it belongs to us; we've got a lease on it from the government,and pay rent for it every year. Swan Carlson and the Hall boys havebluffed us out of it for the past three summers and run their sheepover here in the winter-time. I always wanted to fight for it, but dadlet them have it for the sake of peace. I guess it was the best way,after all."

  "As long as I was right, my last worry is gone, Joan. You're not onthe contested territory, are you?"

  "No; they lay claim as far as Horsethief Canyon, but they'd just aswell claim all our lease--they've got just as much right to it."

  "That ends the matter, then--as far as I'm concerned."

  "I wonder what kind of an excuse Hector made when he went home withouthis guns!" she speculated, looking off over the hills in the directionof the Hall brothers' ranch.

  "Maybe he's not accountable to anybody, and doesn't have to explain."

  "I guess that's right," Joan said, still wandering in her gaze.

  Below them the flock was spread, the dogs on its flanks. Mackenziepointed to the sun.

  "We'll have to get to work; you'll be starting back in an hour."

  But there was no work in Joan that day, nothing but troubledspeculation on what form Hector Hall's revenge would take, and whenthe stealthy blow of his resentment would fall. Try as he would,Mackenzie could not fasten her mind upon the books. She would beginwith a brave resolution, only to wander away, the book closedpresently upon her thumb, her eyes searching the hazy hills wheretrouble lay out of sight. At last she gave it up, with a littlecatching sob, tears in her honest eyes.

  "They'll kill you--I know they will!" she said.

  "I don't think they will," he returned, abstractedly, "but even ifthey do, Rachel, there's nobody to grieve."

  "Rachel? My name isn't Rachel," said Joan, a little hurt. For it wasnot in flippancy or banter that he had called her out of her name; hiseyes were not within a hundred leagues of that place, his heart awaywith them, it seemed, when he spoke.

  He turned to her, a color of embarrassment in his brown face.

  "I was thinking of another story, Joan."

  "Of another girl," she said, perhaps a trifle resentfully. At leastMackenzie thought he read a resentful note in the quick rejoinder, aresentful flash of color in her cheek.

  "Yes, but a mighty old girl, Joan," he confessed, smiling with afeeling of lightness around his heart.

  "Somebody you used to know?" face turned away, voice light in acareless, artificial note.

  "She was a sheepman's daughter," he said.

  "Did you know her down at Jasper?"

  "No, I never knew her at all, Rach--Joan. That was a long, long timeago."

  Joan brightened at this news. She ceased denying him her face, evensmiled a little, seeming to forget Hector Hall and his pendingvengeance.

  "Well, what about her?" she asked.

  He told her which Rachel he had in mind, but Joan only shook her headand looked troubled.

  "I never read the Bible; we haven't even got one."

  He told her the story, beginning with Jacob's setting out, and hiscoming to the well with the great stone at its mouth which the maidenscould not roll away.

  "So Jacob rolled the stone away and watered Rachel's sheep," he said,pausing with that much of it, looking off down the draw between thehills in a mind-wandering way. Joan touched his arm, impatient withsuch disjointed narrative.

  "What did he do then?"

  "Why, he kissed her."

  "I think he was kind of fresh," said Joan. But she laughed a little,blushing rosily, a bright light in her eyes. "Tell me the rest of it,John."

  Mackenzie went on with the ancient pastoral tale of love. Joan wasindignant when she heard how Laban gave Jacob the weak-eyed girl for awife in place of his beloved Rachel, for whom he had worked the sevenyears.

  "Jake must have been a bright one!" said she. "How could the old manput one over on him like that?"

  "You'll have to read the story," said Mackenzie. "It's sundown; don'tyou think you'd better be going back to camp, Joan?"

  But Joan was in no haste to leave. She walked with him as he workedthe sheep to their bedding-ground, her bridle-rein over her arm. Shecould get back to camp before dark, she said; Charley would not beworried.

  Joan could not have said as much for herself. Her eyes were pools oftrouble, her face was anxious and strained. She went silently besideMackenzie while the dogs worked the sheep along with more than humanpatience, almost human intelligence. Frequently she looked into hisface with a plea dumbly eloquent, but did not again put her fear forhim into words. Only when she stood beside her horse near thesheep-wagon, ready to mount and leave him to his solitary supper, shespoke of Hector Hall's revolvers, which Mackenzie had unstrapped andput aside.

  "What are you going to do with them, John?"

  She had fallen into the use of that familiar address only that day,moved by the tenderness of the old tale he had told her, perhaps;drawn nearer to him by the discovery of a gentle sentiment in himwhich she had not known before. He heard it
with a warm uplifting ofthe heart, all without reason, he knew, for it was the range way to befamiliar on a shorter acquaintance than theirs.

  "I'm going to give them back to him," he said. "I've been carryingthem around ever since he left them in the hope he'd get ashamed ofhimself and come for them."

