The Round-up
Much has been written of the passing of the cowboy. With the fenced
range, winter feeding, and short drives his occupation once appeared to
be gone. But the war of the sheep and cattlemen in the Western States
has recently caused the government to compel the cattlemen to remove
the fences and permit the herds of sheep and cattle to range over
public lands, and this means a return of the regime of the cowboy, with
its old institutions.
Chief among these is the round-up.
A sheepman can shear wherever he happens to be. He can entrain at the
nearest shipping-point to his grazing-bed. But a herd of cattle will
range four hundred miles in a season, so the cattlemen will be forced
to revive the round-up, and make the long drives either back to the
home ranch, or to the railroad. More cowboys will have to be employed.
All the free life of the open will return. At work the cow-puncher is
not of the drinking, carousing, fight-hunting type; nor again is he of
the daring romantic school. He is a Western man of the plains. True,
after loading up his cattle and getting "paid off," he may spend his
vacation with less dignity and quiet than a bank clerk. But after a
year of hard work with coarse fare he must have some relaxation. He
takes what he finds. The cattle-towns cater to his worst passions. He
is as noisy in his spending as a college boy, and, on the average, just
as good natured and eager to have a good time.
Only a man of tried and proved courage can hold his job. Skill and
daring are needed to handle the half-wild beasts of the herds. The
steer respects no one on foot, but has a wholesome fear for a mounted
man. Taken separately, neither man nor horse has the smallest chance
with range cattle, but the combination inspires the fear noticeable
among the Apaches for cavalryman as compared with their contempt for
foot-soldiers.
The longhorned steer will fight with the ferociousness of a tiger. A
maddened cow will attack even a man on horseback. The most desperate
battles of the range are with cows who have lost their calves.
The cow-puncher first comes in contact with his cattle at the round-up.
The outfit consists of a foreman with eight men to each thousand head
as drivers. Each man has from six to ten mounts. The broncos are only
half-broken. But they follow a steer like a terrier does a ball. They
delight in the game as much as a polo-pony.
A chuck-wagon accompanies each outfit. This is usually of the United
States Army type, solidly built and hauled by four mules. The cook of
the outfit is the driver. He has a helper, a tenderfoot, or a boy
learning the trade. In the field only the bravest dares defy the cook.
His word on the camp is law. All the men are subject to his call. In
the wagon are carried a tent, the men's bedding, sleeping-bags, and
stores consisting of pork, navy beans, flour, potatoes, canned
tomatoes, and canned peaches. At the rear end of the wagon bed is a
built-up cupboard, the door of which can be lowered with straps to make
a table. Dishes, the lighter food supplies, and a small medicine-chest
are stored there. A water-barrel is strapped to the side of the wagon.
Enough fire-wood for emergency use is packed under the driver's seat.
No wagon is complete without a bucket hanging from the axle.
The spare horses are driven with the herd, the men taking turns at the
task. At daybreak each morning the cowboys scatter from the
mess-wagon, riding up and down the draws and over the hills, driving in
the cattle for branding and the "cutting out," or separating from the
herd, of marketable beeves. These are known as "dogies," "sea-lions,"
and "longhorns." The size as well as the nickname depends upon the
location of the range. The cattle of the Sweetwater valley were
smaller than the northern stock. From four to six thousand were driven
at a time. The calves are lassoed and thrown, and the owner's brand is
burned into the hide, leaving a scar which, if the work is well done,
will last until the beef is sold. Branding is hard work. The dust,
the odor of burning flesh, the heat of the corral fire for heating the
irons, the bellowing of frightened mother cows, and the bleating of the
calves, the struggles with the victims, these try men's strength and
tempers severely. Once branded, the calf is turned loose and not
touched again until it is four years old and ready for the market.
Stray unbranded cattle over a year old are known as "mavericks," and
become the property of any person branding them.
Having cut out the stock for the drive, a road mark, a supplementary
brand for identification burned into the hides. The long march then
begins.
A start is made usually in the late spring to reach the railroad in the
fall. The drive is as orderly as the march of an army. By natural
selection the leaders of the cattle take the head of the herd. They
are especially fitted for the place. The same ones are found in the
front every day, and the others fall into position, so that throughout
the drive the cattle occupy the same relative position each day.
