Range Of Golden Hoofs Page 4
They tied the team to the wheels of the buckboard. O’Connor sent the boy scurrying over the hill on an errand, and then both men fell to work.
Ewes are not good mothers. When a lamb is born it is necessary to make the ewe claim it. If ever mother and lamb are separated there is trouble. So at lambing time sheepmen stay with their flocks, keeping each ewe and newborn lamb segregated so that the ewe will claim her own. After a time, after the lamb has nursed, after the ewe has been forced to furnish food from her maternal fount, the trouble usually ends. But if the grass is short and the ewe has no milk for her lamb, if they become separated, if any one of a hundred things happens, then there is an orphan and a ewe that has milk but no lamb to take it.
Martin O’Connor and Dan Shea fell to work. Lambs had been born during the night, and of these some had been definitely deserted. It was necessary that the lambs and ewes be paired, that the ewes be made to let the lambs nurse, that families, even though they were not mother and offspring, be formed. It was a trying, wearisome, annoying task, but it had to be done. Dan Shea knew how and so did Martin O’Connor and the pastor with the flock. They attacked the job systematically and obstinately. Now and then Martin O’Connor looked up from his own work, across the woolly backs and greening grass to where Dan Shea labored and, after each inspection, he chuckled.
The boy came back across the hill bringing three men. These, after a word with Don Martin, fell to work, and O’Connor, leaving them, came to Dan Shea.
Dan was skinning a dead lamb. Beyond him was a ewe, her udder showing that she had a lamb, but the lamb was not in evidence. Dan, as he skinned the lamb, kept another little fellow pinned to the earth beneath his leg. He looked up briefly as O’Connor arrived.
“This is her lamb,” Dan said, indicating the dead animal with his knife. “She won’t take the other.”
O’Connor grunted. Dan finished flaying off the pelt, placed the pelt upon the back of the live lamb and tied it there with the dangling strings of hide that had been legs. He released the lamb, and it wabbled unsteadily toward the ewe who repulsed it. Dan caught the ewe and held her despite her struggles. When she quieted the lamb butted his head into her flank and found a teat. The ewe turned her head, nosed the lamb, smelling it, and, apparently either accepting the lamb as her own or acknowledging the inevitable, was quiet. Dan held her awhile longer and then released her. She did not drive the lamb away, and Dan turned to Don Martin. Martin O’Connor was smiling slyly.
“We can go on now,” he said.
Stripped of the duck overalls, back on the comfortable seat of the buckboard, with the country flying by under the rolling wheels, Don Martin made explanation.
“I’ve eighty thousand sheep,” he said abruptly. “About that many, anyhow. Some of them I run myself.”
Dan nodded.
“The other sheep,” Don Martin continued, watching the backs of the trotting horses, “I put out on shares.” He glanced briefly at Dan. “I take a partidario,” the don continued. “I make an agreement with him. I give him so many sheep: so many ewes, so many wethers, so many bucks. I get two pounds of wool a head when we shear and twenty per cent of the lambs. At the end of five years my partidario pays me back the sheep I gave him.”
Dan nodded.
“They live and I live,” Don Martin amplified. “I look after them. Is there anything wrong with that?”
Dan shook his head.
“Those were my sheep you helped with back there,” O’Connor disclosed. “I’m lookin’ for a partidario at that place. There’s a good house and grass and water. It will handle ten thousand head of sheep.” He eyed Dan narrowly.
“A good thing for someone,” Dan agreed.
“A man might make some money,” O’Connor continued.
“About what do the sheep shear?” Dan asked.
O’Connor pursed his lips. “Four or five pounds, maybe,” he answered. “I’ve been using heavy shearing bucks. We’ll look at some bucks when we get back.”
“You sell the wool in the East?”
“I do. I’ve been selling lambs in California, too, but they’ve sheep of their own out there now. The market’s dropped.”
“In Colorado…” Dan began.
“We’ll talk tonight,” O’Connor interrupted. “There’s the house that I spoke of. It’s a good house.”
Dan looked at the square rock building. He saw the sheds and corrals behind it, saw the little stream that came trickling down from the hills to furnish water.
