The time in which he might strike was almost up. October—when the detachment of forest rangers would take over the district and protect such lawful industries as Crowson’s—was almost at hand. The thought seemed to drive him insane. And one night, when September was almost done, inspiration came to him.
A cowman had come in, complaining of the drought. The streams where his cattle fed were drying up. “Never seen the woods so dry in all my days,” the man had said. “Just like tinder. And already most of the cattle have crossed over Eagle Ridge into the Bear Canyon country.”
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 tomorrow night we go.”
Tomorrow 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.”
But Hugh shook his head. “It’s true that they haven’t struck,” he agreed, “and yet I can’t believe we’re safe. You didn’t see Fargo’s face as he turned to go that night. I don’t think he could forget. But if they just hold off a few days more—”
If he had owned the flocks himself, Hugh couldn’t have been happier at the thoughts of victory. There had been nothing easy or soft about the project of the sheep. He had given his own nerve and sinew, he had fought a tireless battle, and nothing in his life had ever mattered so much. It was the first real test and undertaking of his manhood: besides, it was all for Alice. Victory was at hand; and surely fate would not cheat them now. They had already started the flocks downward, following one of the tributaries of Silver Creek where there was still enough water for the flock. Early in October he would take them to a certain well-watered pasture on the lower slopes. In the meantime the rangers would come to his aid.
Suddenly he reached out and took her little, hard, brown hand in his. It yielded to his palm, and just for an instant he touched it to his cheek. Yet he didn’t look into her eyes. He was fearful—to the depths of his being—of the expression that might be read in them.
“Alice, it’s been a good fight,” he said simply. “And ever since the world began—when a good fight has been fought—it’s the soldier’s right to make certain requests—that he never had the right or the courage to make before.”
She nodded, and slowly he released her hand.
“No matter if he’s just a humble peasant,” the man went on, “if he’s given all that he has to give, he has a right to make those requests. And although the queen laughs in scorn, at least she can’t resent them—or order him beheaded.”
“I don’t think she
