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Updated: June 15, 2025
Without a word to the herders Creede and Hardy took down their ropes and, swinging the hondas upon the goats, turned the advance guard northwest. The main herd and the drag followed, and then the herders, all in a bunch for courage. "This is the last time I talk to you," said Creede, his voice stifled with anger. "Turn to the north, now, and keep a-goin'."
The mighty bulk of the rodéo boss came plunging back at him through the darkness; his bruising fist shot out and the frontier troubadour went sprawling among the pack saddles. It was the first time Creede had ever struck one of his own kind, men with guns were considered dangerous, but this time he laid on unmercifully.
Did they lie about Vancouver six years since, or Creede not twenty months gone? Hardly; and it is just this knowledge that leads the passer-by to give ear to the wildest statements of the wildest towns. Anything is possible, especially among the Rockies where the minerals lie over and above the mining towns, the centres of ranching country, and the supply towns to the farming districts.
I don't want to git sent up fer ten years." "No," said Creede coolly, "ner you never will." "Well, I don't see what you're pickin' on me fer," bellowed Lightfoot, "the other fellers was there too. Why don't you sass Ensign or Pete a while?" "For a durned good reason," replied Creede steadily.
Not one of those veiled threats and intimations had he confided to Creede, for the orders from Judge Ware had been for peace and Jeff was hot-headed and hasty; but in his own mind Hardy pictured a solid phalanx of sheep, led by Jasp Swope and his gun-fighting Chihuahuanos, drifting relentlessly in over the unravaged mesa.
"No!" exclaimed Creede incredulously, and then, addressing the Señor Moreno in his native tongue, he said: "Don Pablo, this is my friend Señor Hardy, who will live with me at Agua Escondida!" "With great pleasure, señor," said the old gentleman, removing his hat, "I make your acquaintance!"
When at last Jasper Swope's boss herder, Juan Alvarez, the same man-killing Mexican that Jeff Creede had fought two years before, turned suddenly aside and struck into the old Shep Thomas trail that comes out into the deep crotch between the Peaks, a horseman in chaparejos rode on before him, spurring madly to light the signal fires.
"Oh, yes; Bill Johnson over in Hell's Hip Pocket makes a business of huntin' 'em. Twenty dollars bounty, you know." "Oh, oh!" cried Kitty. "Will he take me with him? Tell me all about it!" Jefferson Creede moved over toward the door with a far-away look in his eyes. "That's all," he said indifferently. "He runs 'em with hounds. Well, I'll have to bid you good-night."
To be sure, his face was a little dished in and he showed other signs of his scrub Indian blood, but after Creede had cinched on the new stamped-leather saddle and adjusted the ornate hackamore and martingale, Pinto was the sportiest-looking horse outside of a Wild West show.
He was the owner of a big tract of land over to the southwest, next to the Gowdy farm the largest in the county. He came striding over to us as if whatever he said was the end of the law. With him and Henderson L. and N.V. Creede pitching into a leatherhead like me, no wonder I did not recognize Virginia in her new dress; I was in such a stew that I hardly knew which end my head was on.
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