in after the doctor agin', an' he come out to see him. He looks mighty
serous when he gits thar an' he sed: 'I reckin' this little chap's
mighty porely; what be ye a-feedin' him?' Andy he busted out a-cryin'
an' ses; 'Doc,' ses he, 'we ain't got nothin' but taters an' a little
hawg meat what Frank Walton sent out when we brung the little gal back,
an' we been a-savin' that fer her, not thinkin' that the boy was gittin'
sick too.'
"'Ain't ye got no cow,' ses the doc, an' Andy tole him how she done died
while we was all in town before.
"The doc he ses fer Andy to git ready an' come on to town with him that
night, an' he'd git him some more grub, an' so 'bout a hour afore sun
Andy an' the doc sets off fer town leavin' me with the two chillen."
The courtroom was so still excepting for the low, spiritless voice of
the woman, that one could hear the muffled sobs of one or two of the
women in the room whose hearts were touched with the sorrowful story she
was unfolding.
She stopped for a moment to choke back her own tears, and the attorney,
leaning towards her as she faced the jury, said almost in a whisper,
"What happened that night?"
"The pore little feller died in my arms jist about a hour before sun up
next mornin'," she replied without a quaver in her voice, but with both
hands clinched in an agony which could find no tongue in her
disheartened, hopeless condition of mind.
"Please continue, if you can," said the lawyer kindly, knowing that in
her homely recital of their grief and misfortunes lay the open road to
her husband's acquittal.
"Well, that mornin' Andy he come home with the grub, but 'twas too late
fer the boy.
"He was shore all broke up over it an' sat all day long without sayin' a
word 'ceptin' he guessed the Lord 'sort of had it in fer us pore folks
an' only looked after the rich ones like ole man Barker an' his kind.
"'Twas fifteen miles to the nearest neighbors, an' anyhow they was all
a-skeered of the fever, they havin' a lot of kids of their own, so me
an' Andy we reckoned the best thing we could do was to bury him rite in
our field whar we could take keer of his little grave.
"'Bout this time, the range stock began to bother us a-gittin' in the
field an' a-damagin' the crap. Andy he sent word to Barker to send some
of his men down thar an' carry off the worst ones, but the foreman he
said 'twan't none of his business, thar was a fence law in this here
state, an' we must fence our land ef we wanted to raise a crap.
"Then the grub what we brung down from town done give out an' the little
gal she sort of seemed to be a pinin' away right afore our eyes.
"One evenin' some of the cattle broke into the field agin', an' Andy was
a-drivin' 'em out, a yearlin' calf breaks back an' dodged into the
little pole corral we done made fer a milk pen.
"Andy he vowed he'd put a 'yoke' onto him, he bein' the wust one of em
all for breakin' through the fence; so he puts up the bars intendin' to
fix him as soon as we got the rest out.
"Bimeby, we goes to the corral meanin' to fix him with a yoke an' turn
him out, but when I seed that there brand of Barker's onto him, an' we
ain't nothin' to eat but taters, an' Barker's stock a-ruinin' our crap
faster than it could grow; I just got that bitter I didn't much care
what did happen.
"Andy he sets down the axe he done brung out to the corral to make the
yoke with, an' goes into the cabin fer a piece of balin' wire to tie the
yoke on with, an' while he's gone all the bad in me come to the top, an'
I drives the yearlin' into the little calf pen where we shuts up the
milk calves, an' taken the axe an' hit him a lick on the haid with it as
he made a sort of pass at me, which brung him to the ground.
"When Andy come back with the balin' wire, the calf was daid. He were
terribly cut up about it but I ses, 'We can't be much wuss off, an' I'm
that hongry fer somethin' besides taters, that I don't care what happens
to us.'
"As fer the rest of it, I reckin what the detective feller said is about
right. We done butchered the calf the best we could, an' buried the hide
what was found, an' so I reckin you all men knows now jist who killed
that thar yearling of Barker's, fer 'twere me what did it an' not Andy
Morrow a-tall."
Her voice was raised as she spoke the last few words, and she threw her
head back, and swept a look of defiance around the courtroom.
Directly before her sat old man Barker, his eyes staring straight into
hers, his great hairy hands gripping a red bandana until the cords and
veins stood out like ropes, while down his face the tears were making
their way through the rough stubbly beard that covered it without any
effort on his part to stay their course. Barker moved uneasily in his
chair; in the tense stillness of the room its creaking smote the silence
like a shot and drew every eye in the room to him. He grasped the back
of the chair in front of him, struggled partly to his feet, and then
sank back again. His mouth opened; he licked his parched lips like some
hunted wild animal.
"The, the--gal," he gasped, never taking his eyes from the woman's face,
"the little gal, wh--what come of her?" he demanded hoarsely, a great
something in his throat almost choking him, "did-did-sh-he," and his
voice failed him completely.