“A good place,” he agreed.
Don Martin turned the buckboard, and they headed back toward the southeast.
All the way back conversation was lacking between the two. Martin O’Connor was engaged in thought, and Dan respected his companion’s preoccupation. When they reached the hacienda the don turned the team over to a man at the barn and led the way to the big house. In the patio the two men separated, each going to his room. Dan cleaned up, put on a fresh shirt taken from his grip and wiped the dust from his boots. Returning to the patio, he found Marillita.
The two talked for a time, Marillita asking questions concerning Denver and the country to the north, and Dan answering them. The table was laid on the gallery. Martin O’Connor joined his daughter and guest, and the three sat down.
When the meal was finished Don Martin brought out cigars, passed one to Dan Shea and nodded to his daughter. “I’ll talk some business with Mr Shea,” he said briefly. The girl made a small grimace of distaste but got up, smiled at Dan and went into the house. O’Connor leaned back in his chair and puffed smoke toward the porch roof.
“I’m sixty years old,” he announced. “Forty years ago I came here without a cent in my pockets, as green a lad as ever sailed from Ireland.”
Dan made no comment. None was necessary or expected.
“I came to Santa Fe with a wagon train,” O’Connor continued. “From there I came on down here and here I stayed. I married Marillita’s mother. In time she inherited El Puerto del Sol. I’ve built it since then. Built it with sheep.”
Dan nodded. The night was growing all about, and the lamp glowed yellow on the table.
“It’s Marillita’s when I’m gone,” Martin O’Connor supplemented, looking narrowly at Dan Shea.
“A big place,” Dan commented.
O’Connor took the cigar from his mouth and looked at it. “How did you happen to come West?” he asked suddenly.
Dan shrugged. “I was in the war,” he answered. “When it was over I didn’t go back. My people were dead and there was nothing to take me home. I came West and worked in the mines around Cripple Creek. Mining didn’t suit. I worked for a buffalo hunter awhile and then took out my own outfit. The buffalo are playing out. I bought wagons and horses and went to freighting. I got too big for my own good. The panic wiped me out. I paid my debts and started over.”
“You know sheep,” O’Connor reminded.
“We raised them before the war,” Dan explained.
O’Connor said, “Hmmm,” and returned the cigar to his mouth. Smoke trailed up in the lamplight. “I’ve got to get a man for Rancho Norte,” he commented.
Dan stared moodily at the lamp. He was thinking of the years behind him, recollection stirred in his mind by O’Connor’s question. Martin O’Connor puffed the cigar to life, removed it from his lips and spoke again.
“I’ll not let you have the sheep to drive to Colorado,” he announced brusquely. “Maybe there’s money to be made there; maybe not. If it’s a good idea somebody else will try it. I’ll wait an’ see how they come out.”
Dan was silent for a moment. Then: “I don’t blame you,” he said. “They’re your sheep, and I told you I had no money to buy them. But the first man to drive to that market will get the cream.”
O’Connor’s eyes were narrow as he watched his guest. “The cream from sheep comes in raisin’ ’em,” he said. “Well, good night.”
“Good night.”
“Take the lamp with you.”
Martin O’Connor hoisted himself to his feet and paused. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll be goin’ in to Bendición. I’ve a man in mind for Rancho Norte an’ I want to get him. Likely you’ll ride with me? The mail wagon doesn’t go to town tomorrow.”
“I’ll be obliged for the ride,” Dan Shea said.
“Good night then.” O’Connor’s voice was curt.
The following morning Dan Shea packed his grip. Again he and his host occupied the breakfast table without company. Again they went out to the barn and found the buckboard waiting. Marillita had not appeared. Dan had searched the empty patio with his eyes and had seen no sign of the girl. He put his grip and rifle into the buckboard while Don Martin mounted to the seat. Dan stood beside a wheel. “I’d like to say good-by and thank Miss O’Connor for her hospitality,” he announced.
“She’ll not be up yet,” O’Connor answered briefly. “Get in, Shea. I’ll give her your thanks.”
Dan climbed into the buckboard.
