"Yes, they call me a squawman," he confessed confidentially, when his wife had left them alone, "but I've had other women and they was never a one of 'em that suited me as well as this one. I thought I'd git rid of her when I come to this country, taking Sharps and Winchester with me; but she located me somehow and come a thousand miles overland, bringing Bill along on her back. That's faithfulness, I say, and I let her stay with me—and she shore thinks the world of Old Hank."
He smiled complacently as she came back to her kitchen, the hearth and hobs of the fireplace, and squatted down to look into the Dutch ovens; and when she was gone he jerked his head knowingly and lowered his voice again.
"Don't you worry," he said, "she savvies what's going on—understands every word I say; but you can't git her to speak English, not unless the house ketches afire or a horse gits down in the barn. She's afraid of them Scarboroughs; she claims they're bad medicine—'all same snake in the grass'—but this sheepman, Grimes, will shore crush their head, though their head may bruise his heel. That's what the Scripture says, according to Grimes—he's religious, some kind of a jack Mormon. Calls 'em 'Brother' when he's among 'em and sons of dogs when he's away from 'em, the same as all these other danged sheepmen. I never did like a sheep, to tell you the truth; but what else is they to do? If I don't bring in Grimes, them Scarboroughs are fixing to git me, and run me and my boys out of the country. Ain't a man got a right to protect his home? They crowded me to it, that's all."
The old man spent the day denouncing the meanness of the Scarboroughs and justifying his alliance with Grimes; but when, in the evening, Grimes himself rode in, Hall could see he was none too welcome. He was cordially received, for that was their custom, but after the first greetings the talk died down to nothing and the sheepman cast about for a listener. He was a big, burly man with a Scotch turn to his tongue, and when he talked he thrust out his head vehemently and showed the bloodshot whites of his eyes. A month's growth of beard did not add to his appearance, and the hair lay in a mat on his chest; and he seemed to be mad, mad all the time, with a primal, caveman rage.
"I'll show 'em, the dirty cowards!" he burst out vindictively, addressing his harangue to McIvor. "Did you ever see a cowman that would stand up to a Winchester? Well, I haven't and yet I've seen lots of them. That Slash-knife outfit now is reputed to be a bad one, and they lay claim to the whole upper range; but here's one sheepman that they've never moved yet, and what's more, they never will. I can ride across there any place and they'll give me the trail, they know me as far as they can see me through a telescope. And these herders of mine, though they're nothing but Mexicans, are proper fighting fools—every one. I won't have 'em otherwise; and the first man that weakens I make him walk back to town. We're coming here to-morrow with ten thousand sheep under a lease from Henry Bassett. That gives us a right, don't it? We're running them on shares, and this has always been his range. But if any of them smart gunmen, like they tried to do yesterday, ride in and interfere with my herders; I ain't saying nothing, I'll jest drop off my mule and shoot the matter out, right there!"
"That's your privilege," conceded McIvor, "but wouldn't it be better to stay on the east side of Turkey Creek?"
"One side or the other—it's nothing to me! This is government land, see? And I'm a U.S. citizen. These dead-lines don't go with me!"
McIvor nodded and fell silent, for he knew the Scotch blood, but Grimes was pacing the floor.
"They'll draw a dead-lines, will they?" he demanded menacingly; "they'll tell me where I'll go and not go? I'm a free agent, see? I know what's my rights, and I don't give a dam' for the Scarboroughs! Didn't I meet their men yesterday, up on the Canyon Crick trail? Yes, and the whole suffering outfit rode over the top of a mountain to git away from my gun. You couldn't see 'em for dust, they were that anxious to escape me—if they'd had a feather in their hand they'd've flew—and now they send word that they've made a new dead-line, only this time it's Turkey Crick! I'll show 'em a dead-line, and I'll go out and kill a cow every time they kill one of my sheep. They's no law here and I know it, so we'll get back to first principles and fight it out man to man.
"If you ever read any poetry you may remember those famous lines about Rob Roy and the good, old simple plan: