THIRST

The stars grow dim and a streak of color paints the eastern sky, sweeping through the upper reaches of the darkness and tingeing the earth's curtain until the dim gray light outlines spectral yuccas and twisted, grotesque cacti leaning in the hushed air like drunken sentries of some monstrous army. The dark carpet which stretched away on all sides begins to show its characteristics and soon develops into greasewood brush. As if curtains were drawn aside objects which a moment before were lost to sight in the darkness emerge out of the light like ghosts, bulky, indistinct, grotesque, and array themselves to complete the scene.

The silence seems to deepen and become strained, as if in fear of what is to come; the dark ground is now gray and tawny in places and the vegetation is plain to the eye. Then out of the east comes a flash and a red, coppery sun flares above the horizon, molten, quivering, blinding; the cool of the night swiftly departs and a caldron-like heat bursts upon the plain. The silence seems almost to shrink and become portentous with evil, the air is hushed, the plants stand without the movement of a leaf, and nowhere is seen any living creature. The whole is unreal, a panorama, with vegetation of wax and a painted, faded blue sky, the only movement being the shortening shadows and the rising sun.

Across the sand is an erratic trail of shoe prints, coming from the east. For a dozen yards it runs evenly and straight, then a few close prints straggle to and fro, zig-zagging hither and yon for a distance, finally going on straight again. But the erratic prints grow more frequent and become more p.r.o.nounced as they go on, circling and weaving, crossing, re-crossing and doubling back as their maker staggered hopelessly on his way, urged only by the instinct of thirst, to find water, if it were only a mouthful. The trail is here blurred, for he fell, and the prints of his hands and knees and shoe-tips tell how he went on for some distance. He gained his feet here and threw away his Colt, and later his holster and belt.

The sun is overhead now and the sand shimmers, the heated air quivering and glistening, and the desolate void takes on an air of mystery and fear, and death. No living thing moves across the heat-cursed sand, but here is a tangled ma.s.s of sand and clay and greasewood twigs, in the heart of which mice sleep and wait for night, and over there is a hillock sheltering lizards. Stay! Under that greasewood bush a foolish gray wolf is waiting for night--but he has little to fear, for he can cover forty miles between dark and dawn, and his instinct is infallible; no wandering trail will mark his pa.s.sing, but one as straight as the flight of a bullet. The shadows shrink close to the stems of the plants and the thin air dances with heat.

Behind that clump of greasewood, back beyond those crippled cacti, a man staggers on and on. His hair is matted, his fingers bleeding from digging frantically in the sand for water; his lips, cracked and bleeding and swollen, hide the shrivelled, stiff tongue which clicks against his teeth at every painful step. His eyelids are stiff and the staring, unblinking eyes are set and swollen. He clutches at his throat time and time again,--a drowning sensation is there. Ha! He drops to his knees and digs frantically again, for the sand is moist!

A few days ago a water hole lay there. He throws off his shirt and finally staggers on again.

His tongue begins to swell and forces itself beyond the swollen, festering lips; the eyelids split and the protruding eyeb.a.l.l.s weep tears of blood. His skin cracks and curls up, the clefts going constantly deeper into the flesh, and the exuding blood quickly dries and leaves a tough coating over the wounds. Wherever the exudation touches it stings and burns, and the cracks and clefts, irritated more and more each minute, deepen and widen and lengthen, smarting and nerve-racking with their pain.

There! A grove of beautiful green trees is before him, and in it a fountain splashes with musical babbling. He yells and dances and then, casting aside the rest of his clothes, staggers towards it. Water, water, at last! Water and shade! It grows indistinct, wavers--and is gone! But it must be there. It was there only a moment ago--and on and on he runs, hands tearing at his choking, drowning throat. Here is water--close at hand--a purling, cold brook, whispering and tinkling over its rocky bed--he jumps into it--it moved! It's over there, ten paces to his right. On and on he staggers, the stream just ahead. He falls more frequently and wavers now. Oh, for just a canteen of water, just a swallow, just a drop! The gold of the world would not buy it from him--just a drop of water!

He is dying from within, from the inside out. The liquids of his body exude through the clefts and evaporate. His brain burns and bands of white-hot steel crush his throbbing head and his burning lungs. No amount of water will save him now--only death, merciful death can end his sufferings.

