The buildings of the Red Mesa Ranch stood a scant quarter mile back from the mesa rim, overlooking the Tonto Desert. Here the higher crown of the mesa began to rise, fringed and matted with piñon, juniper, and mountain pine. Still farther back the timber thickened and spread, forming the watershed that fed the two great springs which supplied water to the ranch. These springs had been originally named by the Navajos, and, when Jack Carleton had first managed to translate the soft, musical gutturals of the natives, the north spring became the Silver Spring, the south, the Gold Spring.
There was no difference in the water. It was soft, crystal clear—cold and sweet. But the basins of rock from which burbled those precious, life-giving contents, were colored so that the similes were apt ones.
The ranch buildings were of the Spanish type, low and spreading, with thick walls, deep casements, and flat roofs. Freshly calcimined, they shone in the clear air and sunshine like monuments of white marble. The main ranch house was built about a square patio, rioting with colorful flowers, cheery with the song of birds, and a whisper with the murmur of running water brought by a tiny stone flume from the Silver Spring.
The corrals and feed sheds and other buildings stood farther east, skirting a wide basin that fed out onto the vast reaches of the mesa.
When Donna Carleton and Buck English finally reached headquarters, Donna lingered only long enough to introduce Buck to Sundown Sloan, with the announcement that her uncle had hired Buck as the new foreman, then went into the house, without a backward look or word.
Sundown Sloan was as grizzled as a badger, a stooped, crooked-legged old fellow, hunched with hardship, toil, and rheumatism. His face was colored and wrinkled until it resembled nothing so much as a piece of bark on a very old tree. But that there was nothing wrong with Sundown’s mental faculties showed in the deep, sharp gleam of his eyes, set far back beneath shaggy brows.
There was satisfaction in those eyes as Sundown shook hands with Buck.
“Sho’,” he drawled simply, “I’m powerful glad the boss picked you for this job, son, and I’m glad to know you. I knew your daddy well. You’re a lot like him, when he was your age. His friendship is one of my best memories.”
The quiet honesty of Sundown’s words warmed Buck. For a moment the hardness, the stern chill of his face fled before a boyish smile. And his cold eyes softened.
“I’m always glad to meet one of dad’s ole friends, Sundown. Sure, I hope you won’t be takin’ it to heart because Carleton’s hired me for your old job.”
“Me!” ejaculated Sundown. “Me sore. Shucks, boy … I’m tickled to death. I admit it kinda made me sour for a time to realize that age was gettin’ me to a point where I couldn’t handle the hard nuts of the crew any more. But common sense stomped that outta me. Every dawg has his day … and, Lord knows, I’ve had mine … and I’m makin’ it plain that I’m mighty relieved to shift the worries and troubles of this cussed ranch to young shoulders again.
“I don’t know whether Jack mentioned it to you … but it was my own suggestion that he get hold of somebody like you to take my place. I’m perfectly willin’ to set back and let you handle things. And anything I can tell you or help you with, I’ll be plumb tickled to do.”
“That’s mighty white of you, Sundown,” Buck said. “While I’m puttin’ my horse and Miss Donna’s away … suppose you kinda give me a little drift of what I’m up against and what needs doin’.”
As they walked down to the corrals, leading the two broncos, Sundown gnawed off a fresh chew of tobacco and squinted his eyes thoughtfully.
“First,” he began, “you got a couple of fresh, wise jaspers to knock the corners off of. Buzz Layton and Pete Vanalia are the gents I mean. I cain’t exactly figger them two fellers. I don’t know whether we oughta fire ’em and be done with it … or whether a danged good lickin’ will put ’em in the traces where they belong.
“They’re both darned good hands … when they wanna hit the ball. But they’re troublemakers and the kind that’ll take advantage of you if they get a chance. Red Scudder is another hard nut. Independent as a hawg on ice. A good worker, but plumb set on doin’ things his own way. And I’ll tell you, he’s a regular fire-eater in a scrap. Besides them three … we got Jiggs Maloney, Spud Enlow, Swede Sorenson, Dude McCollum, and Shorty Razee. They’re all fine boys. Do their work, do it right, and never any trouble with ’em a-tall.”
“I get you.” Buck nodded, taking in the ranch yard. “But Jack Carleton didn’t hire me just to comb the tails of a couple or three obstreperous ’punchers. There must be more to the story.”
Sundown drenched a pop-eyed lizard with a stream of tobacco juice before answering.
“I’ll tell the world there’s more,” he said portentously. “Handlin’ the crew will be the least of your troubles. The big fly in the soup is that we’re losin’ stock altogether too regular to make this ranch a payin’ proposition. Near as I can figger we lost nigh a hundred head last month alone.
“And then some ring-nosed polecat poisoned the Gold Spring last week. We use the water from the Gold Spring for the cattle. Bring it down in a ditch to those troughs you see out yonder. Well, before we found out what was wrong, we lost about sixty head of our Bar C beef and horses. I’ve had Shorty and Jiggs workin’ all week on the spring, bailin’ it out a dozen times or so. The water is just about fit to drink again now. Last fall we lost three stacks of winter feed we’d cut and piled. Somebody touched a match to ’em. Those are the sort of things that’s gonna put gray hairs in your head, son.”
