IN THE BIG PASTURE.
In the Williamson Valley country the spring round-up, or "rodeo," as it
is called in Arizona, and the shipping are well over by the last of
June. During the long summer weeks, until the beginning of the fall
rodeo in September, there is little for the riders to do. The cattle
roam free on the open ranges, while calves grow into yearlings,
yearlings become two-year-olds, and two-year-olds mature for the market.
On the Cross-Triangle and similar ranches, three or four of the steadier
year-round hands only are held. These repair and build fences, visit the
watering places, brand an occasional calf that somehow has managed to
escape the dragnet of the rodeo, and with "dope bottle" ever at hand
doctor such animals as are afflicted with screwworms. It is during these
weeks, too, that the horses are broken; for, with the hard and dangerous
work of the fall and spring months, there is always need for fresh
mounts.
The horses of the Cross-Triangle were never permitted to run on the open
range. Because the leaders of the numerous bands of wild horses that
roamed over the country about Granite Mountain were always ambitious to
gain recruits for their harems from their civilized neighbors, the
freedom of the ranch horses was limited by the fences of a
four-thousand-acre pasture. But within these miles of barbed wire
boundaries the brood mares with their growing progeny lived as free and
untamed as their wild cousins on the unfenced lands about them. The
colts, except for one painful experience, when they were roped and
branded, from the day of their birth until they were ready to be broken
were never handled.
On the morning following his meeting with the stranger on the Divide
Phil Acton, with two of his cowboy helpers, rode out to the big pasture
to bring in the band.
The owner of the Cross-Triangle always declared that Phil was intimately
acquainted with every individual horse and head of stock between the
Divide and Camp Wood Mountain, and from Skull Valley to the Big Chino.
In moments of enthusiasm the Dean even maintained stoutly that his young
foreman knew as well every coyote, fox, badger, deer, antelope, mountain
lion, bobcat and wild horse that had home or hunting ground in the
country over which the lad had ridden since his babyhood. Certain it is
that "Wild Horse Phil," as he was called by admiring friends--for
reasons which you shall hear--loved this work and life to which he was
born. Every feature of that wild land, from lonely mountain peak to
hidden canyon spring, was as familiar to him as the streets and
buildings of a man's home city are well known to the one reared among
them. And as he rode that morning with his comrades to the day's work
the young man felt keenly the call of the primitive, unspoiled life that
throbbed with such vital strength about him. He could not have put that
which he felt into words; he was not even conscious of the forces that
so moved him; he only knew that he was glad.
The days of the celebration at Prescott had been enjoyable days. To meet
old friends and comrades; to ride with them in the contests that all
true men of his kind love; to compare experiences and exchange news and
gossip with widely separated neighbors--had been a pleasure. But the
curious crowds of strangers; the throngs of sightseers from the, to him,
unknown world of cities, who had regarded him as they might have viewed
some rare and little-known creature in a menagerie, and the brazen
presence of those unclean parasites and harpies that prey always upon
such occasions had oppressed and disgusted him until he was glad to
escape again to the clean freedom, the pure vitality and the unspoiled
spirit of his everyday life and environment. In an overflow of sheer
physical and spiritual energy he lifted his horse into a run and with a
shrill cowboy yell challenged his companions to a wild race to the
pasture gate.
It was some time after noon when Phil checked his horse near the ruins
of an old Indian lookout on the top of Black Hill. Below, in the open
land above Deep Wash, he could see his cowboy companions working the
band of horses that had been gathered slowly toward the narrow pass that
at the eastern end of Black Hill leads through to the flats at the upper
end of the big meadows, and so to the gate and to the way they would
follow to the corral. It was Phil's purpose to ride across Black Hill
down the western and northern slope, through the cedar timber, and,
picking up any horses that might be ranging there, join the others at
the gate. In the meanwhile there was time for a few minutes rest.
