CHAPTER XVIII
BAD BLOOD
The sheep were on the run, drifting across Bronco Mesa as if the devil was after them, and Creede could hardly stay on his horse from laughing––but when he drew near to Hidden Water his face changed. There was a fresh sheep trail in the cañon and it led away from the ranch. He spurred forward like the wind, his eyes upon the tracks, and when he came in sight of the house he threw down his hat and swore. Of all the God-forsaken places in Arizona, the Dos S Ranch was the worst. The earth lay bare and desolate before it; the woodpile had disappeared; the bucket was thrown down the well. Never had the flat, mud buildings seemed so deserted or Tommy so tragic in his welcome. The pasture gate was down and even that holy of holies, the branding corral, stunk of sheep. Only the padlocked house had been respected, and that perforce, since nothing short of a sledgehammer could break its welded chain.
Unfastening the battered door they entered the living-room which once had been all light and laughter. 347 There lay the dishes all clean and orderly on the table, the floors swept, the beds made, some withered flowers on Hardy’s desk.
“Huh,” grunted Creede, looking it over coldly, “we’re on the bum, all right, all right, now. How long since they went away?”
“’Bout a year,” replied Hardy, and his partner did not contradict him.
They cooked a hasty meal and ate it, putting the scraps in the frying-pan for Tommy.
“Go to it, Tom,” said Creede, smiling wistfully as the cat lapped away at the grease. “He never could git used to them skirts rustlin’ round here, could he?” And then there was a long silence.
Tommy sat up and washed his face contentedly, peering about with intent yellow eyes and sniffing at the countless odors with which his world was filled––then suddenly with a low whining growl he lashed across the room like a tiger and leapt up into his cat hole. This was a narrow tunnel, punched through the adobe wall near the door and boxed in with a projecting cribbing to keep out the snakes and skunks. Through it when his protectors were away he could escape the rush of pursuing coyotes, or sally forth with equal ferocity when sheep dogs were about. He peered out of his porthole for a moment, warily, then his stump tail began to twitch, he worked 348 his hind claws into the wood, and leapt. A yelp of terror from the ramada heralded his success and Creede ran like a boy to look.
“He’s jumped one, by Joe!” he exclaimed. “What did I tell ye––that cat is a holy terror on dogs!”