“Sheep!” shouted Johnson, throwing out his hands wildly, “thousands of ’em, millions of ’em!”
“Sheep––where?” demanded Hardy. “Where are they?”
“They’re on your upper range, boy, and more comin’!”
“What?” cried Hardy incredulously. “Why, how did they get up there? I just rode the whole rim to-day!”
“They come over the top of the Four Peaks,” shouted the old man, shaking with excitement. “Yes, sir, over the top of the Four Peaks! My hounds took after a lion last night, and this mornin’ I trailed ’em clean over into the middle fork where they had ’im treed. He jumped down and run when I come up and jist as we was hotfoot after him we run spang into three thousand head of sheep, drifting down from the pass, and six greasers and a white man in the 173 rear with carbeens. The whole dam’ outfit is comin’ in on us. But we can turn ’em yet! Whar’s Jeff and the boys?”
“They’ve gone to town with the cattle.”
“Well, you’re dished then,” said the old man grimly. “Might as well put up your horse and eat––I’m goin’ home and see that they don’t none of ’em git in on me!”
“Whose sheep were they?” inquired Hardy, as he sat down to a hasty meal.
“Don’t ask me, boy,” replied Johnson. “I never had time to find out. One of them Mexicans took a shot at Rye and I pulled my gun on him, and then the boss herder he jumped in, and there we had it, back and forth. He claimed I was tryin’ to stompede his sheep, but I knowed his greaser had tried to shoot my dog, and I told him so! And I told him furthermore that the first sheep or sheepman that p’inted his head down the Pocket trail would stop lead; and every one tharafter, as long as I could draw a bead. And by Gawd, I mean it!” He struck his gnarled fist upon the table till every tin plate jumped, and his fiery eyes burned savagely as he paced about the room.
At first peep of dawn Bill Johnson was in the saddle, his long-barrelled revolver thrust pugnaciously into his boot, his 30-30 carbine across his arm, and his 174 hounds slouching dutifully along in the rear. Close behind followed Hardy, bound for the Peaks, but though the morning was cold he had stripped off his coat and shaps, and everything which might conceal a weapon, leaving even his polished Colt’s in his blankets. If the sheep were to be turned now it could never be by arms. The sheepmen had stolen a march, Creede and his cowboys were far away, and his only hope was the olive branch of peace. Yet as he spurred up the Carrizo trail he felt helpless and abused, like a tried soldier who is sent out unarmed by a humanitarian commander. Only one weapon was left to him––the one which even Jim Swope had noticed––his head; and as he worked along up the hogback which led down from the shoulder of the Four Peaks he schooled himself to a Spartan patience and fortitude.