Dismounting, he loosed the girths and lifted saddle and blanket from
Hobson's steaming back. Then, while the good horse, wearied with the
hard riding and the steep climb up the mountain side, stood quietly in
the shade of a cedar his master, stretched on the ground near by, idly
scanned the world that lay below and about them.
Very clearly in that light atmosphere Phil could see the trees and
buildings of the home ranch, and, just across the sandy wash from the
Cross-Triangle, the grove of cottonwoods and walnuts that hid the little
old house where he was born. A mile away, on the eastern side of the
great valley meadows, he could see the home buildings of the Reid
ranch--the Pot-Hook-S--where Kitty Reid had lived all the days of her
life except those three years which she had spent at school in the East.
The young man on the top of Black Hill looked long at the Reid home. In
his mind he could see Kitty dressed in some cool, simple gown, fresh and
dainty after the morning's housework, sitting with book or sewing on the
front porch. The porch was on the other side of the house, it is true,
and the distance was too great for him to distinguish a person in any
case, but all that made no difference to Phil's vision--he could see her
just the same.
Kitty had been very kind to Phil at the celebration. But Kitty was
always kind--nearly always. But in spite of her kindness the cowboy felt
that she had not, somehow, seemed to place a very high valuation upon
the medal he had won in the bronco-riding contest. Phil himself did not
greatly value the medal; but he had wanted greatly to win that
championship because of the very substantial money prize that went with
it. That money, in Phil's mind, was to play a very important part in a
long cherished dream that was one of the things that Phil Acton did not
talk about. He had not, in fact, ridden for the championship at all, but
for his dream, and that was why it mattered so much when Kitty seemed so
to lack interest in his success.
As though his subconscious mind directed the movement, the young man
looked away from Kitty's home to the distant mountain ridge where the
night before on the summit of the Divide he had met the stranger. All
the way home the cowboy had wondered about the man; evolving many
theories, inventing many things to account for his presence, alone and
on foot, so far from the surroundings to which he was so clearly
accustomed. Of one thing Phil was sure--the man was in trouble--deep
trouble. The more that the clean-minded, gentle-hearted lad of the great
out-of-doors thought about it, the more strongly he felt that he had
unwittingly intruded at a moment that was sacred to the stranger--sacred
because the man was fighting one of those battles that every man must
fight--and fight alone. It was this feeling that had kept the young man
from speaking of the incident to anyone--even to the Dean, or to
"Mother," as he called Mrs. Baldwin. Perhaps, too, this feeling was the
real reason for Phil's sense of kinship with the stranger, for the
cowboy himself had moments in his life that he could permit no man to
look upon. But in his thinking of the man whose personality had so
impressed him one thing stood out above all the rest--the stranger
clearly belonged to that world of which, from experience, the young
foreman of the Cross-Triangle knew nothing. Phil Acton had no desire for
the world to which the stranger belonged, but in his heart there was a
troublesome question. If--if he himself were more like the man whom he
had met on the Divide; if--if he knew more of that other world; if he,
in some degree, belonged to that other world, as Kitty, because of her
three years in school belonged, would it make any difference?
From the distant mountain ridge that marks the eastern limits of the
Williamson Valley country, and thus, in a degree, marked the limit of
Phil's world, the lad's gaze turned again to the scene immediately
before him.
The band of horses, followed by the cowboys, were trotting from the
narrow pass out into the open flats. Some of the band--the mothers--went
quietly, knowing from past experience that they would in a few hours be
returned to their freedom. Others--the colts and yearlings--bewildered,
curious and fearful, followed their mothers without protest. But those
who in many a friendly race or primitive battle had proved their growing
years seemed to sense a coming crisis in their lives, hitherto peaceful.
And these, as though warned by that strange instinct which guards all
wild things, and realizing that the open ground between the pass and the
gate presented their last opportunity, made final desperate efforts to
escape. With sudden dashes, dodging and doubling, they tried again and
again for freedom. But always between them and the haunts they loved
there was a persistent horseman. Running, leaping, whirling, in their
efforts to be everywhere at once, the riders worked their charges toward
the gate.