A herd of a thousand beef will stretch out for two miles. The leaders
are flanked by cowboys riding upon Mexican saddles with high backs and
pommels. The stirrups are worn long, the riders standing in them in
emergency. The Mexican is the only saddle fitted for rough work. The
cowboy's seat, his ease in the saddle, would make a poor showing in a
riding academy or in a cavalry school. Yet the park rider and the
soldier would be helpless on the range. The cow-puncher of the plains
and the Cossack of the steppes are said to be the best riders in the
world, yet each has a different saddle and seat. An exchange of
equipment makes poor riders of both of them.
The cow-puncher of Texas and Arizona wears chaps of leather or
sheepskin to protect his legs from the mesquit-bushes or the thorns of
the cactus. These plants not being found in the northern plains, chaps
are not worn there. The cowboy wears a handkerchief about the neck,
not for protection from the sun, but to cover the mouth while riding
through sand and windstorms.
Flankers ride on each side of the herd at regular intervals. The
chuck-wagon and the spare horses follow far enough in the rear to avoid
the dust.
For the first few days the drives are long and hard, averaging from
twenty-five to thirty miles a day, until the cattle are well tired.
Then the pace is set at twelve to fifteen miles.
From dawn until noon the herd is allowed to water and graze along the
trail toward their destination. About noon they become restive. The
cowboys then drive them steadily forward for eight or ten miles, until
early evening, when they are halted for another graze. As night falls
they are turned into the bedding grounds. The men ride slowly around
the herd, crowding them into a compact mass. As the circle lessens the
beasts lie down to rest and chew their cuds.
About midnight the cattle usually get up, stand a while, and then lie
down again, having changed sides. The night-guard slowly circles the
herd, the men relieving each other at stated intervals.
On rainy, stormy nights, the guard has to double, as the cattle are
restless and easily stampeded. Under a clear sky, breathing the
bracing air of the plains, with the herd well in hand, the day's work
is a pleasant one. But in a steady downpour, with the thunder rolling
and the animals full of fear, the task is one to tax the stoutest heart.
The cause of a stampede is always some trifle. A heavy clap of
thunder, a flash of lightning, the breaking of a stick, the howl of a
wolf, will start the herd off in a blind rush in any direction,
heedless of cliffs over which they may tumble, or of rivers whose
current will sweep hundreds of the frightened beasts to death.
Once the cattle are off on a stampede, the cowboys ride recklessly,
madly to the head of the herd, getting to one side of the leaders.
With shouts and pistol-shots they turn the leaders to one side,
gradually at first, and then into the arc of a great circle. Blindly
racing after the leaders the other cattle follow; and round they plunge
until head and tail of the herd meet, and "milling" begins. Any that
fall are ground to death by the hoofs of the others. This mighty grind
continues until the animals are exhausted or they have recovered from
the fight.
To soothe the hysterical beasts, the men begin to sing. Any song will
do, but the drawling old hymn tunes of the Methodist camp-meetings have
the best effect. Ofttimes the more hysterical members of the herd are
shot, as a stampede means a great loss. Animals that stampede once are
prone to do it again. The mingling of herds increases the danger. In
old days the approach of a herd of buffalo was sure to start a stampede
among cattle. Men were detailed to turn the shaggy monsters aside
whenever they came within hearing.
Rivers are crossed by one of the cow-punchers swimming his horse in the
lead and the other men driving the animals after him.
Once near the shipping-point, the herd is allowed to rest up and
fatten, while the owner makes his deal with the cattle-buyers of Omaha
or Chicago.
The animals are driven or decoyed into the cars, and the last journey,
to the packing-house, begins. Punchers accompany them to feed and
water the beasts on the trip. They help turn them into the pens. One
night in Chicago, one meal, a dinner ending with a "Lillian Russell"
(peaches or apple pie covered with ice-cream) as dessert, and the
punchers start West again to begin anew the work of the fall roundup,
which is on a smaller scale than the spring one.
It is dawn in the valley of the Sweetwater. The spring rains
have freshened the verdure of the plain. Clumps of coarse grass fringe
the river's brink. Cacti and Spanish bayonets nod in the morning
breeze, which sweeps down from the mountains. Yucca palms and
sahuaroes glisten with the dew. In the distance rise the foot-hills
crowned with stunted live-oaks. On the horizon tower the mountains,
pine-clad to the timber-line, bare and desolate above.
