In the Sleepy Hollow Country (concluded) [pp. 83-97]

in the Sleepy Hollow Couniry.
up the gorge.
A ride of a mile, to where the wagon
road ends, and at one side of the creek is a
bee-ranch, with shanty for the the apiarist,
and circular extracting house, and long
rows of square white hives, like a miniature
city for the little workers; and fronting it
across the brawling stream a cattle ranch,
with a large two-story house standing back
under the hill amid a dense grove of live
oaks. Through by the cattle ranch, avoiding the bees, and awakening a score of dogs,
which yelp and howl about their horses' feet
-but no sign of human habitation. Another mile, and the last house in the canion
is passed —Ramon Soto's. It is only a rude
shanty, with ruder out-buildings, fenced by
willow boughs standing on end and bound
together with thongsof raw hide; and around
about it is a lusty forest of young oaks.
The cafion, which has been running east
and west, forks here-north, south, and
west. Into the north fork the trail leads
them, and at first there is a succession of
little mesas in which there are cattle-thoroughbreds, too, despite their wild surroundings. Then the walls of the cafion crowd
down close to the stream on either side,
growing more and more abrupt, and at last
the horses are slipping and stumbling along
the very bed of the stream, which twists
and turns, in and out, fighting for every
inch of its way through the mountain chain.
One turn more will bring them to the
comparatively open way above this passage; but right ahead of them is the dreaded
"slippery rock," a spot where a sharp bend in
the walls of the cafion throws the whole
body of the stream glancing across a ledge
of smooth limestone inclined to such an
angle as to render it almost impossible for a
horse to preserve footing in crossing it.
Pack mules, more cunning, approach the
rock from its lower edge and scramble up
it. Horses must be led directly across —
and it is almost as much as a man's life is
worth to ride over. Usually there is a log
across the narrow torrent here, for men to
walk upon.
Sheriff Perkins, in the lead, had dis mounted and was "cinching up." Directly
behind him, old Jo was similarly occupied.
Newman, half concealed by a turn in the
gorge, was in the rear.
The sheriff turned from his horse, took
the riata in his hand and stepped upon the
log. Then there was a sharp sound, as of
the clicking of gun-locks, and a ringing
command:
"Stop!"
The sheriff stopped accordingly, and sent
a glance upward to the rocks on the other
side of the stream. Old Jo stood just as
he did before, his horse's "cinch "not tightened. Behind them, Jim Newman had
drawn hastily back under the shelter of a
great rock. He had seen this thrilling act
of the drama-but remained himself unseen.
Across the creek the sheriff saw only two
swarthy faces, and two gleaming rifle barrels
pointing down to cover Jo and himself.
Even the hands that held the guns were concealed by the boulders.
Sheriff Perkins was a "nervy" man.
"Hello, Lopez!" he said, carelessly
enough.
"Gude m6rning, Meester Shereef. I am
plissed to mait jou,-" paying his discomfitted enemy the compliment of replying in
very doubtful English.
"I s'pose you know I've got a warrant
fer you, Lopez-an' fer Martinez thar, too?"
"Si, Seior. I know thees. You baitter araist os, "-laughing sardonically.
It'11 be better fer you to come along.
Lopez."
"I could keel jou, eef I want. Last
time I vote for jou. Es thees two all the
main jou got?"
Perkins had not dared to look away from
that menacing rifle muzzle-but he knew
now that for some inexplicable reason,
Newman had remained unseen. He had
too much faith in Jim to believe he had re
1887.]