A second time, calling out all his men to help, the boss sheepman tried to cross the goats alone, intending to hold them on the shore for a lure; but just as they were well lined out the same careful marksman behind the malpai threw water in their faces and turned them back. But this time Jasper Swope did not lead the retreat. Slapping his black mule over the ears with his hat he held straight for the opposite shore, cursing and brandishing his gun.
“You dam’, cowardly passel of tail-twisters!” he cried, shaking his fist at the bluffs, “why don’t you come out into the open like men?”
But a grim silence was his only answer.
“Hey, you bold bad man from Bitter Creek, Texas!” he shouted, riding closer to the beach. “Why 457 don’t you come down and fight me like a man?” His big voice was trembling with excitement and he held his pistol balanced in the air as if awaiting an attack, but Jefferson Creede did not answer him.
“I’ll fight you, man to man, you big blowhard!” thundered Swope, “and there goes my pistol to prove it!” He rose in his stirrups as he spoke and hurled it away from him, throwing his cartridge belt after it. “Now,” he yelled, “you’ve been sayin’ what you’d do; come out of your hole, Jeff Creede, I want ye!”
“Well, you won’t git me, then,” answered Creede, his voice coming cold and impassive from over the rim. “I’ll fight you some other time.”
“Ahrr!” taunted Swope, “hear the coward talk! Here I stand, unarmed, and he’s afraid to come out! But if there’s a man amongst you, send him down, and if he licks me I’ll go around.”
“You’ll go around anyhow, you Mormon-faced wool-puller!” replied the cowman promptly, “and we’re here to see to it, so you might as well chase yourself.”
“No, I like this side,” said the sheepman, pretending to admire the scenery. “I’ll jest stay here a while, and then I’ll cross in spite of ye. If I can’t cross here,” he continued, “I’ll wait for the river to fall and cross down below––and then I’ll sheep you to the rocks, you low-lived, skulkin’ murderers! It’s a 458 wonder some of you don’t shoot me the way you did Juan Alvarez, down there.” He waved his hand toward the point where the wooden cross rose against the sky, but no one answered the taunt.
“Murderers, I said!” he shouted, rising up in his saddle. “I call you murderers before God A’mighty and there ain’t a man denies it! Oh, my Mexicans can see that cross––they’re lookin’ at it now––and when the river goes down they’ll come in on you, if it’s only to break even for Juan.”