The outfit of Sweetwater Ranch has gathered for the round-up and the
drive to the railroad. In the absence of her husband, Echo Payson had
assumed complete charge of the ranch, and with the help of Sage-brush
had carried on the work just as she thought Jack would do, hoping
against hope for his return in safety, and hiding her sorrow from those
about her.
Under a clump of cottonwood, a chuck-wagon has halted. Many of the
boys on the round-up are still asleep, the night herders returning to
camp. The cook has started his preparations for breakfast. His wagon
has a covered top like a prairie-schooner. The tail-board has been
lowered to form a table, supported by rawhide straps. About him are
scattered tin cups and kitchen utensils. A thin spiral of smoke arises
from the fire which has been made in a shallow pit to prevent a spread
of flames. The flickering flashes illumine the cook's face as he bends
over a steaming pot of coffee, and reveal the features of Parenthesis.
Parenthesis is mixing dough in a dish-pan set on the tail-board.
Sage-brush kneels near him, putting on his spurs, preparatory to
saddling up as he goes on the first relief.
"Wake up Texas and the other boys, Fresno," ordered Sage-brush. The
Californian threw away the butt of his cigarette and shook each man by
the shoulder. With much yawning and rubbing of eyes the men crawled
from their sleeping-bags. Dashing cold water into their faces from a
basin beside the water-barrel, they drank copiously of the coffee which
Parenthesis poured out for them.
"Mostly all the boys are in now, ain't they?" asked Parenthesis,
looking about the group.
"Yep," answered Sage-brush, "we'll finish brandin' the calves to-day.
I reckon Fresno will have to take charge of the drive. I can't leave
the ranch until Jack gets back."
Show Low was the only sleeper who had not responded to Parenthesis'
call. That worthy walked over and gave him a kick which brought forth
a grunt but no other sign of an awakening. Returning to the fire,
Parenthesis took a tin cup and poured himself out a cup of coffee.
"Heard any word from him yet?" he asked, as he gulped the beverage.
"Nothin'," replied Sage-brush grimly. "Slim wrote from Fort Grant he
was on the trail, but the 'Paches were out an' they wouldn't let him
leave the fort till the soldiers went with him."
"Slim hadn't oughter gone and left things the way he did. Buck McKee
is gettin' a lot of bad men together, and 'lows he is goin' to run for
sheriff himself," growled Fresno.
"He's sure got a tough outfit with him; Slim being away ain't doin' us
any good. All the rustlers from Texas an' New Mexico came trailin'
into the country just as soon as they heard he was gone. Won't
surprise me if we have a run in with the bunch afore we git through
with this round-up."
"I got my eye on that Peruna," interjected Fresno.
"Peruna! who's he?" asked Texas.
"One of Buck's outfit," answered Fresno. "He is mighty slick with the
runnin'-iron and brandin' other folks' calves."
"We can't be too careful," warned Sage-brush. "Things is strained to
the bustin'-point, and any promise of gun-play is goin' to set off a
whole lot of fireworks."
Show Low was on the verge of waking up. This he did, by gradually
increasing the volume of each snore and breaking it off with a whistle.
At the very moment Sage-brush suggested gun-play, Show Low snorted his
loudest.
"What's that?" asked Sage-brush, grabbing his revolver.
"Show Low. He's a regular brass band when he gets started--from the
big trombone down to the tin whistle," laughed Fresno.
"It's a wonder he can sleep alongside of that noise."
"He can't," Fresno volunteered. "He'll wake himself up in a minute.
He's off now."
The snores of Show Low grew more frequent until he climaxed his
accompaniment to sleep with one awful snort, which awakened him. "Eh,
what's that?" he yelled, as he bounded to a sitting posture.
"Didn't I tell you?" queried Fresno.
Sage-brush grinned and slowly arose, gathering up his saddle and rope.
Swinging one over each arm, he started toward the corral, saying: "Come
on, boys, we got a lot to do to-day. Git your hosses."
The night riders, were coming into camp greeting their comrades with
grunts, or in a few words telling them what to guard against in some
particular part of the grazing herd.
The sun had risen. The cattle were on their feet browsing the short,
sweet grass, moving slowly toward the river.
