“Well?” Fargo demanded.
He was somewhat anxious about the verdict. This had been no child’s play—what José had been sent to do. It was really a new departure for the little clique that he headed. There had been deaths before, open riding and fast shooting, but deliberate and premeditated killing had never been necessary. Slumber hadn’t come easily to him tonight. And now he didn’t like to be kept waiting.
“Well, what?” José answered. “You mean—what luck?”
“That’s it.” Fargo uttered a short syllable of a laugh. “What luck?”
“I said I’d do it, didn’t I, if he didn’t come around? Well, I’ve done it. There’s nobody watchin’ them sheep tonight.” And thus it was to be seen that José had lived long enough among Americans to acquire the vernacular. Only a hint of the Latin, a softening of consonants, remained in his tone.
Fargo uttered a short sigh of relief. “Clean job, eh?”
“All except the big dog. Killed the black one. Wounded the shepherd—think he’ll kick in before morning.”
Fargo leaned back in his chair. “Then there’s nothin’ to it. I guess that’ll show ’em, eh, José?” He fell to boasting. “I guess that makes it plain that when I say get out, I mean get out. You know I told that devil this was his last warning—told him myself what would happen to him if he didn’t switch over to us—and I guess he got what he wanted. But I’m sorry you missed the dog. He might keep away a lot of cats and coyotes that would otherwise be busy for the next few days.”
“He’s wounded—don’t think he can.” José breathed an oath in his own tongue. “But I don’t see what it’s all about. Crowson had that tract rented—”
“You don’t, eh?” Fargo stiffened. “I don’t know it’s necessary that you see what it’s all about. That happens to be my business—and don’t go making any mistake about that. But I’ll explain it a little better. I’ve been told—by the men that own the herds with me—to keep out sheepmen at all cost. That one piece of range that Crowson rented has been worth ten thousand a year to us. Do you think we’re goin’ to let that slip out of our hands for a bunch of measly sheep?”
“But why didn’t you have enough sense to rent that tract yourself?”
“Because we’re trying to make a cleanup out of this deal, that’s why. Who’d ever dream that old hag would ever find a renter—and as long as we were gettin’ it free, what was the use? We’ve been here a long time—if this flock prospered there’d be more of ’em come in—and where’d be our monopoly of the range then? You know that our policy has always been to squeeze out the little fellow—cattle as well as sheep. We’ve got to set an example with this flock of Crowson’s—and to have ’em all get killed—in a few days—or even part of ’em, is going to discourage any more sheepmen coming into a cattle country. You don’t know cattlemen, José, or you wouldn’t question. Just the same—the job’s only half done. A shepherd dog, wounded or not, ’ll stay to fight to the last inch of hair on his body, especially that big devil of Crowson’s. And he sure can bluff out the coyotes.”
José discarded his cigarette, and lit a fresh one. “Well, say what’s to be done,” he said. “I’m not goin’ back after that other dog.”
“I’m not tellin’ you to, either. Your job is to stay away from there.” Fargo suddenly leaned forward, his eyes burning. “You know what I’d like to see?” he whispered. “I’d like to have that Crowson girl ride up there in a day or two and find every one of those damned woollies—every one, not three or four hundred of ’em—dead and rotting in the grass. Then people’d know this was a cattle country. Since we’ve gone as far as we have, the thing to do is to go all the way. And we might work it yet.”
José’s face showed that he was interested. “Poison?” he asked.
“You can’t never tell about poison. Sheep are queer critters. When they’re well fed they’ll shy of anything that tastes queer. Think again—”
“The only other way’s rifles—and that would take a carload of shells. But I tell you—the coyotes will slash a lot of ’em and run the rest to death.”
“Maybe—and maybe not. A coyote don’t run sheep. They kill all they can, and then start to eatin’. Of course there’s exceptions. It takes a dog to slash a hundred of ’em in one night—and run the rest—”
And at that instant his words were drowned out. A strange, formidable cry reached them from behind the house: a long, far-carrying chorus of savage voices. It rang shockingly loud in the silent darkness. It was a symphony of prolonged, deep bays—a sound as terrifying and menacing as any voice of the wilderness. And an evil glitter came into Fargo’s eyes.
The explosion of sound, blaring out so suddenly in the stillness, had startled José; but he caught himself at once. The cry ceased, the stillness fell again. “Your pack of bear dogs!” he exclaimed.
“Yes. It was as if they heard us talkin’ about sheep. It’s like they was tryin’ to tell us what to do.”
It was true. It might have been the voice of an evil genius, prompting their vicious designs. Fargo was a superstitious man, and now he was tingling all over with hatred and malice, inspired to the depths of his wicked being by the cry in the darkness.
“Yes,” he whispered. “My pack of bear dogs—ten of ’em, savage as wolves—and not
