Clarence Edward Mulford

ENOUGH IS SUFFICIENT

The following morning Johnny rode toward the northwest corner of the Bar H, the hilly, wooded section which had been presided over by Wolf Forbes. On his ride from the Bar H bunkhouse to the Triangle he had seen numerous unbranded cattle and wondered what he would find on the difficult section over which Wolf was wont to hold jealous guard. Riding to the west of the town he then turned and went south, passing behind the Doc's cabin, and parallel with the over-mountain trail. Reaching Clear River he followed it onto Double X range and then let Pepper pick her way over the mountain, and soon came to his objective, where he found large numbers of cattle, with an unusually high percentage of mavericks among them.

"Pepper," he said, alert for signs of Bar H riders, "th' SV has lost a lot of cows—an' folks can't make cows. So if it's goin' to make up its losses, it will have to do it with cows that are livin' this very minute. Now, it ain't reasonable to go on a ranch an' round up a lot of unbranded cattle, 'specially if it ain't willin' for 'em to be rounded up. On th' other hand, there ain't no harm in ridin' around an' sizin' things up. We want to find out where th' mavericks are, an' get some idea of how many there are of 'em.

"Mebby you don't know it, but a lot of mavericks means, generally, a lazy outfit, not to say nothin' worse. An' when a ranch reckons it's fenced off by natural barriers from other herds, that don't excuse 'em. A dishonest foreman or outfit, or a couple of dishonest men in it, can get rich with mavericks, if they know their business, an' don't work too hard. An' if th' whole outfit is dishonest an' workin' for its ranch, mavericks belongin' to surroundin' ranches are awful temptations.

"Now, th' SV don't earnotch its calves. They don't have no sleepers, at all; an' I know that calves will wander from their mothers after they are weaned, an' get notions of their own; an' they can be cut out an' drove to another range an' grow up to be big cows. On a ranch like th' SV, that ain't had no round-up in three years, all calves will be mavericks. There won't be a sign on none of 'em to tell where they belongs.

"Now, then: We'll say th' Bar H is dishonest, but its foreman an' outfit is workin' for th' ranch an' not for their own pockets. If they drove SV calves to their own ranch, they'd put an iron on 'em as soon as they could, after which they wouldn't have to bother with 'em no more. They wouldn't have to be guarded jealous by th' best man of th' outfit, an' turned back when they tried to get off th' ranch. When I heard how Wolf almost lived out here, I got suspicious, Pepper; an' when I saw too many mavericks on this ranch, I got more suspicious; an' you've mebby heard that I was brought up in a plumb suspicious outfit. Of course, all ranches are goin' to have some mavericks, 'specially if it has a wild, rough range. Brush, timber, scrub, an' broken country hides cows that don't get combed out in a round-up; we had some, ourselves, down on th' old Bar-20, along our west line—but th' numbers out here are scandalous. I'm keepin' cases on these cattle, an' I says it's so scandalous that it just can't be true—but it is true, so far. There's folks down here that are careless an' lazy, or crooked an' I've got my suspicions about which it is.

"Now, we'll say that th' outfit is crooked, an' workin' for its own pockets. They wouldn't want to brand any mavericks, not with th' ranch mark. There's two ways of dividin' that conclusion. First: That they're doin' it for their own pockets, th' foreman not knowin' about it. But no foreman is so dumb that he'd overlook so many mavericks—he'd raise h—l, an' weed out his punchers an' get new men. There wouldn't be many cows unbranded if he was workin' for his ranch. Th' second is: Foreman an' outfit are workin' for themselves, dividin' up th' profits accordin' to some plan. Then nobody would care how many mavericks there was, for th' more th' merrier. They'd have a right smart herd to brand with th' mark of some friend's ranch, road brand, an' throw on th' trail for some shippin' point up north, near th' railroad. Or mebby they figger on stockin' a ranch of their own that they has in some other part of th' country. Rustlers plumb love mavericks—an' if I was one, an' wanted to get rich, I know where I'd start out. An' if it wasn't for th' Double X layin' between this ranch an' th' Snake Buttes country, them rustlers over there would give this outfit sleepless nights. Them Double X punchers bein' on th' job all th' time is all that saves these here mavericks from swappin' ranges. Th' Double X is workin' for this passel of thieves, an' don't know it.