"Work," growled Show Low, "darn me if I ain't commenced to hate it."
Fresno picked up his saddle to follow his foreman, but paused long
enough to fire this parting shot at the cook: "Say, Parenthesis, if
them biscuits you're makin' is as hard as the last bunch, save four of
'em for me. I want to shoe that pony of mine."
Parenthesis threw a tin cup at Fresno, who dodged it. Punching the
dough viciously, he said: "Darn this housekeepin'. Gets a feller's
hands all rough,--it's enough to spile the disposition of a saint."
His soliloquy was interrupted by Buck McKee riding up to the wagon from
Lazy K outfit, which was camping a mile below them.
"Hello, Cookie! How goes it?" was his greeting.
"You wind it up, and it goes eight days." Parenthesis bellowed, his
temper fast reaching the breaking-point.
"Jack Payson ain't back yet?" Buck asked, paying no attention to the
bad humor of Parenthesis.
"Not that I knows on."
The cook rolled the dough with elaborate care.
"Nor Hoover?"
"Ain't seen him," he replied curtly.
"Well, they ain't comin' back, either. They pulled it off pretty slick
on us fellers. Hoover he lets Payson go and makes a bluff at chasin'
after him. Then they gets off somewhere, splits up the money, and
gives us the laugh."
Parenthesis turned on him in anger and shouted: "'I'll bet my outfit
against a pair of green socks either one of 'em or both will be back
here before this round-up is over."
"You will, eh?" snarled Buck. "Well, we're just waitin' for 'em.
We'll swing Payson so high he'll look like a buzzard, and as for
Hoover--well, he's served his last term as sheriff in this yere county,
you hear me shouting."
McKee cut his pony with his quirt and dashed away in time to escape an
unwelcome encounter with several members of the Sweetwater outfit who
were riding back to camp.
"S-t-a-y with him, Bud, s-t-a-y with him," shouted Parenthesis, as the
first of the cowboys pitched on a bucking horse past the chuck-wagon,
the rider using quirt and spurs until he got the bronco into a lope.
The other boys followed, each cayuse apparently inventing some new sort
of deviltry.
For two weeks before the round-up the outfit had been busting broncos
at the home ranch. Each morning at dawn they started, working until
the heat of the day forced them to rest. When the temperature crawls
to 104 in the shade, and the alkali-dust is so thick in the corral that
the hoofs raise a cloud in which horses can hide themselves twenty feet
away, when eyes smart and the tongue aches in the parched mouth, it
becomes almost impossible to handle yourself, let alone a kicking,
struggling bronco.
As one day is like another, and one horse differs from another only in
the order of his tricks to avoid the rope and the saddle, a glimpse of
the horsemanship of Bud Lane and his fellows will serve as a general
picture of life on any Western ranch.
The breaking of the ponies was the work of Bud Lane, who, through the
influence of Polly, had broken with McKee and returned to work on
Sweetwater Ranch in order to assist Echo, with whom he had become
reconciled on discovering that she had been loyal to his brother even
to the extent of sending her husband into the desert to bring Dick back.
Bud was the youngest of the hands, but a lad born to the saddle and
rope. "Weak head and strong back for a horse-fighter" is a proverb on
the plains, and Bud had certainly acted the part.
Fresno and Show Low, with four flankers, had driven into the corral a
half-dozen horses untouched by man's hands since the days of colthood.
A shout, a swing of a gate, and the beasts were huddled in the round
corral, trembling and snorting. This corral has a circular fence
slightly higher than a man's head with a snubbing-post in the center.
While this is going on, Bud has laid out his cow-saddle, single-rigged,
his quirt, and pieces of grass rope for cross-hobbling.
"Ready, Bud?" asks Sage-brush.
"Yep," he replies, as he drops into the corral.
Bud adjusts the hondo and loop of his lariat, keeping his eye on the
circling horses, and picking out his first victim. The rope snakes
through the air, and falls over the head of a pony. Leaping, bucking,
striking with his hoofs at the rope about his neck, the horse fights
and snorts. As the rope tightens, shutting off his wind, he plunges
less viciously.
Bud, with the help of Fresno and Show Low, takes a turn about the
snubbing-post, easing up the rope to prevent the horse from breaking
his neck when he falls.
