Hidden Water Part 5

"Give the gentlemen a drink!" commanded Don Pablo severely, and after Hardy had accepted the gourd of cold water which the boy dipped from a porous _olla_, resting in the three-p.r.o.nged fork of a trimmed mesquite, the old gentleman called for his tobacco. This the _mozo_ brought in an Indian basket wrought by the Apaches who live across the river--Bull Durham and brown paper. The senor offered these to his guest, while Creede grinned in antic.i.p.ation of the outcome.

"What?" exclaimed the Senor Moreno, astounded. "You do not smoke? Ah, perhaps it is my poor tobacco! But wait, I have a cigarro which the storekeeper gave me when I--No? No smoke nothing? Ah, well, well--no smoke, no Mexicano, as the saying goes." He regarded his guest doubtfully, with a shadow of disfavor. Then, rolling a cigarette, he remarked: "You have a very white skin, Senor Hardy; I think you have not been in Arizona very long."

"Only a year," replied Hardy modestly.

"_Muchacho!_" cried the senor. "Run and tell the senora to hasten the dinner. And where," he inquired, with the shrewd glance of a country lawyer, "and where did you learn, then, this excellent Spanish which you speak?"

"At Old Camp Verde, to the north," replied Hardy categorically, and at the name Creede looked up with sudden interest. "I lived there when I was a boy."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Don Pablo, raising his eyebrows. "And were your parents with you?"

"Oh, yes," answered Hardy, "my father was an officer at the post."

"Ah, _si_, _si_, _si_," nodded the old man vigorously, "now I understand. Your father fought the Apaches and you played with the little Mexican boys, no? But now your skin is white--you have not lived long under our sun. When the Apaches were conquered your parents moved, of course--they are in San Francisco now, perhaps, or Nuevo York."

"My father is living near San Francisco," admitted Hardy, "but," and his voice broke a little at the words, "my mother has been dead many years."

"Ah, indeed," exclaimed Don Pablo sympathetically, "I am very sorry.

My own _madre_ has been many years dead also. But what think you of our country? Is it not beautiful?"

"Yes, indeed," responded Hardy honestly, "and you have a wonderful air here, very sweet and pure."

"_Seguro!_" affirmed the old man, "_seguro que si!_ But alas," he added sadly, "one cannot live on air alone. Ah, _que malo_, how bad these sheep are!"

He sighed, and regarded his guest sadly with eyes that were bloodshot from long searching of the hills for cattle.

"I remember the day when the first sheep came," he said, in the manner of one who begins a set narration. "In the year of '91 the rain came, more, more, more, until the earth was full and the excess made _lagunas_ on the plain. That year the Salagua left all bounds and swept my fine fields of standing corn away, but we did not regret it beyond reason for the gra.s.s came up on the mesas high as a horse's belly, and my cattle and those of my friend Don Luis, the good father of Jeff, here, spread out across the plains as far as the eye could see, and every cow raised her calf. But look! On the next year no rain came, and the river ran low, yet the plains were still yellow with last year's gra.s.s. All would have been well now as before, with gra.s.s for all, when down from the north like gra.s.shoppers came the _borregos_--_baaa_, _baaa_, _baaa_--thousands of them, and they were starving. Never had I seen bands of sheep before in Arizona, nor the father of Don Jeff, but some say they had come from California in '77, when the drought visited there, and had increased in Yavapai and fed out all the north country until, when this second _ano seco_ came upon them, there was no gra.s.s left to eat. And now, _amigo_, I will tell you one thing, and you may believe it, for I am an old man and have dwelt here long: it is not G.o.d who sends the dry years, but the sheep!

"_Mira!_ I have seen the mowing machine of the Americano cut the tall gra.s.s and leave all level--so the starved sheep of Yavapai swept across our mesa and left it bare. Yet was there feed for all, for our cattle took to the mountains and browsed higher on the bushes, above where the sheep could reach; and the sheep went past and spread out on the southern desert and were lost in it, it was so great.

"That was all, you will say--but no! In the Spring every ewe had her lamb, and many two, and they grew fat and strong, and when the gra.s.s became dry on the desert because the rains had failed again, they came back, seeking their northern range where the weather was cool, for a sheep cannot endure the heat. Then we who had let them pa.s.s in pity were requited after the way of the _borregueros_--we were sheeped out, down to the naked rocks, and the sheepmen went on, laughing insolently. _Ay, que malo los borregueros_, what devils they are; for hunger took the strength from our cows so that they could not suckle their calves, and in giving birth many mothers and their little ones died together. In that year we lost half our cows, Don Luis Creede and I, and those that lived became thin and rough, as they are to this day, from journeying to the high mountains for feed and back to the far river for water.

