“But it wouldn’t ’a’ made a dam’ bit of difference if I had!” added Creede, and then, flashing his teeth in a hectoring laugh, he put spurs to his horse and went thundering after his fellows.
Not till that moment did the evil-eyed Juan Alvarez sense the trick that had been played upon him.
“Cabrone!” he screamed, and whipping out his pistol he emptied it after Creede, but the bullets spattered harmlessly against the rocks.
Early the next morning Jefferson Creede rode soberly along the western rim of Bronco Mesa, his huge form silhouetted against the sky, gazing down upon the sheep camps that lay along the Alamo; and 420 the simple-minded Mexicans looked up at him in awe. But when the recreant herders of Juan Alvarez came skulking across the mesa and told the story of the stampede, a sudden panic broke out that spread like wildfire from camp to camp. Orders or no orders, the timid Mexicans threw the sawhorses onto their burros, packed up their blankets and moved, driving their bawling sheep far out over The Rolls, where before the chollas had seemed so bad. It was as if they had passed every day beneath some rock lying above the trail, until, looking up, they saw that it was a lion, crouching to make his spring. For years they had gazed in wonder at the rage and violence of Grande Creede, marvelling that the padron could stand against it; but now suddenly the big man had struck, and bravo Juan Alvarez had lost his sheep. Hunt as long as he would he could not bring in a tenth of them. Ay, que malo! The boss would fire Juan and make him walk to town; but they who by some miracle had escaped, would flee while there was yet time.
For two days Creede rode along the rim of Bronco Mesa––that dead line which at last the sheepmen had come to respect,––and when at last he sighted Jim Swope coming up from Hidden Water with two men who might be officers of the law he laughed and 421 went to meet them. Year in and year out Jim Swope had been talking law––law; now at last they would see this law, and find out what it could do. One of the men with Swope was a deputy sheriff, Creede could tell that by his star; but the other man might be almost anything––a little fat man with a pointed beard and congress shoes; a lawyer, perhaps, or maybe some town detective.
“Is this Mr. Creede?” inquired the deputy, casually flashing his star as they met beside the trail.
“That’s my name,” replied Creede. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Mr. Creede,” responded the officer, eying his man carefully, “I come up here to look into the killing of Juan Alvarez, a Mexican sheep-herder.”
“The killin’?” echoed Creede, astounded.
“That’s right,” snapped the deputy sheriff, trying to get the jump on him. “What do you know about it?”