Chapter VIII: The Good Old Simple Plan

Nothing had been further from the intentions of Hall McIvor as he rode forth from the Rock House that morning than that he should join the Bassetts as a friend. He had been sent to join them, yes; but treacherously, as a spy, who was to return and report to Meshackatee. But his heart had ruled his head--he had joined against the Scarboroughs and then slapped Isham in the face--and now that it was over he found himself a turncoat, shaking hands with Winchester Bassett. Yet something still told him that his heart had been right, and that open friendship was better than treachery; and that somehow, somewhere, he would see Allifair again, though never under the protection of the Scarboroughs.

Yet protection he must have, if he was to remain near her at all, and he sought it under the roof-tree of the Bassetts. They lived in a log house set on the edge of the riverbottom, but with its single, narrow door facing away from the creek bed and out upon the level plain. Its timbers were square-hewn, with loop-holes in place of windows, and the fireplace at one end was as massive as the Scarboroughs', with holes near the top for a lookout. A barn and round corral, for breaking horses, stood further along on the bench; and beyond and to the south rose the high, wooded hill which Meshackatee had predicted would be an ambush. A pack of hounds rushed out to greet them, hogs and chickens strayed about the yard; and as Hall rode up to the gate an old white-haired man hobbled out.

"Eh--what was the name?" he quavered anxiously, staring up at him with his farsighted eyes. "Oh, Hall, eh? Well, git down; git down, Mr. Hall. We ain't got much, but what we have you're shorely welcome to--our latch-string is always hung out. What's the news, boys?" he demanded, "did you rout them biggoty Scarboroughs? Well, good, and good again. Them and their no-count Texas gunmen--one Bassett could whip a hundred of 'm!"

"Well, we whipped 'em, Pap!" returned Winchester, "and this gentleman here slapped Isham's face and called him a dirty coward!"

"He did!" exulted Old Henry, turning to take Hall by the arm, "wall now, don't that beat all! And him a stranger, too--but he looks like a fighting man! What did Isham say to that?"

"He didn't say nothing," laughed Winchester, "jest mounted his _caballo_ and flew!"

Henry Bassett stopped short to join in with silent laughter and then he led the way to the house. He was shriveled and bent, with a long, white beard and hands that clutched and clawed it when he talked; but his high, hawklike nose and resolute eyes told of a courage that never had waned. Of all his boys, the swarthy Winchester was most like him, though Bill was whiter by far. But Bill had the heavy jaw and fat-cheeked face that came from his Digger Indian mother; and Sharps would pass for a fullblood anywhere, except for his chilled-steel nerve. Not a word had he said since his challenge to Isham, and his beady black eyes still glinted with anger as he slouched along out to the corrals. His rage, or so it seemed, now included the whole white race, and he stared at McIvor evilly.

The interior of the Bassett fort was dark and smoky and as they moved over towards the fireplace an Indian woman rose up and padded silently away. She was Old Henry's wife, or woman as he called her; but none of the men spoke to her, and when she came back her presence was studiously ignored.

"Have a cheer! Have a cheer!" urged Henry cordially, motioning Hall to a seat by the fire. "So you and my cubs hev whipped Isham again! Well, well, I'd a-liked to ben there. But my eyes ain't what they was and my legs is bothering some, so I aim to hold the fort here at home. I went out last week, when my haounds bayed a lion, and it kinder fetched my rheumatiz back. But them no-count Scarboroughs, I'd fight ary one of 'em with any weepon he'd name--from the p'int of a needle to the muzzle of a shotgun--I shore do despise that Isham!"

"He offered to fight Winchester!" spoke up Bill with a grin, "but Winch said he didn't want no trouble. And then, when Isham begin to crow, Sharps stepped out and offered to whip him. Hand and skull, it was; but Isham was afraid of him, so he backed off and went to calling names. I'd've plugged him right there, but Winch wouldn't let me; and while we was waiting for 'em to make a crooked move, this feller here comes over and joined us. He says the Scarboroughs held him up down in Deadman Canyon, and threatened to hang him for a horse-thief; and he don't allow no man to treat him like that, so he challenged old Isham to a duel."

"He did!" shrilled Old Henry. "Well, what did Isham do?"

"He jest said: 'You're crazy,' and backed away outer that, before all four of us blowed him full of holes!"

"Well, well," beamed Henry, "you must be a Southerner, I reckon, to be talking of fighting a duel. It ain't done much out here, they run more to bushwacking and shooting a man in his door; but back in Tennessee, where I was born and raised, they had duels every court-day. I've seen two mountain men grab the ends of a handkerchief and cut and slash away with their bowie knives till one or the other dropped dead, but these Texans are that treacherous they'd shore shoot you in the back before you'd stepped off five paces. A duel is for gentlemen, but I don't count them Scarboroughs as human--and I told 'em so p'intedly one time. They've abused me and my boys till we won't stan' it no more, and some day they's going to be a _killing_. I'm a peaceable man, but I can't git no jestice--leastwise I can't git it in the courts--and when they went to hiring gunmen they fo'ced my hand and I had to throw in with them sheepmen. Don't like sheep, I reckon, any more than you do; but Grimes and his Mexicans are fighters. They'll shore put a torch under them Texas bad men that'll burn 'em off the face of the earth. Me and my cubs ain't robbed no bank, nor paymaster's wagon neither, and we ain't got the money to hire gunmen; but after Grimes has got through with 'em I reckon the Bassetts can clean up on what there is left."