Water at last! Real water, a noisome pool of stagnant liquid lies at the bottom of a slight depression, the dregs of a larger pool concentrated by evaporation. Around it are the prints of many kinds of feet. It is water, water!--he plunges forward into it and lies motionless, half submerged. A grayback lizard darts out of the greasewood near at hand, blinks rapidly and darts back again, glad to escape the intolerable heat.

Cavalry had escaped.

CHAPTER XL

CHANGES

With the pa.s.sing of the weeks the two ranches had settled down to routine duty. On the H2 conditions were changed greatly for the better and Meeker gloated over his gushing wells and the dam which gave him a reservoir on his north range, the early completion of which he owed largely to the experience and willing a.s.sistance of Buck and the Bar-20 outfit.

It was getting along towards Fall when a letter came to the Bar-20 addressed to John McAllister. Buck looked at it long and curiously.

"Wonder who's writing to Frenchy?" he mused. "Well, I've got to find out," and he opened the envelope and looked at the signature; it made him stare still more and he read the letter carefully. George McAllister, through the aid of the courts, had gained possession of the old Double Y in the name of its owners and was going to put an outfit on the ground to evict and hold off those who had jumped it. He knew nothing about ranching and wanted Frenchy McAllister, who owned half of it, to take charge of it and to give him the address of Buck Peters, the other half-owner. He advised that Peters' share be bought because the range was near a railroad and was growing more valuable every day.

Buck's decision was taken instantly. Much as he disliked to leave the old outfit here was the chance he had been waiting for without knowing it. He would never have set foot on the Double Y during Frenchy's lifetime because of loyalty to his old friend. Had he at any time desired possession of the property he and his friends could have taken it and left court actions to the other side. But Frenchy was gone, and he still owned half of a valuable piece of property and one that he could make pay well. He was getting on in years and it would be pleasant to have his cherished dream come true, to be the over-lord and half-owner of a good cattle ranch and to know that when he became too old to work with any degree of pleasure he need not worry about his remaining years. If he left the Bar-20 one of his friends would take his place and he was sure it would be Hopalong. The advancement in pay and authority would please the man whom he had looked upon as his son. And perhaps it would bring to Hopalong that which now kept his eyes turned towards the H2. Yes, it was time to go to his own and let another man come into _his_ own; to move along and give a younger man a chance.

He replied to George McAllister at length, covering everything, and took the letter to the bunk house to have it mailed.

"Billy," he said, "here's a letter to go to Cowan's th' first thing to-morrow. Don't forget."

Buck started the fall work early and pushed it harder than usual for he wished to have everything done before the new foreman took charge.

The beef roundup and drives were over with quickly, considering the time and labor involved, and when the chill blasts of early Winter swept across the range and whined around the ranch buildings Buck smiled with the satisfaction which comes with work well done. George McAllister, failing to buy Buck's interest, now implored him to go to the Double Y at once and take charge, which he had promised to do in time to become familiar with conditions on the winter-bound northern range before the new herds were driven to it.

As yet he had told his men nothing of his plans for fear they would persuade him to stay where he was, but he could tell Meeker, and one crisp morning he called at the H2 and led its foreman aside. When he had finished Meeker grasped his hand, told him how sorry he was to lose so good a friend and neighbor, and how glad he was at that friend's good fortune.

"I hope Ca.s.sidy _is_ th' man to take yore place, Peters," he remarked, thoughtfully. "He's a good man, th' best in th' country, white, square, and nervy. I've had my eyes on him for some time an' I'll back him to bust anything he throws his rope on. He can handle that ranch easy an' well."

"Yo're right," replied Buck, slowly. "He ain't never failed to make good yet. Whoever th' boys pick out to be foreman will be foreman, for th' owners have left that question with me. But Meeker, it's like pulling teeth for me to go up to Montana without him. I can't take him 'less I take 'em all, an' I've got reasons why I can't do that. An' I ain't quite sh.o.r.e he'd go with me now--yore ranch holds something that ties him tight to this range. He'll be lonely up in our ranch house, an' it's plenty big enough for two," he finished, smiling interrogatively at his companion.

"Well, I reckon it'll not be lonely if he wants to change it," laughed Meeker. "Leastawise, them's th' symptoms plentiful enough down here. I was dead set agin it at first, but now I don't want nothing else but to see my girl fixed for life. An' when I pa.s.s out, all I have is hers."

