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  CHAPTER IV

  DON PABLO MORENO

  On the edge of the barren mesa and looking out over the sandy flatswhere the Salagua writhed about uneasily in its bed, the _casa_ of DonPablo Moreno stood like a mud fort, barricaded by a palisade of thethorny cactus which the Mexicans call _ocotilla_. Within this fence,which inclosed several acres of standing grain and the miniature of agarden, there were all the signs of prosperity--a new wagon under itsproper shade, a storehouse strongly built where chickens lingeredabout for grain, a clean-swept _ramada_ casting a deep shadow acrossthe open doorway; but outside the inclosure the ground was stamped aslevel as a threshing floor. As Creede and Hardy drew near, an old man,grave and dignified, came out from the shady veranda and opened thegate, bowing with the most courtly hospitality.

  "_Buenos tardes, senores_," he pronounced, touching his hat in amilitary salute. "_Pasa!_ Welcome to my poor house."

  In response to these salutations Creede made the conventionalreplies, and then as the old man stood expectant he said in a hurriedaside to Hardy:

  "D'ye talk Spanish? He don't understand a word of English."

  "Sure," returned Hardy. "I was brought up on it!"

  "No!" exclaimed Creede incredulously, and then, addressing the SenorMoreno in his native tongue, he said: "Don Pablo, this is my friendSenor Hardy, who will live with me at Agua Escondida!"

  "With great pleasure, senor," said the old gentleman, removing hishat, "I make your acquaintance!"

  "The pleasure is mine," replied Hardy, returning the salutation, andat the sound of his own language Don Pablo burst into renewedprotestations of delight. Within the cool shadow of his _ramada_ heoffered his own chair and seated himself in another, neatly fashionedof mesquite wood and strung with thongs of rawhide. Then, turning hisvenerable head to the doorway which led to the inner court, he shoutedin a terrible voice:

  "_Muchacho_!"

  Instantly from behind the adobe wall, around the corner of which hehad been slyly peeping, a black-eyed boy appeared and stood beforehim, his ragged straw hat held respectfully against his breast.

  "_Sus manos!_" roared the old man; and dropping his hat the_muchacho_ touched his hands before him in an attitude of prayer.

  "Give the gentlemen a drink!" commanded Don Pablo severely, and afterHardy had accepted the gourd of cold water which the boy dipped from aporous _olla_, resting in the three-pronged fork of a trimmedmesquite, the old gentleman called for his tobacco. This the _mozo_brought in an Indian basket wrought by the Apaches who live across theriver--Bull Durham and brown paper. The senor offered these to hisguest, while Creede grinned in anticipation 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 thestorekeeper gave me when I--No? No smoke nothing? Ah, well, well--nosmoke, no Mexicano, as the saying goes." He regarded his guestdoubtfully, with a shadow of disfavor. Then, rolling a cigarette, heremarked: "You have a very white skin, Senor Hardy; I think you havenot been in Arizona very long."

  "Only a year," replied Hardy modestly.

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

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

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

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

  "Ah, _si_, _si_, _si_," nodded the old man vigorously, "now Iunderstand. Your father fought the Apaches and you played with thelittle Mexican boys, no? But now your skin is white--you have notlived long under our sun. When the Apaches were conquered your parentsmoved, of course--they are in San Francisco now, perhaps, or NuevoYork."

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

  "Ah, indeed," exclaimed Don Pablo sympathetically, "I am very sorry.My own _madre_ has been many years dead also. But what think you ofour country? Is it not beautiful?"

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

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

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

  "I remember the day when the first sheep came," he said, in the mannerof 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 andswept my fine fields of standing corn away, but we did not regret itbeyond reason for the grass came up on the mesas high as a horse'sbelly, and my cattle and those of my friend Don Luis, the good fatherof Jeff, here, spread out across the plains as far as the eye couldsee, and every cow raised her calf. But look! On the next year no raincame, and the river ran low, yet the plains were still yellow withlast year's grass. All would have been well now as before, with grassfor all, when down from the north like grasshoppers came the_borregos_--_baaa_, _baaa_, _baaa_--thousands of them, and they werestarving. Never had I seen bands of sheep before in Arizona, nor thefather of Don Jeff, but some say they had come from California in '77,when the drought visited there, and had increased in Yavapai and fedout all the north country until, when this second _ano seco_ cameupon them, there was no grass left to eat. And now, _amigo_, I willtell you one thing, and you may believe it, for I am an old man andhave dwelt here long: it is not God who sends the dry years, but thesheep!