Don Martin drove a team as though they were made of iron and not of flesh and blood. He kept the horses at a steady trot, covering country, putting the distance behind him. They lost sight of El Puerto del Sol after the first rise was crossed. They dropped down across the grassland and sighted the thin line of trees that marked Alamo Creek. Dan made comment as they reached the stream. “Coming out,” he said, “I saw a man chasing a wolf with dogs. The mail driver said that his name was Perrier.”
“I’ve paid him bounty on many a pelt,” Don Martin said. “The duke, they call him.”
“That’s a queer way to make a living.”
“He does it for sport!” O’Connor’s words were curt. He did not look at Dan Shea but continued to watch the horses and the road. It was evident that Martin O’Connor did not want to talk. Dan let the silence take them.
Reaching Bendición, they found the little town was busy as an anthill. The hitch rails around the plaza were crowded with saddle horses and teams. There were men on the sidewalks, men and women in the stores. On the grass of the plaza little knots of people were congregated, here a group of dark-skinned natives, here burly men from the mines. Lanky riders leaned against the sides of buildings; saloon doors banged open and banged shut; from the stores came clerks and patrons carrying purchases to waiting wagons. Don Martin O’Connor stopped his buckboard before the hotel, and Dan Shea climbed out.
“Thanks for the ride and for your hospitality,” he said, lifting his belongings from the back of the buckboard. “You’ll tell Miss O’Connor that I’m sorry I didn’t get to say good-by?”
“I’ll do that.” Don Martin was gruff. “You’ll be welcome if you come to El Puerto del Sol again.”
“I hope to,” Dan answered. “Thanks again. Good-by.”
“Adiós.” The buckboard turned with a scrape of cramped wheels, and Martin O’Connor sent his team along the side of the plaza. Dan, his grip dangling, entered the hotel and, dropping the grip beside the desk, asked for a room.
The clerk accepted the payment for the room and gave Dan a key. When Dan commented on Bendición’s activity the clerk shrugged. This, the clerk said, was Saturday and the first of the month. The mines had paid off and the miners were in town. There were many people, the clerk said, who came in from the surrounding territory to buy and to spend. Dan nodded, replaced the key on the desk and went out on the street again.
There was disappointment in Dan Shea. He had entertained high hopes of interesting Martin O’Connor in his idea. Those hopes were gone glimmering, and he must start over. As he walked down the street away from the hotel, Dan planned his next move. He turned the corner at the east end of the plaza and paused. There was a group of men across from him. Separated from this group, perhaps ten feet intervening, George Delaney stood talking with a heavy-bodied bearded man. Dan saw Delaney and turned his head away. Anger rose in Dan at the sight of Delaney. Some inner urge prompted Dan to look back again, and he saw that the young lawyer was watching him. The bearded man turned his head, cast a hasty glance at Dan and then moved so that his back was toward the sidewalk.
Dan was startled. Somewhere within the last few days he had seen that bearded face. He was certain of it! Delaney talked to his companion, now and again lifting his eyes so that he looked at Dan Shea. Dan walked on, his anger somewhat dulled by his curiosity. He reached Fitzpatrick’s saloon, went in and found Fitzpatrick behind the bar.
The two men shook hands. “What luck?” Fitzpatrick asked.
“No luck at all.” Dan shook his head. “I talked with O’Connor. He won’t let me have any sheep.”
“I’ve been askin’ some questions,” Fitzpatrick volunteered. “Ramon de la Luz is sore because you jumped his friend Delaney. You can’t get any of Ramon’s sheep, but there’s a place west of here that might be just the ticket.”
“Whereabouts?” Dan asked.
“Over by Rio Salado. I’ll find out a little more an’ let you know.”
Dan nodded. Fitzpatrick’s friendship was good after his disappointment.
“Youtsey,” Fitzpatrick said, changing the subject abruptly, “has been round again askin’ about the murder. He wanted to know where you were, an’ I told him. Youtsey don’t like me much an’ he figures you’re a friend of mine. He…”
“Fitz!” Dan’s interruption was sharp. “That’s it!”
“What’s it?” Fitzpatrick’s voice showed his surprise.
“The man with Delaney!” Dan caught Fitzpatrick’s arm and urged him toward the door. “He was one of those men at the stage station!”