The pony, with braced feet, hauls on the lariat, until choking, it
throws itself. Bud in a twinkling has his knee on the bronco's neck.
Grasping the under jaw, he throws the head up in the air until the nose
points skyward. The turn is slipped from the post, and the noose is
slackened and pulled like a bridle over the animal's head, to be
fastened curbwise to his under jaw. Stunned and choked, the horse
fights for breath, giving Bud time to hobble his front feet and bridle
it. Bud jumps aside as the bronco struggles to his feet. But every
move of the beast to free itself results in a fall.
Meantime the hind foot has been noosed and fastened to the one in
front. Bud has cross-hobbled the horse, preparing it for the saddle
and the second lesson. Holding the pony by the reins and rope, Bud,
after many failures, throws a saddle-blanket across its back. With one
hand he must also toss a forty-pound saddle into place. Every move Bud
makes is fought by the bronco, every touch of blanket resented. With
his free hand, Bud must now slip the latigo strap through the
cinch-ring. Dodging, twisting, struggling, covered with sweat, the
horse foils Bud's quick movements. Finally he succeeds, and with one
tight jerk the saddle is in place.
No time to think is given the beast. Fresno and Show Low remove the
hobbles, but Bud is twisting an ear to distract its attention. This
new torture must be met with a new defense, and the horse is so dazed
that it stands still to puzzle out the problem.
This is what Bud has been waiting for. With the agility of a cat, he
swings himself into the saddle. The pony arches its back like a
bow-string, every muscle taut.
Bud jerks the reins. The horse moves forward, to find that its legs
are free. Up it goes in a long curve, alighting with his four feet
stiffly planted together. The head is down. Maddened and frightened,
the bronco bawls, like a man in a nightmare. Up in air the animal goes
again, drawing up its hind feet toward the belly, as if it would scrape
off the cinch-strap. The fore feet are extended stiffly forward.
Every time the bronco hits the ground, the jar is like the fall of a
pile-driver's weight. Bud watches every move. When the feet hit the
earth, he rises in stirrups to escape the jolt. But always he is in
the saddle, for any unexpected move.
The horse rises on its hind legs to throw the rider. Should it fall
backward, the wind will be knocked of the animal, but Bud will be out
of the saddle before he strikes the ground, and into it again before
horse can struggle erect.
If it tries the trick again, Bud uses the quirt, lashing it about the
ears, the flanks, and under the belly. There is not a part of the body
into which the biting leather does not cut. Lashing the flanks drives
the horse forward.
The struggle has been going on for twenty minutes. Bud is covered with
sweat and dust. The horse has begun to sulk. It will not respond to
rein or quirt.
Now is the time for the steel. Bud drives the spurs deep into its
flanks. The horse plunges forward with a bounding leap. Again the
spurs rasp, and again it plunges. The bronco finds that going ahead is
the only way in which to avoid punishment. Round and round the corral
it gallops until exhausted. The sweat is pouring off the brute in
rivulets. It has taken Bud forty minutes to give the first lesson.
Easing up the bronco, Bud swings out of the saddle, and then remounts.
This is done a half-dozen times, as the horse stands panting and
blowing. Then, with a quick movement, the saddle and bridle are flung
against the post. Bud pats the bronco on the neck and the flank, and
turns it loose for a second lesson in a couple of days. A third will
follow before the end of the week. Then he will saddle the horses,
unaided, ride them once or twice about the corral, and finally let one
of the hands give each the first lesson on the open plains. This means
a wild dash anywhere away from the ranch. The rider must avoid holes
in the ground, and keep up the pace until the horse slows up on its own
account. Four or five of these lessons with a post-graduate course in
dodging a waving slicker, and Sage-brush will declare all of the
broncos are "plumb gentle."
The men were riding out their new string to-day. As each passed,
Parenthesis flung a jibe at him. He had resumed his bread-making when
Polly rode to the wagon.
"Hello, Parenthesis!" was her greeting. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothin'. This yere housekeepin' is gettin' on my nervous system some
fearful." Parenthesis struck the dough a savage whack, and added: "I
ain't cut out for housekeepin'."
"You've been cut out all right," retorted Polly, glancing at his legs,
"whatever it's for."