"Then the father of Jeff became very angry, so that he lost weight and his face became changed, and he took an oath that the first sheep or sheep-herder that crossed his range should be killed, and every one thereafter, as long as he should live. Ah, what a _buen hombre_ was Don Luis--if we had one man like him to-day the sheep would yet go round--a big man, with a beard, and he had no fear, no not for a hundred men. And when in November the sheep came bleating back, for they had promised so to do as soon as the feed was green, Don Luis met them at the river, and he rode along its bank, night and day, promising all the same fate who should come across--and, _umbre_, the sheep went round!"

The old man slapped his leg and nodded his head solemnly. Then he looked across at Creede and his voice took on a great tenderness. "My friend has been dead these many years," he said, "but he was a true man."

As Don Pablo finished his story the Senora opened the door of the kitchen where the table was already set with boiled beans, meat stewed with peppers, and thin corn cakes--the conventional _frijoles_, _carne con chili_, and _tortillas_ of the Mexicans--and some fried eggs in honor of the company. As the meal progressed the Senora maintained a discreet silence, patting out _tortillas_ and listening politely to her husband's stock of stories, for Don Pablo was lord in his own house. The big-eyed _muchacho_ sat in the corner, watching the corn cakes cook on the top of the stove and battening on the successive rations which were handed out to him. There were stories, as they ate, of the old times, of the wars and revolutions of Sonora, wherein the Senor Moreno had taken too brave a part, as his wounds and exile showed; strange tales of wonders and miracles wrought by the Indian doctors of Altar; of sacred snakes with the sign of the cross blazoned in gold on their foreheads, worshipped by the Indians with offerings of milk and tender chickens; of primitive life on the _haciendas_ of Sonora, where men served their masters for life and were rewarded at the end with a pension of beans and _carne seco_.

Then as the day waned they sat at peace in the _ramada_, Moreno and Creede smoking, and Hardy watching the play of colors as the sun touched the painted crags of the Bulldog and lighted up the square summit of Red b.u.t.te across the river, throwing mysterious shadows into the black gorge which split it from crown to base. Between that high cliff and the cleft red b.u.t.te flowed the Salagua, squirming through its tortuous canon, and beyond them lay Hidden Water, the unknown, whither a single man was sent to turn back the tide of sheep.

In the silence the tinkle of bells came softly from up the canon and through the dusk Hardy saw a herd of goats, led by a long-horned ram, trailing slowly down from the mesa. They did not pause, either to rear up on their hind feet for browse or to snoop about the gate, but filed dutifully into their own corral and settled down for the night.

"Your goats are well trained, Don Pablo," said Hardy, by way of conversation. "They come home of their own accord."

"Ah, no," protested Moreno, rising from his chair. "It is not the goats but my goat dogs that are well trained. Come with me while I close the gate and I will show you my flock."

The old gentleman walked leisurely down the trail to the corral, and at their approach Hardy saw two s.h.a.ggy dogs of no breed suddenly detach themselves from the herd and spring defiantly forward.

"_Quita se, quita se!"_ commanded Don Pablo, and at his voice they halted, still growling and baring their fangs at Hardy.

"_Mira_," exclaimed the old man, "are they not _bravo_? Many times the _borregueros_ have tried to steal my bucks to lead their timid sheep across the river, but Tira and Diente fight them like devils. One Summer for a week the _chivas_ did not return, having wandered far up into the mountains, but in the end Tira and Diente fetched them safely home. See them now, lying down by the mother goat that suckled them; you would not believe it, but they think they are goats."

He laughed craftily at the idea, and at Hardy's eager questions.

"_Seguro_," he said, "surely I will tell you about my goat dogs, for you Americans often think the Mexicans are _tonto_, having no good sense, because our ways are different. When I perceived that my cattle were doomed by reason of the sheep trail crossing the river here at my feet I bought me a she-goat with kids, and a ram from another flock.

These I herded myself along the brow of the hill, and they soon learned to rear up against the bushes and feed upon the browse which the sheep could not reach. Thus I thought that I might in time conquer the sheep, fighting the devil with fire; but the coyotes lay in wait constantly to s.n.a.t.c.h the kids, and once when the river was high the _borregueros_ of Jeem Swopa stole my buck to lead their sheep across.

"Then I remembered a trick of my own people in Sonora, and I took the blind pups of a dog, living far from here, and placed each of them with a she-goat having one newborn kid; and while the kid was sucking at one teat the mother could not help but let down milk for the puppy at the other, until at last when the dog smell had left him she adopted him for her own. Now as the pups grew up they went out on the hills with their goat mother, and when, they being grown, she would no longer suckle them, they stole milk from the other she-goats; and so they live to-day, on milk and what rabbits they can catch. But whenever they come to the house I beat them and drive them back--their nature is changed now, and they love only goats. Eight years ago I raised my first goat dogs, for many of them desert their mothers and become house dogs, and now I have over a hundred goats, which they lead out morning and night."

