BUT THE BOSS AGAIN PROVES HIS METTLE
He mounted Tommy, and we rounded up some foothills, where every patch of
weed and mesquite gave up a bunch of cattle. While two of his men were
working the herd on the roundup ground, Lafe sat Tommy on the outskirts,
making one of the cordon of riders that surrounded the cattle and kept
them in. He was talking to a strayman from the Lazy L, who worked with
our wagon in order to gather the cattle of his brand which had wandered
from their range.
Two bulls started a fight. They were Herefords of tremendous bulk, and
when they crashed together in the center of the herd, the mass split
apart. Fully a score of bulls had been wandering up and down picking
fights, so Lafe and the strayman paid no especial attention.
However, it is the essence of folly to ignore bulls in combat if the
combat be anywhere near you. None knew this better than Lafe. The bull
that finds himself getting the worst of it will invariably break free,
swerve aside and dash at the nearest object, as a diversion. Usually his
foe goes in hot pursuit.
The two Herefords pawed and bawled and rumbled and butted. Johnson and
the cowboy talked, lolling in the saddle. The bulls drew off from each
other a few steps, bellowed and crashed head-on. The impact was
terrific. One of them rocketed out of the press of cattle straight at
Lafe.
It happened that Tommy--finding that no work faced him--was taking it
easy, with one hip down and his eyes half shut. The bull caught the
horse under the belly and hurled him and his rider a good ten feet
through the air. Lafe struck the ground partly under his mount, his
right leg held by Tommy's shoulders. The horse did not rise. He was
disemboweled.
The cowboys spurred to his aid and dragged Tommy off him. The bulls had
trotted back to the herd and were now engaged in thundering challenges
to other range monarchs. Lafe stood up painfully. He put his right foot
to the ground, very carefully. A smile of intense satisfaction came over
his face.
"Nothing broken," he said--"just shaken up. Jim-in-ee, but I'm sure
lucky."
He turned to Tommy, wheezing on the ground and trying weakly to rise.
"Poor li'l devil. Poor ol' Tommy," he said pityingly. After a brief
examination, he shot him between the eyes in order to spare him useless
suffering.
The boss was very blue throughout the day, and I knew it was for the
horse. Tommy had been a pet, and every one of us felt what it had cost
Lafe. "Poor li'l devil"--that was all, but Johnson was of the kind who
would hardly have said as much audibly for a human being.
Back of his grief I detected a great relief. It was almost a new sense
of freedom, revealed in his eyes and his altered manner towards his men.
The old quiet authority was his again. Just what he felt was shown when
he said to me that night, "I reckon if a big ol' bull can't even hurt
me, that I've got a few years to live yet awhile. Hey, Dan?"
"You're whistling. That was a close call, though, Lafe."
"If it had been Casey Jones now--" he began, but something in my face
stopped him.
"Did you notice?" he asked, without embarrassment.
"Yes. Why did you do it?"
"I got to thinking about Hetty and the kid. And then I quit--quit
cold--laid down. Just watch me ride ol' Casey Jones to-morrow, though.
I'll sure clean that fine gentleman."
I watched him. We all did. It was a joy to behold. The sorrel was in
high fettle and the ground was hard. So furiously did Casey Jones
pitch--squalling through his gaping mouth at every jump--that one of his
hoofs was split in two. Lafe sat him firmly, his poise yielding to every
new move of the bronco, and he shouted in delight as he plied quirt and
spur. Time and again Casey Jones leaped straight into the air and turned
back under his rider. Johnson's head would snap back, but his seat was
never shaken, and he raked the sorrel from shoulder to flank-cinch. At
last Casey Jones stopped, his legs wide apart, his head drooped and his
breath whistling. The Anvil men gazed in silence, but with deep
approval.
"Crackee," said a cowboy to me, "the boss is sure some peeler."
"He certainly hasn't forgotten how."
"Me and some of the boys," he went on, "we'd been figuring as how Lafe
had sort of lost his nerve. It seemed queer, too, but he's been mighty
low-sperited. Did you notice? I reckon that was just a mistake, don't
you? It must have been."
"A big mistake," I agreed. "He was just a bit worried. That was all.
He'll never be that way again."