He winked and nodded wisely and, as the boys went on out, the squaw after a silence came timidly in and went on with cooking the dinner. She was still strong and vigorous, though her hair was turning gray; and from time to time, as Old Henry ran on, she glanced up at him with grave, adoring eyes.

"Yes, they call me a squawman," he confessed confidentially, when his wife had left them alone, "but I've had other women and they was never a one of 'em that suited me as well as this one. I thought I'd git rid of her when I come to this country, taking Sharps and Winchester with me; but she located me somehow and come a thousand miles overland, bringing Bill along on her back. That's faithfulness, I say, and I let her stay with me--and she shore thinks the world of Old Hank."

He smiled complacently as she came back to her kitchen, the hearth and hobs of the fireplace, and squatted down to look into the Dutch ovens; and when she was gone he jerked his head knowingly and lowered his voice again.

"Don't you worry," he said, "she savvies what's going on--understands every word I say; but you can't git her to speak English, not unless the house ketches afire or a horse gits down in the barn. She's afraid of them Scarboroughs; she claims they're bad medicine--'all same snake in the grass'--but this sheepman, Grimes, will shore crush their head, though their head may bruise his heel. That's what the Scripture says, according to Grimes--he's religious, some kind of a jack Mormon. Calls 'em 'Brother' when he's among 'em and sons of dogs when he's away from 'em, the same as all these other danged sheepmen. I never did like a sheep, to tell you the truth; but what else is they to do? If I don't bring in Grimes, them Scarboroughs are fixing to git me, and run me and my boys out of the country. Ain't a man got a right to protect his home? They crowded me to it, that's all."

The old man spent the day denouncing the meanness of the Scarboroughs and justifying his alliance with Grimes; but when, in the evening, Grimes himself rode in, Hall could see he was none too welcome. He was cordially received, for that was their custom, but after the first greetings the talk died down to nothing and the sheepman cast about for a listener. He was a big, burly man with a Scotch turn to his tongue, and when he talked he thrust out his head vehemently and showed the bloodshot whites of his eyes. A month's growth of beard did not add to his appearance, and the hair lay in a mat on his chest; and he seemed to be mad, mad all the time, with a primal, caveman rage.

"I'll show 'em, the dirty cowards!" he burst out vindictively, addressing his harangue to McIvor. "Did you ever see a cowman that would stand up to a Winchester? Well, I haven't and yet I've seen lots of them. That Slash-knife outfit now is reputed to be a bad one, and they lay claim to the whole upper range; but here's one sheepman that they've never moved yet, and what's more, they never will. I can ride across there any place and they'll give me the trail, they know me as far as they can see me through a telescope. And these herders of mine, though they're nothing but Mexicans, are proper fighting fools--every one. I won't have 'em otherwise; and the first man that weakens I make him walk back to town. We're coming here to-morrow with ten thousand sheep under a lease from Henry Bassett. That gives us a right, don't it? We're running them on shares, and this has always been his range. But if any of them smart gunmen, like they tried to do yesterday, ride in and interfere with my herders; I ain't saying nothing, I'll jest drop off my mule and shoot the matter out, right there!"

"That's your privilege," conceded McIvor, "but wouldn't it be better to stay on the east side of Turkey Creek?"

"One side or the other--it's nothing to me! This is government land, see? And I'm a U.S. citizen. These dead-lines don't go with me!"

McIvor nodded and fell silent, for he knew the Scotch blood, but Grimes was pacing the floor.

"They'll draw a dead-lines, will they?" he demanded menacingly; "they'll tell me where I'll go and not go? I'm a free agent, see? I know what's my rights, and I don't give a dam' for the Scarboroughs! Didn't I meet their men yesterday, up on the Canyon Crick trail? Yes, and the whole suffering outfit rode over the top of a mountain to git away from my gun. You couldn't see 'em for dust, they were that anxious to escape me--if they'd had a feather in their hand they'd've flew--and now they send word that they've made a new dead-line, only this time it's Turkey Crick! I'll show 'em a dead-line, and I'll go out and kill a cow every time they kill one of my sheep. They's no law here and I know it, so we'll get back to first principles and fight it out man to man.

"If you ever read any poetry you may remember those famous lines about Rob Roy and the good, old simple plan:

"'That they should take who have the power And they should keep who can.'

"That was the plan back in Scotland for many a long year, and it's the plan out here to-day; and I, for one, will never speak against it, for it has served me well so far."

"Apparently so," replied McIvor, who was beginning to turn against him. "I suppose every man follows his own nature."

"What do you mean, my friend?" demanded the sheepman truculently. "Don't you think I'm within my rights? Well, what do you mean then about following my own nature--are you one of these cowmen, too?"

"No," responded Hall, "I am a stranger in these parts. But after what I have seen of feuds and family wars I should certainly hesitate to start one."

"Oh, you're a stranger, eh? Well, I believe you, there--because any man that knows the Scarboroughs will tell you they'll never fight. You don't believe me, eh? Well, I'll see you to-morrow--be back with a big band of sheep--and if I don't pasture them sheep in the middle of that plain I'll buy you a ten-dollar hat."

"Very well, sir," bowed Hall, "I see you are determined. But I don't need a hat that bad."