  Joan started at the sound of galloping hoofs, which rose suddenly outof complete silence as the riders mounted the crest behind them.

  "I guess he's coming for them now," she said.

  There were two riders coming down the slope toward them at a pacealtogether reckless. Mackenzie saw at a glance that neither of themwas Hector Hall, but one a woman, her loose garments flapping as sherode.

  "It's Swan Carlson and his wife!" he said, unable to cover hisamazement at the sight.

  "What do you suppose they're doing over here?" Joan drew a littlenearer as she spoke, her horse shifting to keep by her side.

  "No telling. Look how that woman rides!"

  There was enough in her wild bearing to excite admiration and wonder,even in one who had not seen her under conditions which promisedlittle of such development. She came on at Swan's side, leaningforward a little, as light and sure in the saddle as any cowboy on therange. They bore down toward the sheep-wagon as if they had nointention of halting, jerking their horses up in Indian fashion a fewfeet from where Mackenzie and Joan stood. The animals slid on stifflegs, hoofs plowing the soft ground, raising a cloud of dust whichdimmed the riders momentarily.

  Neither of the abrupt visitors spoke. They sat silently staring, not arod between them and the two on foot, the woman as unfriendly of faceas the man. And Swan Carlson had not improved in this feature sinceMackenzie parted from him in violence a few weeks before. His red hairwas shorter now, his drooping mustache longer, the points of itreaching two inches below his chin. He was gaunt of cheek, hollow ofeyes, like a man who had gone hungry or suffered a sorrow that ateaway his heart.

  His wife had improved somewhat in outward appearance. Her face hadfilled, the pathetic uncertainty had gone from her eyes. She was notuncomely as she sat astride her good bay horse, her divided skirt ofcorduroy wide on its flanks, a man's gray shirt laced over her bosom,the collar open, showing the fairness of her neck. Her abundant hairwas braided, and wound closely about her head like a cap. Freedom hadmade a strange alteration in her. It seemed, indeed, as if SwanCarlson had breathed into her the breath of his own wild soul, makingher over according to the desire of his heart.

  Mackenzie stepped out in invitation for Swan to state the occasion ofhis boisterous visit, and stood waiting in silence while the twostrange creatures continued to stare. Swan lifted his hand in a mannerof salutation, no change either of friendship or animosity in hislean, strong face.

  "You got a woman, huh? Well, how'll you trade?"

  Swan glanced from his wife to Joan as he spoke. If there was anyrecollection in him of the hard usage he had received at Mackenzie'shands, it did not seem to be bitter.

  "Ride on," said Mackenzie.

  Mrs. Carlson urged her horse with sudden start close to where Joanstood, leaned far over her saddle and peered into the girl's face.Joan, affronted by the savage impertinence, met her eyes defiantly,not giving an inch before the unexpected charge.

  In that pose of defiant challenge Swan Carlson's woman peered into theface of the girl whose freshness and beauty had drawn the wild banterfrom her man's bold lips. Then, a sudden sweep of passion in her face,she lifted her rawhide quirt and struck Joan a bitter blow across theshoulder and neck. Mackenzie sprang between them, but Mrs. Carlson,her defiance passed in that one blow, did not follow it up. Swanopened wide his great mouth and pealed out his roaring laughter, not aline of mirth softening in his face, not a gleam of it in his eyes. Itwas a sound without a note to express human warmth, or humansatisfaction.

  Joan flamed up like a match in oil. She dropped her bridle-reins,springing back a quick step, turning her eyes about for some weapon bywhich she might retaliate. Hector Hall's pistols hung on the end-gateof the sheep-wagon not more than twenty feet away. It seemed that Joancovered the distance in a bound, snatched one of the guns and fired.Her own horse stood between her and the wild range woman, whichperhaps accounted for her miss. Mackenzie was holding her wrist beforeshe could shoot again.

  Swan let out another roar of heartless laughter, and together with hiswoman galloped down the hill. Ahead of them the sheep were assembled,packed close in their huddling way of seeking comfort and courage innumbers, just beginning to compose themselves for the night. Straightinto the flock Swan Carlson and his woman rode, trampling such ascould not rise and leap aside, crushing such lambs as were not nimbleenough or wise enough to run.

  "I'll kill her, I'll kill her!" said Joan.

  She panted, half crying, struggling to free her arm that she mightfire again.

  "All right, let 'em have it!" Mackenzie said, seeing the havoc amongthe sheep.

  Swan and his woman rode like a whirlwind through the flock, the dogsafter them with sharp cries, the frightened bleating of the lambs, thebeating of two thousand hoofs, adding to the confusion of what hadbeen a peaceful pastoral scene but a few minutes before. Joan cutloose at the disturbers of this peace, emptying the revolver quickly,but without effect.