The man on the hilltop sprang to his feet. Hobson threw up his head, and
with sharp ears forward eagerly watched the game he knew so well. With a
quickness incredible to the uninitiated, Phil threw blanket and saddle
to place. As he drew the cinch tight, a shrill cowboy yell came up from
the flat below.
One of the band, a powerful bay, had broken past the guarding horsemen,
and was running with every ounce of his strength for the timber on the
western slope of Black Hill. For a hundred yards one of the riders had
tried to overtake and turn the fugitive; but as he saw how the stride of
the free horse was widening the distance between them, the cowboy turned
back lest others follow the successful runaway's example. The yell was
to inform Phil of the situation.
Before the echoes of the signal could die away Phil was in the saddle,
and with an answering shout sent Hobson down the rough mountain side in
a wild, reckless, plunging run to head the, for the moment, victorious
bay. An hour later the foreman rejoined his companions who were holding
the band of horses at the gate. The big bay, reluctant, protesting,
twisting and turning in vain attempts to outmaneuver Hobson, was a
captive in the loop of "Wild Horse Phil's" riata.
In the big corral that afternoon Phil and his helpers with the Dean and
Little Billy looking on, cut out from the herd the horses selected to be
broken. These, one by one, were forced through the gate into the
adjoining corral, from which they watched with uneasy wonder and many
excited and ineffectual attempts to follow, when their more fortunate
companions were driven again to the big pasture. Then Phil opened
another gate, and the little band dashed wildly through, to find
themselves in the small meadow pasture where they would pass the last
night before the one great battle of their lives--a battle that would be
for them a dividing point between those years of ease and freedom which
had been theirs from birth and the years of hard and useful service that
were to come.
Phil sat on his horse at the gate watching with critical eye as the
unbroken animals raced away. "Some good ones in the bunch this year,
Uncle Will," he commented to his employer, who, standing on the watering
trough in the other corral, was looking over the fence.
"There's bound to be some good ones in every bunch," returned Mr.
Baldwin. "And some no account ones, too," he added, as his foreman
dismounted beside him.
Then, while the young man slipped the bridle from his horse and stood
waiting for the animal to drink, the older man regarded him silently, as
though in his own mind the Dean's observation bore somewhat upon Phil
himself. That was always the way with the Dean. As Sheriff Fellows once
remarked to Judge Powell in the old days of the cattle rustlers' glory,
"Whatever Bill Baldwin says is mighty nigh always double-barreled."
There are also two sides to the Dean. Or, rather, to be accurate, there
is a front and a back. The back--flat and straight and broad--indicates
one side of his character--the side that belongs with the square chin
and the blue eyes that always look at you with such frank directness. It
was this side of the man that brought him barefooted and penniless to
Arizona in those days long gone when he was only a boy and Arizona a
strong man's country. It was this side of him that brought him
triumphantly through those hard years of the Indian troubles, and in
those wild and lawless times made him respected and feared by the
evildoers and trusted and followed by those of his kind who, out of the
hardships and dangers of those turbulent days, made the Arizona of
to-day. It was this side, too, that finally made the barefoot, penniless
boy the owner of the Cross-Triangle Ranch.
I do not know the exact number of the Dean's years--I only know that his
hair is grey, and that he does not ride as much as he once did. I have
heard him say, though, that for thirty-five years he lived in the
saddle, and that the Cross-Triangle brand is one of the oldest irons in
the State. And I know, too, that his back is still flat and broad and
straight.
The Dean's front, so well-rounded and hearty, indicates as clearly the
other side of his character. And it is this side that belongs to the
full red cheeks, the ever-ready chuckle or laugh; that puts the twinkle
in the blue eyes, and the kindly tones in his deep voice. It is this
side of the Dean's character that adds so large a measure of love to the
respect and confidence accorded him by neighbors and friends, business
associates and employees. It is this side of the Dean, too, that, in
these days, sits in the shade of the big walnut trees--planted by his
own hand--and talks to the youngsters of the days that are gone, and
that makes the young riders of this generation seek him out for counsel
and sympathy and help.
