“Well, now, what ye goin’ to do?” he continued, a crafty gleam coming into his eye. “Are we goin’ to foller some cow’s tail around until they jump us again? Are we goin’ to leave Rufe here, to patrol a hundred miles of range lone-handed? Not on your life––not me! We’re goin’ to ride this range by day’s works, fellers, and the first bunch of sheep we find we’re goin’ to scatter ’em like shootin’ stars––and if any man sees Jasp Swope I’ll jest ask him to let me know. Is it a go? All right––and I’ll tell you how we’ll do.
“There’s only three places that the sheep can get in on us: along the Alamo, over the Juate, or around between the Peaks. Well, the whole caboodle of us will camp up on the Alamo somewhere, and we’ll jest naturally ride them three ridges night and day. I’m goin’ to ask one of you fellers to ride away up north and foller them sheepmen down, so they can’t come a circumbendibus on us again. I’m goin’ to give ’em fair warnin’ to keep off of our upper range, and then the first wool-pullin’ sheep-herder that sneaks in 409 on Bronco Mesa is goin’ to git the scare of his life––and the coyotes is goin’ to git his sheep.
“That’s the only way to stop ’em! W’y, Jim Swope would run sheep on his mother’s grave if it wasn’t for the five dollars fine. All right, then, we’ll jest fine Mr. Swope fifteen thousand dollars for comin’ in on our range, and see if he won’t go around. There’s only one thing that I ask of you fellers––when the time comes, for God’s sake stick together!”
The time came in late October, when the sheep were on The Rolls. In orderly battalions they drifted past, herd after herd, until there were ten in sight. If any sheepman resented the silent sentinels that rode along the rim he made no demonstration of the fact––and yet, for some reason every herd sooner or later wandered around until it fetched up against the dead line. There were fuzzy chollas farther out that got caught in the long wool and hurt the shearers’ hands; it was better to camp along the Alamo, where there was water for their stock––so the simple-minded herders said, trying to carry off their bluff; but when Creede scowled upon them they looked away sheepishly. The padron had ordered it––they could say no more.
“Muy bien,” said the overbearing Grande, “and where is your padron?”
“Quien sabe!” replied the herders, hiking up their shoulders and showing the palms of their hands, and “Who knows” it was to the end. There was wise counsel in the camp of the sheepmen; they never had trouble if they could avoid it, and then only to gain a point. But it was this same far-seeing policy which, even in a good year when there was feed everywhere, would not permit them to spare the upper range. For two seasons with great toil and danger they had fought their way up onto Bronco Mesa and established their right to graze there––to go around now would be to lose all that had been gained.
But for once the cowmen of the Four Peaks were equal to the situation. There were no cattle to gather, no day herds to hold, no calves to brand in the pens––every man was riding and riding hard. There was wood on every peak for signal fires and the main camp was established on the high ridge of the Juate, looking north and south and west. When that signal rose up against the sky––whether it was a smoke by day or a fire by night––every man was to quit his post and ride to harry the first herd. Wherever or however it came in, that herd was to be destroyed, not by violence nor by any overt act, but by the sheepmen’s own methods––strategy and stealth.
For once there was no loose joint in the cordon of the cowmen’s defence. From the rim of the Mogollons 411 to the borders of Bronco Mesa the broad trail of the sheep was marked and noted; their shiftings and doublings were followed and observed; the bitterness of Tonto cowmen, crazy over their wrongs, was poured into ears that had already listened to the woes of Pleasant Valley. When at last Jasper Swope’s boss herder, Juan Alvarez, the same man-killing Mexican that Jeff Creede had fought two years before, turned suddenly aside and struck into the old Shep Thomas trail that comes out into the deep crotch between the Peaks, a horseman in chaparejos rode on before him, spurring madly to light the signal fires. That night a fire blazed up from the shoulder of the western mountain and was answered from the Juate. At dawn ten men were in the saddle, riding swiftly, with Jefferson Creede at their head.
It was like an open book to the cowmen now, that gathering of the sheep along the Alamo––a ruse, a feint to draw them away from the Peaks while the blow was struck from behind. Only one man was left to guard that threatened border––Rufus Hardy, the man of peace, who had turned over his pistol to the boss. It was a bitter moment for him when he saw the boys start out on this illicit adventure; but for once he restrained himself and let it pass. The war would not be settled at a blow.