# Shepherds of the Wild/Chapter 22

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Chapter XXII
José Mertos, when he came at Fargo's bidding, looked exactly the same as always. He seemed to have partaken of the changeless quality of the desert where he was born. His lips were thin, his face impassive, his dark eyes somber as ever. Fargo himself, however, had undergone certain transformations. He was not quite so boastful as usual, nor so arrogant. He looked as if some especially effective medicine had been administered to him. It was plain, however, that the dose had not been entirely to his liking. There were little angry glowings in his eyes that seemed never entirely to fade out.
Anger had always come quickly to Fargo, but it isn't good for the spirit to have it remain indefinitely. It cuts deep lines in the face and fills the eyeballs with ugly little blood vessels, and it makes the hands shake and the heart burn. It also swells the little sacks under the eyes, a thing that is never pleasant to see. It was plain that certain events had recently occurred that Fargo had not yet forgotten, but which had incited a strange hunger within himself that must be satiated with something quite different from bread. And as the days glided past the more fierce the hunger became.
​It was true that he remembered only Hugh's first blow,—that which had stretched him flat upon his back. The feel of the earth throughout one's length has a tremendous medicinal value in itself to some men, and in others it wakens a madness that is considerably worse than that which comes upon Broken Fang at the fall of darkness. And there had been at least two other blows when he was stretched out unconscious. One of them had temporarily closed his eye. The other had left a purple bruise about his lips. This was enough in itself. Men did not strike Landy Fargo down and have many months to boast of it. At least that was what he told himself time after time, in the long nights that he sat alone. The meeting with Hugh in which his horse had been returned to him had been scarcely less odious.
Fargo remembered how Hugh—with his bleeding arm—had motioned for him to go, and how at the same time his hard, bright eyes had been watching for any offensive motion on the part of Fargo. But courage to attack simply would not come to him. And in the morning light, burning with hatred and passion, he had ridden back to his home.
The affair in regard to the flocks was no longer merely a business proposition. It had its personal side now. It seemed to him that its completion was the only desire he had left. He hated the browsing sheep, he hated Crowson and ​Crowson's daughter, but most of all he hated Hugh. There was the man who had defeated all his plans. It was Hugh's fists that had knocked him to the earth and that had lashed into his face as he lay unconscious. Night after night, week after week, he had sat—savage as one of his own hounds—staring into the fire. The flames had leaped: and he knew that some time in their lurid glow they would show him his course of action. His only wish was to make payment.
The time in which he might strike was almost up. October—when the detachment of forest rangers would take over the district and protect such lawful industries as Crowson's—was almost at hand. The thought seemed to drive him insane. And one night, when September was almost done, inspiration came to him.
A cowman had come in, complaining of the drought. The streams where his cattle fed were drying up. "Never seen the woods so dry in all my days," the man had said. "Just like tinder. And already most of the cattle have crossed over Eagle Ridge into the Bear Canyon country."
It was enough. He had given Fargo his hint. Certain orders had been dispatched: to drive all the remaining herds into the same region,—a district far from Crowson's range in Smoky Land. And then he had sent for José.
The Mexican was the one man on whom Fargo felt he might rely. José had no ridiculous limits as to conduct, no notch of brutality and crime ​above which he would not go. The cowboys who worked for him, however, weren't of the same metal. They were faithful enough in a good open-and-shut fight, fair warfare between the cattlemen and sheepmen. They were willing to take any decent risk, and their rancor against the "woollies" was bitter enough for general purposes. Partly it was a matter of mob psychology, partly because they thought their own jobs and prospects depended upon the range being kept open for the cattle herds. But these cowmen were rather inclined to play too fair; and cold and premeditated murder was not, among them, being done. The deadly desert man, however, had no such compunctions. He had been the logical man to send for after that last talk with Dan the herder. And he was the logical man now.
Fargo had already drawn his maps. In his own broken handwriting he indicated the various ranges and the larger streams that flowed between them. Fargo knew the passes of Smoky Land. And the two men went over them with singular care as to detail, with infinite patience such as they had never given to any of their lesser projects. They discussed the directions of the prevailing winds, the "lay" of the canyons, even the location of the most impassable thickets. It took the whole night and many glasses of burning liquor to perfect their plans.
"It must start, you see, in the Bear Canyon ​country," Fargo said at last. "And nothing in the world that I see—considering how long it will take to send word—can stop it."
José agreed. "Just you and I do the work?" he asked.
"Yes. The others can't be trusted. But remember—I'm paying you the limit—a whole year's pay for a night's work. A thousand dollars—don't forget."
José's eyes showed that he had not forgotten. "It'll take fast horses," he said. "We don't want to get caught ourselves."
"No danger of that; but there'll be plenty of riding to do, as you say. It's a straight-out course—and to-morrow night we go."
To-morrow night! To Hugh and Alice, in the distant sheep camp, it meant almost the end of Fargo's menace. Another day and another night thereafter, and September would be gone: the forest rangers would come riding into Smoky Land to establish their headquarters. The days of lawlessness would be over. And the man and the girl were exultant as two children as the fire's glow spread its glamor over them.
"We're going to win, Hugh," she told him. "They've had weeks to strike, and they haven't struck, and I think we're safe. And it means so much."
But Hugh shook his head. "It's true that they haven't struck," he agreed, "and yet I can't believe we're safe. You didn't see Fargo's face ​as he turned to go that night. I don't think he could forget. But if they just hold off a few days more ——"
If he had owned the flocks himself, Hugh couldn't have been happier at the thoughts of victory. There had been nothing easy or soft about the project of the sheep. He had given his own nerve and sinew, he had fought a tireless battle, and nothing in his life had ever mattered so much. It was the first real test and undertaking of his manhood: besides, it was all for Alice. Victory was at hand; and surely fate would not cheat them now. They had already started the flocks downward, following one of the tributaries of Silver Creek where there was still enough water for the flock. Early in October he would take them to a certain well-watered pasture on the lower slopes. In the meantime the rangers would come to his aid.
Suddenly he reached out and took her little, hard, brown hand in his. It yielded to his palm, and just for an instant he touched it to his cheek. Yet he didn't look into her eyes. He was fearful—to the depths of his being—of the expression that might be read in them.
"Alice, it's been a good fight," he said simply. "And ever since the world began—when a good fight has been fought—it's the soldier's right to make certain requests—that he never had the right or the courage to make before."
She nodded, and slowly he released her hand.
​"No matter if he's just a humble peasant," the man went on, "if he's given all that he has to give, he has a right to make those requests. And although the queen laughs in scorn, at least she can't resent them—or order him beheaded."
"I don't think she could be scornful—if the peasant has given—everything he has."
"I don't think it would be quite fair either—although, of course, he might ask for things that she couldn't grant. And that, perhaps, will be the way it is with me."
She looked up, a strange mist and glory in her eyes. "What do you mean, Hugh?"
He heard the crackle of the fire, the stir of the wind behind her, the soft complaint of the sheep, stirring in their sleep, but most of all he discerned the music, the unutterable loveliness in her tones. "I mean that when this fight is won—I'm going to put my petitions to the queen."