The old man lashed fast the gate to the corral and turned back toward the house.

"Ah, yes," he said musingly, "the Americanos say continually that we Mexicanos are foolish--but look at me! Here is my good home, the same as before. I have always plenty beans, plenty meat, plenty flour, plenty coffee. I welcome every one to my house, to eat and sleep--yet I have plenty left. I am _muy contento_, Senor Hardy--yes, I am always happy. But the Americanos? No! When the sheep come, they fight; when their cattle are gone, they move; fight, fight; move, move; all the time." He sighed and gazed wearily at the barren hills.

"Senor Hardy," he said at last, "you are young, yet you have seen the great world--perhaps you will understand. Jeff tells me you come to take charge of the Dos S Rancho, where the sheep come through by thousands, even as they did here when there was gra.s.s. I am an old man now; I have lived on this spot twenty-four years and seen much of the sheep; let me advise you.

"When the sheepmen come across the river do not fight, as Don Jeff does continually, but let them pa.s.s. They are many and the cowmen are few; they are rich and we are very poor; how then can a few men whip many, and those armed with the best? And look--if a sheepman is killed there is the law, you know, and lawyers--yes, and money!" He shrugged his shoulders and threw out his hands, peeping ruefully through the fingers to symbolize prison bars.

"Is it not so?" he asked, and for the first time an Americano agreed with him.

"One thing more, then," said Don Pablo, lowering his voice and glancing toward the house, where Creede was conversing with the Senora. "The _papa_ of Don Jeff yonder was a good man, but he was a fighting Texano--and Jeff is of the same blood. Each year as the sheep come through I have fear for him, lest he should kill some saucy _borreguero_ and be sent to prison; for he has angry fits, like his father, and there are many bad men among the sheep-herders,--escaped criminals from Old Mexico, _ladrones_, and creatures of low blood, fathered by evil Americanos and the nameless women of towns.

"In Sonora we would whip them from our door, but the sheepmen make much of their herders, calling them brothers and _cunados_ and what not, to make them stay, since the work is hard and dangerous. And to every one of them, whether herder or camp rustler, the owners give a rifle with ammunition, and a revolver to carry always. So they are drunk with valor. But our Jeff here has no fear of them, no, nor decent respect. He overrides them when the fit is on him, as if they were unfanged serpents--and so far he has escaped."

The old man leaned closer, and lowered his voice to a hoa.r.s.e whisper, acting out his words dramatically.

"But some day--" he clasped his heart, closed his eyes, and seemed to lurch before a bullet. "No?" he inquired, softly. "Ah, well, then, you must watch over him, for he is a good man, doing many friendships, and his father was a _buen hombre_, too, in the days when we all were rich. So look after him--for an old man," he added, and trudged wearily back to the house.

CHAPTER V

HIDDEN WATER

The trail to Hidden Water leads up the Salagua, alternately climbing the hard mesa and losing itself in the shifting sand of the river bottom until, a mile or two below the mouth of the box canon, it swings in to the edge of the water. But the Salagua is no purling brook, dignified by a bigger name; it is not even a succession of mill ponds like the dammed-up streams of the East: in its own name the Salagua is a _Rio_, broad and swift, with a current that clutches treacherously at a horse's legs and roars over the brink of stony reefs in a long, fretful line of rapids. 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."

Head to tail the two horses plodded heavily across the ford, feeling their way among the submerged bowlders, while twenty feet below them the irresistible onrush of the current slipped smoothly over the rim, sending up a roar like the thunder of breakers. As they struggled up the opposite bank after a final slump into a narrow ditch Creede looked back and laughed merrily at his bedraggled companion.

"How's that for high?" he inquired, slapping his wet legs. "I tell you, the old Salagua is a h.e.l.l-roarer when she gits started. I wouldn't cross there this afternoon for a hundred dollars. She's away up since we took the wagon over last night, but about to-morrow you'll hear her talk--snow's meltin' on the mountains. I wish to G.o.d she'd _stay_ up!" he added fervently, as he poured the water out of his boots.

"Why?" asked Hardy innocently. "Won't it interfere with your bringing in supplies?"

"Sure thing," said Creede, and then he laughed maliciously. "But when you've been up here a while," he observed, "you'll savvy a lot of things that look kinder curious. If the old river would git up on its hind legs and walk, forty feet high, and stay there f'r a month, we cowmen would simply laugh ourselves to death. We don't give a dam' for supplies as long as it keeps the sheep out.