"Now, then: These mavericks out here are mostly all three years old, or younger. There's some four-year-olds, an' others, of course. An' th' SV ain't had a calf round-up in three years. Ain't that remarkable? Th' Bar H owners get good reports every round-up. Th' new calves keep right up to th' factor of natural increase, an' there ain't nothin' to make anybody jump out here for a good look at things. An' when th' drive figgers go on, an' show five hundred cattle on th' beef trail, an' really there is a thousand, th' books balance just right; an' Big Tom gets a Christmas present from th' owners for bein' such a good, honest foreman. Where that extra five hundred head goes to nobody knows but th' outfit. I've heard that Wolf is th' segundo down here, an' is trail boss on every drive. Do you wonder he's jealous of his mavericks out here, an' watchin' day an night for some of them Snake Buttes rustlers to bust through th' Double X riders an' pay this section a visit? Him bein' so alert was another reason why I packed him off to Highbank for a day or two, where he can have excitement, an' there's things to do an' see. An' while he's enjoyin' th' hilarity of town, we'll have a good look around. Pull up, Pepper, there's hoss tracks—fresh, too. They was made while th' mornin's dew was heavy, which is told by th' little chunks of dirt his hoofs picked up an' turned over. You stay right here while I go ahead. Lay down!" He slapped the horse and gave a low, peculiar whistle. Pepper laid her ears back, but slowly obeyed the signal and went down, "playing dead" on her side. Taking his rifle, Johnny slipped into the brush, following a course parallel to but some distance from the tracks. For an hour he trailed, seeing numbers of mavericks and but few branded cattle, and twice he was in danger of being charged by crusty, old long-horned "outlaws" who, while having a due and well-founded respect for mounted men, evidently regarded a man on foot as being a different and less dangerous species of animal. These he eluded by taking to the brush and swiftly getting out of sight, detouring and picking up the trail again farther along. Suddenly he stopped and laughed silently. On the farther side of a clump of brush a conical, vertically dented Mexican sombrero loomed against the sky. Waiting a moment to be sure that he had not been heard, he raised the rifle and took long, deliberate aim. With the roar of the gun the peak of the hat flipped up and over, reversing itself as if on a hinge, and hung down on the side of the high crown like a cup. There was a yell of surprise, the hat dipped down below the shielding brush, and the sudden noise of pounding hoofs rolled toward East Canyon. Johnny reloaded and ran to a place from where he could see the fleeing horseman. It was Smitty, and he was mounted on his own horse, a long-legged, big-barreled roan, and it was fresh from a three days' rest. The speed it made awakened a surprised admiration in the laughing rifleman, who watched the departing horseman until he dashed into East Canyon.

"Thanks, Smitty," chuckled Johnny. "I'm glad you ain't headin' for th' bunkhouse. Now I won't be bothered by no curious outfit combin' these hills, lookin' for me. Reckon Smitty is goin' to town—or he never would 'a' rode for th' canyon. Just th' same, I'm leavin' for th' Double X. I've seen all I wants out here, an' now I'll try to fix up a round-up for th' SV, an' get the rest of th' figgers I needs." He returned to the horse and rode into the northwest, giving vent to occasional bursts of laughter.

"Pepper," he chuckled, as he rode down the other slope of the watershed, "we're havin' more fun down here than we had up around Twin Buttes, but th' show ain't hardly begun. However, we'll laugh while we can, an' meet trouble when it really comes."

Smitty pounded into and through East Canyon, busy with his crowded thoughts and harrowed feelings. His horse from habit chose the left-hand turn at the other end of East Arroyo, and swung around the bend toward Gunsight.

"Twice!" he soliloquized. "Twice in th' hat! He was close up, th' murderin' coyote—sneaked up on top of me when I was so far away from th' mountain I had plumb forgot him. Sneaked up to th' other side of that brush—couldn't 'a' been forty feet away—an' he missed again! You can't tell me he didn't aim to miss, not this time. An' I'm dead shore he aimed to miss me that other time. Why? Because he didn't want to hit me, yet! It was a warnin', it was. He says plain: 'Smitty, you ain't wanted around here no more. I'm warnin' you th' second time. But, mebby, th' third time I won't miss.' I'm sayin' there won't be no third time. Practice makes perfect, an' I ain't no target. He won't score no bulls-eye on me! Big Tom says it's a joke; all right; but if it is, it ain't goin' no further. An' th' reason is, I am. I'm goin' further, an' I ain't comin' back. I ain't even wastin' time to go back to th' house for my war bag, an' have to give 'em an argument about quittin'. There ain't much pay a-comin' to me—none, when I pays up what I owe—an' I'm callin' everythin' square, all around. Pore Squint! Huh; I'd rather be able to say 'Pore Squint' than hang around here till somebody up an' says 'Pore Smitty.' This here country ain't fit for a dog no more an' I'm goin' to find one that is. Keep a-goin', you long-laigged rabbit!"