Buck hung his saddle over the top rail of the corral and rolled a cigarette. “These cattle you been losin’ … the rustled ones I mean … ain’t there been any sign of how or where they went? Beef stock just don’t grow wings and fly, you know, Sundown.”
“No,” admitted the old fellow, “they don’t. I got a couple of ideas. But I don’t know whether they’re right or not. For one thing, there must be at least twenty or thirty different trails that the stock can get down off the mesa range to the desert. There’s nothin’ down there to attract them, Lord knows … but there’s always some danged fool critters that are bound to wander. Once they get down there, they don’t last long.
“No doubt the Navajos get a few of ’em for meat. But there’s some mighty tough gangs of white renegades that ride that desert and they’d steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. It grades up as an impossibility to keep enough riders on the move to watch the heads of all them trails, and the mesa rim is cut up so you can’t fence ’em off without runnin’ a fence around the whole rim. An it’d take a powerful lot of money to build such a fence. I tell you, Buck … it’s a tough nut to crack.”
“Seems so,” agreed Buck. “Where does the S C Connected range run?”
Sundown darted a keen, questioning glance, but Buck’s face was impassive and unreadable.
“Over yonder”—he pointed over his shoulder—“past the main crest of the mesa. They come in here after Jack did and had to take what was left. They got a lot of range over there, but it ain’t worth a great deal. We catch most of the moisture here on the west side and the timber up above is heavy enough to hold it.
“On the S C Connected side the timber is pretty wide open and scarce. They ain’t got any too much water, either. Two or three dry years back, they hadda cut their herds just about in half and then they hadda drive ’em down into Kanab Basin over past the east rim of the mesa. They sure don’t make any money doin’ that.”
Buck pinched out his cigarette butt. “Good neighbors, are they?”
Again Sundown flashed that questioning glance at the young foreman. “Hmmm,” he murmured. “I see you got ideas, Buck … same as me. Understand, I ain’t hintin’ or sayin’ a thing. I couldn’t prove nothin’ if I did say it. Long ago I learned that it paid a feller to keep his mouth shut unless he had somethin’ worthwhile to talk about. Just the same …” He stopped midsentence, ended it with a shrug.
Buck smiled slightly, the old, cold glitter in his eyes. He took a new tack.
“I can’t savvy why Jack Carleton don’t work his authority in his own interests more, Sundown.”
Sundown grunted and spat in huge disgust. He studied the mesa for several minutes before responding.
“Wouldn’t he like to. But that’s what he gets for dabblin’ around in politics. The opposition that run ag’in’ Jack last election time are sore as all get-out over bein’ licked. They watch him like a hawk. Was he to spend any time out here tryin’ to straighten out his own troubles, they’d be on his neck like a swarm of ants.
“He tried it once and they like to remove him on the charge of usin’ the authority of his office to serve his own ends. It was a lie of course, but they made it stick with a lot of folks. So, instead of turnin’ him loose to knock the corners off in a rustler or two, they keep him tied to his office, servin’ summons for this and that, and a lot of other petty larceny stuff. They’ll work hell outta him to help everybody but hisself. There they seem to draw a line.”
“Who was the opposition at the last election?”
“Curt Daggett. He’s a big man around Cedarville. Got his fingers in all kinds of pie. Owns a couple of stores, the hotel, a saloon, and is even a director of the bank. If he’d got the job of sheriffin’ he’d just about owned the whole danged county before he got put out, I reckon. Well, c’mon over to the bunkhouse and store your war bag. I understand that when Jack got in touch with you, you were clear over past the Madrigals. You musta had quite some ride. You look a little fagged. Before you start lookin’ around, you better get some rest.”
* * * * *
Sunset, from the west rim of Red Mesa, was a sight few were fortunate enough to see. No painting could begin to portray the stupendous beauty of the thing. The Tonto Desert below, turning from a red, hostile gulf to a dreamy sea of indescribable mauves and violets and purples. The blazing streamers of sun-tinted clouds that poured out of the west, the glittering fire of the Madrigal Peaks, leagues out against that sunset sky, wild, aloof, haunting, lonely. And then the swift fading light, which left the Madrigals stark and cold while the desert grew black and deep and veiled.
Seldom indeed did Donna Carleton miss watching the sight of the sunset. It was her habit to walk to the rim, seat herself on a favorite rock, and give free rein to fancy and romance. Somehow she came back rested, humble, grateful—soothed to a quiet gentleness, no matter how strenuous the day had been.
But this evening she did not go down to her favorite seat. She had started, but she got just far enough to see that the seat had been usurped. A man was down there, a rider—with flat, straight shoulders and a high, proud cast to his head. She then knew it was Buck English.
At first Donna’s chin had come up defiantly. Why shouldn’t she go down if she liked? What difference if he was there? Yet, restraint and that same shyness gripped her. She grew angry—with him as well as herself. He was an interloper, intruding on her privacy of dreams and visions. He should be put in his place. But, even as she thought of this, Donna knew that her courage was not equal to the task.
Something about the man made her uneasy, made her as self-conscious and shy as a child, and she felt helpless to combat his influence.
But as she withdrew to the house in piqued silence, she had to admit that he fitted the picture perfectly. He was a part of that same wild land, his eyes keen with the reading of those same illimitable distances. And the chill of the encroaching night was reflected in him. Also, thought Donna, he was as deep and inscrutable as the desert—as cold and unapproachable as the distant Madrigals.