“What?”
“On the corner.” They were at the door now, and Dan was looking out toward the corner. “He was standing there talking to Delaney. One of the men that killed Maples. I know it was.”
“Where is he?” Fitzpatrick demanded.
Dan shook his head. “He’s gone now. So is Delaney. They were standing there talking when I came in.”
Fitzpatrick stepped out the door, Dan beside him. “See him anyplace?” Fitzpatrick asked.
“I don’t see him now,” Dan admitted. “But he was there just a minute ago.”
“Did he see you?” Fitzpatrick asked.
“Yes.”
The saloonkeeper grunted. “He’s pulled out then,” he said.
“I’m going around the square,” Dan announced. “Maybe I’ll see him.” Without waiting for Fitzpatrick’s answer he swung away. Fitzpatrick remained in the doorway, examining the square with his eyes.
Dan made the circuit of the plaza. He looked into the stores, entered the saloons, examined the men he met and passed. He did not see Delaney or the man who had been with him. Dan was back at the corner, close to Fitzpatrick’s saloon, before he paused. Fitzpatrick still stood in the doorway looking toward Dan. Dan shook his head as a sign to his friend that the search had been fruitless. There was a little group crossing from the plaza toward the corner: three men. Dan stepped down into the street and started to cross.
In the center of the street he met the three from the plaza and shifted to give them passage. They were cowmen, booted, spurred, hats pushed back, faces flushed, more than a little drunk. As Dan moved so, too, did the three, blocking his way. Dan recognized the men who had been in Fitzpatrick’s saloon the night of his arrival at Bendición. One of the three, the youngest, stopped, confronting Dan Shea.
“Git out of the way, sheepherder,” the cowboy rasped.
Anger, quick and hot, arose in Dan. He did not move.
“I said git out of the way,” the puncher growled. “You Goddamned sheepherders think you own the street.”
“Tell him, Buster.” One of the group urged the youngster on. “Make the bastard move.”
Around Dan’s mouth the muscles tightened. His eyes were bleak. Dan Shea said nothing.
Buster, emboldened by Dan’s silence and his companion’s encouragement, reached out a hand and pushed against Dan’s chest. Dan took a single step back.
; “He don’t want a fight,” Buster’s friend crowed. “Look at the sonofabitch back up. Lousy sheepherder. He…”
It was too much. Dan Shea’s quiet broke into swift, devastating action. Buster, he slapped with his open hand. Taking the blow squarely on his cheek, Buster reeled, his hat flying. Dan Shea, all repression forgotten and lost, closed in. His fists were swift as striking snakes and as devastating as ax blows. Buster sat down in the street, his eyes vacant, one hand mechanically feeling his jaw. The other man went staggering back.
Fists were new to these riders. They were strong enough and they did not lack courage and willingness, but they were no match for Dan Shea. The third man, dodging a blow, stumbled into another and dropped across the sitting Buster’s legs, to remain there.
The man who had backed before Dan’s swift attack was reaching for his gun. Fitzpatrick, running from his doorway, had reached the scene. He stopped the reaching hand. “Hold it!” Fitzpatrick warned. His voice was sharp, but that alone did not check the movement. Rather the fact that Fitzpatrick himself held a weapon deterred the puncher.
Dan Shea, head lowered belligerently, blue eyes hot beneath his black brows, stood poised, and from the stores, from the street, from the plaza, men came to form a crowd, pushing in all about.
“That’s the boy,” Fitzpatrick praised as the third cowpuncher brought his hand away empty from his hip. “That’s the boy!”
Youtsey, face red with exertion, breath short from running, pushed through the crowd and faced Dan Shea. “What’s this?” the sheriff demanded. “What’s goin’ on here? Shea, you’re disturbin’ the peace. You’re under arrest.”
Anger still possessed Dan Shea. He looked at the sheriff, and under the glare of his eyes Youtsey recoiled.
“You couldn’t arrest one side of me,” Dan told Youtsey. “Try it!”
“By glory…” Youtsey began.
“It was them that started it, Sheriff.” Fitzpatrick spoke placatingly. “They were drunk. Nobody’s hurt.”