He whirled over the rocky hump below the historic stone benches on Pine Mountain and streaked toward Gunsight, seeing the Doc come to the door of the shack and wave at him. The Doc was haggard and sallow, nervous and poorly nourished after an unfavorable bout with his worst enemy, and leaned weakly against the door casing as he watched the hard-riding puncher whirl toward him. He made up his mind that if Big Tom wanted to see him, Mahomet could come to the mountain, for he was in no condition to go afield. To his surprise and great relief, Smitty followed the bend in the trail and headed to ride past. Then it was that Doc waved again.

Smitty's hand went to his nose and he shouted a greeting and prophecy in three words. The Doc, unstrung and highly irritable, took enraged umbrage at the insulting greeting, jerked the Colt from its shoulder holster and took three erratic shots at the derisive rider, followed almost instantly by three more. Smitty's anger flared up and centered on this tangible escape valve. Shooting at him seemed to be the fashion these days, but it had to stop. There were five rapid reports and five puffs of smoke, spaced at regular intervals along the trail behind his horse. He was lucky in his off-hand shooting, for all of the bullets found a target. One smashed the Doc's window, already cracked; one drilled a hole through the edge of the door behind him; one turned his water bucket into a sprinkling can, and the other two screamed past him into the room and accounted for a dishpan and his lamp. The owner of the aforesaid articles waxed wrathy and indignant, and jumped up and down, making strange noises; then, running after the irritated puncher, tried in vain to find the chambers of his six-gun with the wrong ends of a handful of cartridges, at the same time indulging in a spirited monologue, which was jumpy and spasmodic from shortness of breath. Smitty turned in the saddle and let loose an insult which cannot be excelled in words, wig-wagged again, and flashed up the gentle slope toward town.

Gunsight heard him coming, and those inhabitants who suspected that strange things were likely to happen, made haste to look out and see what it was. Dailey chose his doorway, Dave an open window, while Two-Spot wished to be unhampered by walls and roof, and chose his favorite hang-out, the front of the saloon.

"Where you goin' so fast?" shouted Dailey, pleasantly curious. He became instantly indignant at the gesture which answered him, and the words which followed the action left no doubt in his mind that he had interpreted it correctly. He reached for his gun, thought better of it and, shaking a fist, shouted instead: "All right! But you'll be comin' back, cuss you!" and forthwith reached toward the gun again at the shouted answer he received.

Two-Spot saw the felt cup flapping up and down at the edge of the sombrero's peak and he let out a howl of pleasure at the sight, whereat Dave discreetly ducked back from the window, fearing Smitty's reply; but the puncher kept on ahead of his dust cloud and whirled over the trail toward Juniper.

Two-Spot shouted with laughter. "Did you see th' hat? Did you see it? Just what I was sayin'," he cried, delighted by the idea that his humorous conception had appealed to another. "Number Two, an' Smitty pulls his stakes. Hey, Dailey!" he shouted, "you says he'll be comin' back; I'm sayin' he won't. I'm bettin' we won't see Smitty no more. He's takin' what's left of his hat where it won't be spoiled no more. Did you notice th' hoss he's on? That ain't no Bar H critter; that's his own! I'm givin' you two to one he won't come back—two to one, you gapin' jackass!"

Dailey's open mouth closed suddenly, and he stepped forward, feeling for his gun again; but Two-Spot went around the corner of the saloon, kicking his heels together. "He won't come back! Squint, Polecat, an' Smitty! Wonder who else will be missin'? Three in a row—if Polecat stays away. But Polecat won't, cuss him. I know him too well for that. He won't—and I'll be glad of it, too, th' coyote. Who's next?"