  "_Mira!_ I have seen the mowing machine of the Americano cut the tallgrass and leave all level--so the starved sheep of Yavapai sweptacross our mesa and left it bare. Yet was there feed for all, for ourcattle took to the mountains and browsed higher on the bushes, abovewhere the sheep could reach; and the sheep went past and spread out onthe 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 herlamb, and many two, and they grew fat and strong, and when the grassbecame dry on the desert because the rains had failed again, they cameback, seeking their northern range where the weather was cool, for asheep cannot endure the heat. Then we who had let them pass in pitywere requited after the way of the _borregueros_--we were sheeped out,down to the naked rocks, and the sheepmen went on, laughinginsolently. _Ay, que malo los borregueros_, what devils they are; forhunger took the strength from our cows so that they could not suckletheir calves, and in giving birth many mothers and their little onesdied together. In that year we lost half our cows, Don Luis Creede andI, and those that lived became thin and rough, as they are to thisday, from journeying to the high mountains for feed and back to thefar river for water.

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

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

  As Don Pablo finished his story the Senora opened the door of thekitchen where the table was already set with boiled beans, meat stewe
dwith peppers, and thin corn cakes--the conventional _frijoles_, _carnecon chili_, and _tortillas_ of the Mexicans--and some fried eggs inhonor of the company. As the meal progressed the Senora maintained adiscreet silence, patting out _tortillas_ and listening politely toher husband's stock of stories, for Don Pablo was lord in his ownhouse. The big-eyed _muchacho_ sat in the corner, watching the corncakes cook on the top of the stove and battening on the successiverations which were handed out to him. There were stories, as they ate,of the old times, of the wars and revolutions of Sonora, wherein theSenor Moreno had taken too brave a part, as his wounds and exileshowed; strange tales of wonders and miracles wrought by the Indiandoctors of Altar; of sacred snakes with the sign of the cross blazonedin gold on their foreheads, worshipped by the Indians with offeringsof milk and tender chickens; of primitive life on the _haciendas_ ofSonora, where men served their masters for life and were rewarded atthe end with a pension of beans and _carne seco_.

  Then as the day waned they sat at peace in the _ramada_, Moreno andCreede smoking, and Hardy watching the play of colors as the suntouched the painted crags of the Bulldog and lighted up the squaresummit of Red Butte across the river, throwing mysterious shadows intothe black gorge which split it from crown to base. Between that highcliff and the cleft red butte flowed the Salagua, squirming throughits tortuous canyon, 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 canyon andthrough 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 rearup on their hind feet for browse or to snoop about the gate, but fileddutifully into their own corral and settled down for the night.

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

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

  The old gentleman walked leisurely down the trail to the corral, andat their approach Hardy saw two shaggy dogs of no breed suddenlydetach themselves from the herd and spring defiantly forward.

  "_Quita se, quita se!"_ commanded Don Pablo, and at his voice theyhalted, 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 sheepacross the river, but Tira and Diente fight them like devils. OneSummer for a week the _chivas_ did not return, having wandered far upinto the mountains, but in the end Tira and Diente fetched them safelyhome. 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, foryou Americans often think the Mexicans are _tonto_, having no goodsense, because our ways are different. When I perceived that my cattlewere doomed by reason of the sheep trail crossing the river here at myfeet 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 soonlearned to rear up against the bushes and feed upon the browse whichthe sheep could not reach. Thus I thought that I might in time conquerthe sheep, fighting the devil with fire; but the coyotes lay in waitconstantly to snatch 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 theblind pups of a dog, living far from here, and placed each of themwith a she-goat having one newborn kid; and while the kid was suckingat one teat the mother could not help but let down milk for the puppyat the other, until at last when the dog smell had left him sheadopted him for her own. Now as the pups grew up they went out on thehills with their goat mother, and when, they being grown, she would nolonger suckle them, they stole milk from the other she-goats; and sothey live to-day, on milk and what rabbits they can catch. Butwhenever they come to the house I beat them and drive them back--theirnature is changed now, and they love only goats. Eight years ago Iraised my first goat dogs, for many of them desert their mothers andbecome house dogs, and now I have over a hundred goats, which theylead out morning and night."

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

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

  "Senor Hardy," he said at last, "you are young, yet you have seen thegreat world--perhaps you will understand. Jeff tells me you come totake charge of the Dos S Rancho, where the sheep come through bythousands, even as they did here when there was grass. I am an old mannow; I have lived on this spot twenty-four years and seen much of thesheep; let me advise you.

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

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

  "One thing more, then," said Don Pablo, lowering his voice andglancing toward the house, where Creede was conversing with theSenora. "The _papa_ of Don Jeff yonder was a good man, but he was afighting Texano--and Jeff is of the same blood. Each year as the sheepcome through I have fear for him, lest he should kill some saucy_borreguero_ and be sent to prison; for he has angry fits, like hisfather, and there are many bad men among the sheep-herders,--escapedcriminals 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 makemuch of their herders, calling them brothers and _cunados_ and whatnot, to make them stay, since the work is hard and dangerous. And toevery one of them, whether herder or camp rustler, the owners give arifle with ammunition, and a revolver to carry always. So they aredrunk with valor. But our Jeff here has no fear of them, no, nordecent respect. He overrides them when the fit is on him, as if theywere unfanged serpents--and so far he has escaped."

  The old man leaned closer, and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper,acting out his words dramatically.

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