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Updated: May 15, 2025
"Well, did you have any trouble of any kind with this deceased Mexican, Mr. Creede? Of course you don't need to answer that if it will incriminate you, but I just wanted to know, you understand." "Oh, that's all right," responded the cowman, waving the suggestion aside with airy unconcern.
In one group were Judge Horace Stone, N.V. Creede and Forrest Bushyager, then a middle-aged man, and an active young fellow of twenty-five or so named Dick McGill, afterward for many years the editor of the Monterey Centre Journal. These had a petition asking that the county-seat be located at Lithopolis, Judge Stone's new town, and they wanted Magnus to sign it.
I made him give me a receipt for them, setting forth just what the bargain was, and I paid him then and there for looking out for them and N.V. Creede said afterward that the thing was a perfectly good legal document, though badly spelled. "It calls," said he, "for an application of the doctrine of idem sonans but it will serve, it will serve."
"Oh, that's all right," he said. "But it wouldn't 'a' made a dam' bit of difference if I had!" added Creede, and then, flashing his teeth in a hectoring laugh, he put spurs to his horse and went thundering after his fellows. Not till that moment did the evil-eyed Juan Alvarez sense the trick that had been played upon him.
Before the early sun had cleared the top of the eastern mountains Jefferson Creede and Hardy had risen and fed their horses well, and while the air was yet chill they loaded their blankets and supplies upon the ranch wagon, driven by a shivering Mexican, and went out to saddle up.
At the head of a broad mill race, where the yellow flood waters boiled sullenly before they took their plunge, Creede pulled up and surveyed the river doubtfully. "Swim?" he inquired, and when Hardy nodded he shrugged his shoulders and turned his horse into the water. "Keep your head upstream, then," he said, "we'll try it a whirl, anyhow."
There was not a snake track in the dust or a raven in the sky, but as he topped the brow of the hill and looked down into the cañon, Hardy saw a great herd of cattle, and Creede in the midst of them still hacking away at the thorny palo verdes.
"I have to turn him loose at first 'fraid he'll learn to pitch if I hold him in he's never bucked with me yet!" "You bet he's a snake!" yelled Creede, hammering along on his broad-chested roan. "Where'd you git 'im?" "Tom Fulton's ranch," responded Hardy, reining his horse in and patting him on the neck. "Turned in three months' pay and broke him myself, to boot.
"You can turn back them sheep and git off my range!" yelled Creede. "Turn 'em back, I say, or I'll leave my mark on some of you!" "How can I turn 'em back?" argued Swope, throwing out his hands. "They's ninety thousand more behind me, and all headin' through this pass." "You know very well that this is a put-up job," retorted Creede hotly.
At last the days grew shorter, the chill came back into the morning air, and the great thunder-caps which all Summer had mantled the Peaks, scattering precarious and insufficient showers across the parching lowlands, faded away before the fresh breeze from the coast. Autumn had come, and, though the feed was scant, Creede started his round-up early, to finish ahead of the sheep.
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