  Half way through the herd Swan leaned down and caught a lamb by theleg, swung it around his head as lightly as a man would wave his hat,and rode on with it in savage triumph. Mackenzie snatched the riflefrom the wagon. His shot came so close to Swan that he dropped thelamb. The woman fell behind Swan, interposing herself as a shield, andin this formation they rode on, sweeping down the narrow thread ofgreen valley, galloping wildly away into the sanctuary of the hills.

  Mackenzie stood, gun half lifted, and watched them go without anothershot, afraid to risk it lest he hit the woman. He turned to Joan, whostood by, white with anger, the empty revolver in her hand.

  "Are you hurt, Joan?" he asked, in foolish weakness, knowing very wellthat she was.

  "No, she didn't hurt me--but I'll kill her for it!" said Joan.

  She was trembling; her face was bloodless in the cold anger thatshook her. There was a red welt on her neck, purple-marked on itsridge where the rawhide had almost cut her tender skin.

  "Swan Carlson has pulled his woman down to his savage level at last,"Mackenzie said.

  "She's worse than he is; she's a range wolf!"

  "I believe she is. But it always happens that way when a person getsto going."

  "With those two and the Hall boys you'll not have a ghost of a chanceto hold this range, John. You'd better let me help you begin workingthe sheep over toward my camp tonight."

  "No, I'm going to stay here."

  "Swan and that woman just rode through here to get the lay ofyour camp. More than likely they'll come over and burn you outtonight--pour coal oil on the wagon and set it afire."

  "Let 'em; I'll not be in it."

  "They'll worry you night and day, kill your sheep, maybe kill you, ifyou don't come away. It isn't worth it; dad was right about it. Forthe sake of peace, let them have it, John."

  Mackenzie stood in silence, looking the way Swan and his woman hadgone, the gun held as if ready to lift and fire at the showing of ahat-crown over the next hill. He seemed to be considering thesituation. Joan studied his face with eager hopefulness, bendingforward a bit to see better in the failing light.

  "They've got to be shown that a master has come to the sheep country,"he said, in low voice, as if to himself. "I'll stay and prove it toall of them at once."

  Joan knew there was no use to argue or appeal. She dropped the matterthere, and Mackenzie put the gun away.

  "I'm sorry I haven't anything to put on it," he said, looking at thered welt on her neck.

  "I'm sorry I missed her," said Joan.

  "It isn't so much the sting of a blow, I know," he comforted, "as thehurt of the insult. Never mind it, Joan; she's a vicious, wild woman,jealous because Swam took notice of you."

  "It was a great compliment!"
>
  "I wish I had some balm for it that would cure it in a second, andtake away the memory of the way it was done," said he, very softly.

  "I'll kill her," flared Joan.

  "I don't like to hear you say that, Joan," he chided, and reached andlaid his hand consolingly upon the burning mark.

  Joan caught her breath as if he had touched her skin with ice. Hewithdrew his hand quickly, blaming himself for the rudeness of hisrough hand.

  "You didn't hurt me, John," she said, her eyes downcast, the color ofwarm blood playing over her face.

  "I might have," he blamed himself, in such seriousness as if it werethe gravest matter he had risked, and not the mere touching of ablood-red welt upon a simple maiden's neck.

  "I'll be over early in the morning to see if you're all right," shetold him as she turned again to her horse.

  "If you can come, even to show yourself on the hill," said he.

  "Show myself? Why, a person would think you were worrying about me."

  "I am, Joan. I wish you would give up herding sheep, let the share andthe prospect and all of it go, and have your father put a herder in torun that band for you."

  "They'll not hurt me; as mean as they are they'll not fight a woman.Anyway, I'm not over the deadline."

  "There's something prowling this range that doesn't respect lines,Joan."

  "You mean the grizzly?"

  "Yes, the grizzly that rides a horse."

  "Dad Frazer thinks you were mistaken on that, John."

  "I know. Dad Frazer thinks I'm a better schoolteacher than I'll everbe a sheepman, I guess. But I've met bears enough that I don't have toimagine them. Keep your gun close by you tonight, and every night."

  "I will," she promised, moved by the earnestness of his appeal.

  Dusk was thickening into darkness over the sheeplands; the dogs weredriving the straggling sheep back to the bedding-ground, where many ofthem already lay in contentment, quickly over the flurry of SwanCarlson's passing. Joan stood at her stirrup, her face lifted to theheavens, and it was white as an evening primrose under the shadow ofher hat. She lingered as if there remained something to say or besaid, something to give or to take, before leaving her friend andteacher alone to face the dangers of the night. Perhaps she thought ofRachel, and the kiss her kinsman gave her when he rolled the stonefrom the well's mouth, and lifted up his voice and wept.

  Mackenzie stood a little apart, thinking his own swift-runningthoughts, quickening under the leap of his own eager blood. But nomatter for Jacob's precedent, Mackenzie had no excuse of even distantrelationship to offer for such familiarity. The desire was urging, butthe justification was not at hand. So Joan rode away unkissed, andperhaps wondering why.