programme had been duplicated. The
half-hundred men of Senor Johnson's outfit had covered the area of a
European principality. And all of it, every acre, every spear of
grass, every cactus prickle, every creature on it, practically belonged
to Senor Johnson, because Senor Johnson owned the water, and without
water one cannot exist on the desert.

This result had not been gained without struggle. The fact could be
read in the settled lines of Senor Johnson's face, and the great calm
of his grey eye. Indian days drove him often to the shelter of the
loopholed adobe ranch house, there to await the soldiers from the Fort,
in plain sight thirty miles away on the slope that led to the foot of
the Chiricahuas. He lost cattle and some men, but the profits were
great, and in time Cochise, Geronimo, and the lesser lights had
flickered out in the winds of destiny. The sheep terror merely
threatened, for it was soon discovered that with the feed of Soda
Springs Valley grew a burr that annoyed the flocks beyond reason, so
the bleating scourge swept by forty miles away. Cattle rustling so
near the Mexican line was an easy matter. For a time Senor Johnson
commanded an armed band. He was lord of the high, the low, and the
middle justice. He violated international ethics, and for the laws of
nations he substituted his own. One by one he annihilated the thieves
of cattle, sometimes in open fight, but oftener by surprise and
deliberate massacre. The country was delivered. And then, with
indefatigable energy, Senor Johnson became a skilled detective. Alone,
or with Parker, his foreman, he rode the country through, gathering
evidence. When the evidence was unassailable he brought offenders to
book. The rebranding through a wet blanket he knew and could prove;
the ear-marking of an unbranded calf until it could be weaned he
understood; the paring of hoofs to prevent travelling he could tell as
far as he could see; the crafty alteration of similar brands--as when a
Mexican changed Johnson's Lazy Y to a Dumb-bell Bar--he saw through at
a glance. In short, the hundred and one petty tricks of the
sneak-thief he ferreted out, in danger of his life. Then he sent to
Phoenix for a Ranger--and that was the last of the Dumb-bell Bar brand,
or the Three Link Bar brand, or the Hour Glass Brand, or a half dozen
others. The Soda Springs Valley acquired a reputation for good order.

Senor Johnson at this stage of his career found himse