Three things the Dean knows--cattle and horses and men. One thing the
Dean will not, cannot tolerate--weakness in one who should be strong.
Even bad men he admires, if they are strong--not for their badness, but
for their strength. Mistaken men he loves in spite of their mistakes--if
only they be not weaklings. There is no place anywhere in the Dean's
philosophy of life for a weakling. I heard him tell a man once--nor
shall I ever forget it--"You had better die like a man, sir, than live
like a sneaking coyote."
The Dean's sons, men grown, were gone from the home ranch to the fields
and work of their choosing. Little Billy, a nephew of seven years,
was--as Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin said laughingly--their second crop.
When Phil's horse--satisfied--lifted his dripping muzzle from the
watering trough, the Dean walked with his young foreman to the saddle
shed. Neither of the men spoke, for between them there was that
companionship which does not require a constant flow of talk to keep it
alive. Not until the cowboy had turned his horse loose, and was hanging
saddle and bridle on their accustomed peg did the older man speak.
"Jim Reid's goin' to begin breakin' horses next week."
"So I heard," returned Phil, carefully spreading his saddle blanket to
dry.
The Dean spoke again in a tone of indifference. "He wants you to help
him."
"Me! What's the matter with Jack?"
"He's goin' to the D.1 to-morrow."
Phil was examining the wrapping on his saddle horn with--the Dean
noted--quite unnecessary care.
"Kitty was over this mornin'," said the Dean gently.
The young man turned, and, taking off his spurs, hung them on the saddle
horn. Then as he kicked off his leather chaps he said shortly, "I'm not
looking for a job as a professional bronco-buster."
The Dean's eyes twinkled. "Thought you might like to help a neighbor
out; just to be neighborly, you know."
"Do you want me to ride for Reid?" demanded Phil.
"Well, I suppose as long as there's broncs to bust somebody's got to
bust 'em," the Dean returned, without committing himself. And then, when
Phil made no reply, he added laughing, "I told Kitty to tell him,
though, that I reckoned you had as big a string as you could handle
here."
As they moved away toward the house, Phil returned with significant
emphasis, "When I have to ride for anybody besides you it won't be Kitty
Reid's father."
And the Dean commented in his reflective tone, "It does sometimes seem
to make a difference who a man rides for, don't it?"
In the pasture by the corrals, the horses that awaited the approaching
trial that would mark for them the beginning of a new life passed a
restless night. Some in meekness of spirit or, perhaps, with deeper
wisdom fed quietly. Others wandered about aimlessly, snatching an
occasional uneasy mouthful of grass, and looking about often in troubled
doubt. The more rebellious ones followed the fence, searching for some
place of weakness in the barbed barrier that imprisoned them. And one,
who, had he not been by circumstance robbed of his birthright, would
have been the strong leader of a wild band, stood often with wide
nostrils and challenging eye, gazing toward the corrals and buildings as
if questioning the right of those who had brought him there from the
haunts he loved.
And somewhere in the night of that land which was as unknown to him as
the meadow pasture was strange to the unbroken horses, a man awaited the
day which, for him too, was to stand through all his remaining years as
a mark between the old life and the new.
As Phil Acton lay in his bed, with doors and windows open wide to
welcome the cool night air, he heard the restless horses in the near-by
pasture, and smiled as he thought of the big bay and the morrow--smiled
with the smile of a man who looks forward to a battle worthy of his best
strength and skill.
And then, strangely enough, as he was slipping into that dreamless sleep
of those who live as he lived, his mind went back again to the stranger
whom he had met on the summit of the Divide. If he were more like that
man, would it make any difference--the cowboy wondered.