Parenthesis was not abashed. "Yep, fer straddlin' a hoss," he proudly
replied, as if that were the chief end of man.
Polly, thus balked in her teasing, tried a new form of badinage.
"Say, the boys are all braggin' on your bread-makin'. Won't you give
me your receipt?"
"Good cooks," said Parenthesis, "never give away their receipts. Brings
bad luck to 'em next time."
"Aw, come now, Parenthy, tell me, an' I'll let you make my
weddin'-cake."
"Will you? an' let me put in whatever I want fer jokes on the boys?"
"Yep, everything goes."
"Oh, I'll give 'em somethin' to dream on, you can bet yer sweet life!
Soap fer Fresno's finger, clothes-pin fer Show Low's nose, bottle o'
anty-fat fer Slim. It's a swop, Miss Polly!"
"Well, out with yer great secret o' bread-makin'."
"Well, Miss Polly, I take flour, an' water, an' sourin's, an' a pinch
o' salt--"
"Flour an' water, an' sourin's, an' a pinch o' salt," repeated Polly,
totting the list off on her fingers. "Why, so do I, an' so does every
one. It must lie in the workin'. How long do you work the dough,
Parenthesis?"
"It must lie in the workin'," repeated Parenthesis solemnly. "Why, I
work it, an' work it--" he continued, with exasperating slowness.
"How long do you work it?" asked Polly impatiently.
"Till my han's look purty clean like!" said Parenthesis, holding up his
floury paws.
"Then you've got a day's work still before you!" snapped Polly, huffed
at seeing herself the victim of a chaffing that she herself had begun.
"I won't bother you any longer. So long!"
Parenthesis, however, desired to continue the conversation. "When is
this yere hitch between you and Bud comin' off?" he asked.
Polly drew herself up proudly, and, speaking assumed haughtiness,
replied: "We're figurin' on sendin' out the cards next month."
The cowboy's eyes twinkled. "Well, I'm a-goin' to give up
cigaroot-smokin'."
"What for?" asked Polly, in surprise.
"Goin' in trainin' to kiss the bride."
"That's nice!" said Polly, beaming.
"Yep, have to take up chawin', like Bud Lane."
Polly was saved from having to answer by Sage-brush galloping up to the
wagon.
"Put on your gun!" he shouted to Parenthesis.
Asking no questions, the cow-puncher obeyed his foreman. Trouble was
brewing, that he could plainly see. All he had to do was to obey
orders, and shoot when any one tried to point a gun at him.
Turning to Polly, he cried: "Where's Mrs. Payson?"
"She came over with me, but stopped to look over the tally for those
cows that are goin' with the drive."
More to himself than to Parenthesis or Polly, Sage-brush said: "I wish
she'd stayed at the ranch. This range is no place for women now. Buck
McKee and his outfit has tanked up with Gila whisky, an' they're just
pawin' for trouble."
"What's come over people lately?" asked Polly.
"It's all along of Hoover goin' away like he did, and leavin' us
without a sheriff, or nobody that is anybody makin' a bluff at law and
order," cried Sage-brush.
"It's sot this section back twenty years," observed Parenthesis.
"That's what it has," agreed the foreman. "Fresno reports that he
found that Peruna slappin' the Lazy K brand on one of our calves.
There ain't nobody can maverick no calves belongin' to this outfit.
Not so long as I'm ranch boss an' captain of the round-up. We've got
to take the law in our own han's an' make an example of this bunch,
right now."
Sage-brush meant what he said. He was gathering reenforcements from
his own men. He knew that the boys of the Allen ranch would side with
him, and he felt that there were enough lovers of law and order in the
county to declare themselves against the high-handed methods of Buck
McKee and his followers.
"Come on, you fellows!" shouted Show Low, as he rode past the wagon up
the range.
"What is it now?" asked Sage-brush.
Over his shoulder Show Low shouted: "We all had a run in with that Buck
McKee's bunch. Fresno's laid out with a hole in his shoulder. Billie
Nicker's cashed in. I've got some of the Triangle boys, and we're
goin' to make a clean-up."
"You ain't goin' to do nothin' unless I say so. We don't want no
range-war--we'll git the man that did the killin'. Come on," commanded
Sage-brush.
Polly galloped after the men, saying: "Gee, I'll miss something if I
don't hurry up."