The Hair-Trigger Kid - Max Brand (uplifting novels .TXT) 📗

Two days after this, “Spot” Gregory of the Milman ranch daubed his rope

on a tough Roman-nosed broncho in the corral, and started out to teach

the brute manners. That big-headed mustang bounced up and down between

the sky and the hard ground until Spot’s teeth were loose in his head.

After ten minutes the gelding decided that its luck was out, and settled

down to a good, steady lope going along with pricking ears, quite

good-naturedly.

This sign did not altogether deceive Spot Gregory. He knew all about

horses, and pricking ears are apt to mean forethought as much as good

nature; so when a mustang thinks ahead, it is likely to think of trouble.

Therefore, the foreman of the Milman ranch was not at all surprised when,

on climbing over the hills toward Hurry Creek, on the first down slope,

the Roman-nose began to pitch once more.

It is ten times as hard for a horse to pitch on a down slope as on the

level—but if it manages the feat, it is a hundred times harder for the

rider to stick in the saddle. Spot Gregory, nearly flipped out of place

in the first ten seconds, settled down to give that broncho a busting

that would last him the rest of his days, but in the midst of

accomplishing the good work, scratching the pony fore-and-aft and

flogging it thoroughly with the cruel quirt, he became aware of an odd

condition in the valley before him.

For the edges of Hurry Creek were rimmed and lined with cattle which were

not going down to drink, but remained up on the hills, redeyed with

thirst.

Spot Gregory rubbed his eyes and looked again.

Hurry Creek was to the Milman ranch what the heart’s blood is to the

human body. In the whole length and breadth of the big place, there was

not a drop of water except for the creek. Sometimes during periods of

heavy rain, little rivulets formed in the hollows, but they were not

worth thinking about. There was any quantity of the finest grass on the

ranch. The woodlands were a small fortune, also. But of water, there was

only this one vein.

It was enough!

When Milman’s old father came here, long years before, he had had wit

enough to pick out the place with forethought and locate with care.

All through its upper course, Hurry Creek went shouting and raving

through a high-walled canyon. On still days the noise of its anger

drifted far away to the ranch house, like a faint prophecy of trouble. At

a certain point, leaving the canyon, it spread out suddenly through an

almost level tract of rolling land, and then dropped into the opposite

hills through another high-sided trench. Cows could not get up or down

the walls of either the higher or the lower ravine, but they did not need

to. The Milman ranch was in outline like a huge dumb-bell. The narrow

grip was where the waters of Hurry Creek ran from canyon to canyon across

the rolling ground. The huge knobs were the wide-spreading acres,

thousands upon thousands, which formed what they called the western and

the eastern ranches. And, from the farthest corners of the two districts,

the cattle would march into the creek for water.

The younger ones usually went in every day. The older stock often

remained away two or three days in the best grazing at the edges of the

far hill and then would come at a trot or a lope the long distance to the

stream. There, standing belly-deep, they drank and drank to repletion.

They waded back to shore and browsed a little on the short grasses which

were always eaten close. Then they would drink again, and begin a

leisurely trip back to the chosen eating places.

But on this morning the thirsty legions did not go down to drink. Some

were lying down on the upper edges of the valley. Some wandered back and

forth uneasily. A few milled and lowed frantically close by the water’s

edge. Sometimes, singly or in groups, they made dashes for the bright

promise of the water, but they were always turned away by certain riders

who careened up and down either bank of the stream, whirling lariats,

shouting, running the cows off to a distance, where the animals turned in

despair and looked hopelessly back toward the creek.

There were enough men to ride herd in this arduous manner both east and

west of the creek. On the eastern side, moreover, farthest from Spot at

this moment, appeared several wagons. Smoke rose from a camp fire, here,

and one of the wagons, being partially unloaded, showed on the ground a

heap of what looked like thick coils of newly burnished silver.

Spot could guess its true nature; it was barbed wire!

In the brush beside the water, other men were cutting stakes of a

sufficient length, and beginning at the mouth of the northern canyon, on

each side of it, two small groups were setting up the posts and stringing

the wires upon them. Anger darkened the eyes of Spot Gregory until the

whole scene disappeared before him in a swirl of black. He blinked and

looked again, half hoping that the vision would disappear like a bad

dream.

It did not disappear. It grew more and more vivid.

The early sun, now breaking through its veil of morning mist, made the

whole view clearer to him. The men, little with distance, toiled on

unceasingly. Behind them, on the new-made fences, the barbed wire gleamed

like spider threads, bright with dew, and up and down the open bank of

the creek, the watchful riders wheeled and flashed upon their active

horses.

He tried to count all heads, and numbered sixteen, besides those who

might be out of sight around the wagons, or who perhaps were otherwise

concealed from him.

How they had come in was plainly to be seen. The tracks of the wagons

stretched away toward the south, on the eastern side of the creek. No

doubt they had worked the heavily laden wagons, up through the high hills

to a place of advantage, and when they were ready, they had simply driven

down in the middle of the night. Now they were busy in pushing ahead

their lines of battle, for a battle certainly would be fought for the

possession of those streaks of barbed wire.

Grinding his teeth, he calculated chances.

He had under him a number of good men on that ranch. They could ride like

fiends, and when it came to shooting, they were more than average. He

could rake together as many fighting men as were present in the hollow,

there, beneath him. He could recruit still other hands in the

neighborhood.

But even if he had