It was enough. He had given Fargo his hint. Certain orders had been dispatched: to drive all the remaining herds into the same region,—a district far from Crowson’s range in Smoky Land. And then he had sent for José.
The Mexican was the one man on whom Fargo felt he might rely. José had no ridiculous limits as to conduct, no notch of brutality and crime above which he would not go. The cowboys who worked for him, however, weren’t of the same metal. They were faithful enough in a good open-and-shut fight, fair warfare between the cattlemen and sheepmen. They were willing to take any decent risk, and their rancor against the “woollies” was bitter enough for general purposes. Partly it was a matter of mob psychology, partly because they thought their own jobs and prospects depended upon the range being kept open for the cattle herds. But these cowmen were rather inclined to play too fair; and cold and premeditated murder was not, among them, being done. The deadly desert man, however, had no such compunctions. He had been the logical man to send for after that last talk with Dan the herder. And he was the logical man now.
Fargo had already drawn his maps. In his own broken handwriting he indicated the various ranges and the larger streams that flowed between them. Fargo knew the passes of Smoky Land. And the two men went over them with singular care as to detail, with infinite patience such as they had never given to any of their lesser projects. They discussed the directions of the prevailing winds, the “lay” of the canyons, even the location of the most impassable thickets. It took the whole night and many glasses of burning liquor to perfect their plans.
“It must start, you see, in the Bear Canyon country,” Fargo said at last. “And nothing in the world that I see—considering how long it will take to send word—can stop it.”
José agreed. “Just you and I do the work?” he asked.
“Yes. The others can’t be trusted. But remember—I’m paying you the limit—a whole year’s pay for a night’s work. A thousand dollars—don’t forget.”
José’s eyes showed that he had not forgotten. “It’ll take fast horses,” he said. “We don’t want to get caught ourselves.”
“No danger of that; but there’ll be plenty of riding to do, as you say. It’s a straight-out course—and to-morrow night we go.”
To-morrow night! To Hugh and Alice, in the distant sheep camp, it meant almost the end of Fargo’s menace. Another day and another night thereafter, and September would be gone: the forest rangers would come riding into Smoky Land to establish their headquarters. The days of lawlessness would be over. And the man and the girl were exultant as two children as the fire’s glow spread its glamor over them.
“We’re going to win, Hugh,” she told him. “They’ve had weeks to strike, and they haven’t struck, and I think we’re safe. And it means so much.”