CHAPTER XLI

HOPALONG'S REWARD

Seven men loitered about the line house on Lookout Peak, wondering why they, the old outfit, had been told to await their foreman there. Why were the others, all good fellows, excluded? What could it mean?

Foreboding grew upon them as they talked the matter over and when Buck approached they waited eagerly for him to speak.

He dismounted and looked at them with pride and affection and a trace of sorrow showed in his voice and face when he began to talk.

"Boys," he said, slowly, "we've got things ready for snow when it comes. Th' cattle are strong an' fat, there's plenty of gra.s.s curing on th' range, an' th' biggest drive ever sent north from this ranch has been taken care of. There's seven of you here, two on th' north range, an' four more good men coming next week; an' thirteen men can handle this ranch with some time to spare.

"I've been with you for a long time now. Some of you I've had for over twelve years, an' no man ever had a better outfit. You've never turned back on any game, an' you've never had no trouble among yoreselves.

You've seen me sending an' getting letters purty regular for some time, an' you've been surprised at how I've pushed you to get ready for winter. I'm going to tell you all about it now, an' when I've finished I want you to vote on something," and they listened in dumb surprise and sorrow while he told them of his decision. When he had finished they crowded about him and begged him to stay with them, telling him they would not allow him to leave. But if he must go, then they, too, must go and help him whip a wild and lawless range into submission. He would need them badly in Montana, and nowhere could he get men who would work and fight so hard and cheerfully for him as his old outfit. They would not let him talk and he could not if they would, for there was something in his throat which choked and pained him. Johnny Nelson and Hopalong were tugging at his shoulders and the others stormed and pleaded and swore, tears in the eyes of all. He wavered and would have thrown away all his resolutions, when he thought of Hopalong and the girl. Pushing them back he told them he could not stay and begged them, as they loved him, to consider his future. They looked at one another strangely and then realized how selfish they were, and said so profanely.

"_Now_ yo're my old outfit," he cried, striking while the iron was hot. "I've told you why I must go, an' why I can't take _all_ of you with me, an' why I won't take a few an' leave th' rest. Don't think I don't want you! Why, with you at my back I'd buck that range into shape in no time, an' chase th' festive gun-fighters off th' earth.

Mebby some day you can come up to me, but not now. Now I want th' new foreman of th' Bar-20 to be one of th' men who worked so hard an'

loyally an' long for me an' th' ranch. I want one of you to take my place. Th' owners have left th' choice to me, an' say th' man I appoint will be their choice; an' I ain't a-going to do it--I can't do it. One last favor, boys; go in that house an' pick yore foreman. Go now, an' I'll wait for you here."

"We'll do it right here--Red Connors!" cried Hopalong.

"Hopalong!" yelled Red and Johnny in the same voice, and only a breath ahead of the others. "Hopalong! Hopalong!" was the cry, his own voice lost, buried, swept under. He tried to argue, tried to show that he was unfit, but he could make no headway, for his exploits were shouted to convince him. As fast as he tried to speak some one remembered something else he had done--they ranged over a period of ten years and from Mexico to Cheyenne; from Dodge City and Leavenworth to the Rockies.

Buck laughed and clapped his hands on Hopalong's shoulders. "I appoint you foreman, an' you can't get out of it, nohow! Lemme shake hands with th' new foreman of th' Bar-20--I'm one of th' boys now, an' glad to get rid of th' responsibility for a while. Good luck, son!"

"No you ain't going to get rid of 'em," laughed Hopalong, but serious withal. "Yo're th' foreman of this ranch till you leave us--ain't he, boys?" he appealed.

Buck put his hands to his ears and yelled for less noise. "All right, I'll play at breaking you in--'though th' Lord knows I can't show you nothing you don't know now. My first order under these conditions is that you ride south, Hopalong, an' tell th' news to Meeker, an' to his girl. An' tell 'em separate, too. An' don't forget I want to see you hobbled before I leave next month--tell her to make it soon!"

Hopalong reddened and grinned under the rapid-fire advice and chaffing of his friends and tried to retort.

Johnny sprang forward. "Come on, fellers! Put him on his cayuse an'

start him south! We've got to have _some_ hand in his courting, anyhow!"

"Right!"

"Good idea!"

"Look out! _Grab_ him, Red!"

"Up with him!"