The woman smiled scornfully. "She did not," she said, realizing the
drift of his unspoken question, "we done made a pot of soup out of some
of that there yearlin' an' fed her some of the meat, an' she perked up
an' come through all right." Then--daughter of Eve that she was--she
broke down and burst into tears.
Over the face of the old cattleman swept a look of joy and relief that
words cannot portray. He mopped his flushed face and streaming eyes with
the handkerchief, utterly unconscious that every eye in the courtroom
was upon him, then, turning, brought his great hand down upon the back
of his foreman beside him with force enough to have almost broken it.
His face was wreathed in smiles. "Glory be," he almost shouted, "glory
be--thank God for that."
* * * * *
Five minutes later Stutterin' Andy walked out of the courtroom a free
man.
[Illustration]
THE PASSING OF BILL JACKSON
By permission _The Argonaut_, San Francisco, Cal.
"I tell you fellows, 'tain't no fun to swim a bunch of steers when the
water is as cold as it is now." The speaker was a short, thick-set
cowboy, whose fiery red hair had gained for him the sobriquet of
"Colorado," the Mexican name for red, which was frequently shortened to
"Colly" among the "punchers."
Colorado, who was carefully rolling a cigarette, glanced around the
circle of listeners, as if challenging some one to contradict him. The
balance of the boys evidently agreed with him, for no one said a word
except the "Kid," and he, after taking his pipe from his lips and
carefully knocking out the ashes on the heel of his boot, said:
"'Jever have any 'sperience at it, Colly?"
Colorado by this time had finished rolling his cigarette and was waiting
for the cook's pot-hook, which he had thrust into the campfire, to get
red-hot, to light it. Having done this and taken a few preliminary
puffs, he answered:
"Yes, I hev, and a mighty tough one it was, too."
"Tell us about it, Colorado," said the cook. "Whar was it, an' how did
it happen?"
"Yes, Colly, le's hear the story," chimed in the Kid.
It was just the time for a story. We had come down to the railroad with
a bunch of steers, and found the Little Colorado River, which ran
between us and the railroad, swollen to a mighty torrent by the rains in
the mountains.
We had waited four days for it to go down, but it seemed rather to rise
a little each day. As the feed was poor and we had lots of work to do,
the boss was in a hurry to get them shipped and off his hands, and so
had just announced, that at daylight the next morning he meant to try to
swim the herd across. It was late in October and the weather was snappy
cold. Overcoats and heavy clothes were an absolute necessity in the
night on guard around the herd, and the idea of going into that cold
water was not a pleasant one. But the cow-puncher is much like the
sailor, in that he never stops to think of getting wet, or cold, or
going into any danger as long as the boss himself will lead the way; so
we were all prepared to get a soaking the next day.
It was that pleasant time in the evening between sunset and dark. The
herd was bedded down near camp, and the first guard were making their
rounds, with never a steer to turn back. The balance of us were lying
about the campfire, smoking and talking "hoss," a subject which is never
worn threadbare in a cow-camp. Colorado, who had been idly marking out
brands in the sand in front of him with the end of his fingers, said:
"Well, boys, 'taint much of a story, but ef you want to hear it, I'll
tell you how it was. Dick, gimme a bite of your navy," and having stowed
away a huge chunk of Dick's "navy," Colly settled back on the ground and
began:
"I was workin' fer the Diamond outfit up in Utah, 'bout three years ago,
an' the old man he come off down here into Arizona an' bought a bunch of
steers to take up thar. He done written his wagon-boss to come down with
an outfit big enough to handle two thousand head, an' we struck the
Little Colorado River 'bout the mouth of the Cañon Diablo wash, where we
was to receive the herd 'long in June. We didn' have no partickler
hap'nin's comin' down, and we got the herd turned over all right, an'
built a 'squeeze chute' an' branded 'em all before we started back; so
as, if any got lost, the outfit could claim 'em on the brand: an' about
the last of June we pushed 'em off the bed-ground one mornin', before
daylight, an' pulled our freight for the home ranch.
"The cattle were all good to handle, an' didn't give us no trouble to
hold nights, barrin' one or two little stampedes, an' we drifted on down
toward Lee's Ferry without any mishaps, 'ceptin' one night it were
a-rainin' like all possessed, an' I wakes up a feller named Peck to go
on guard. Peck got up an' put on his slicker, walked over to where his
pony was tied, an' mounted. We was camped on the banks of a wash called
Cottonwood Creek, an' along there the wash had cut down into the 'dobe
flat, some ten or fifteen feet deep. Peck he's 'bout half asleep, an'
gets off wrong for the herd, an' rides straight up to the edge of the
creek, thinkin' all the time he's a-goin' out on the prairie to the
herd. His pony sort of balked on him an' give a snort, but Peck bein' a
cross-grained sort of cuss, an' only half awake, just bathed him with
his quirt, an' jabbed his spurs into him. The pony give a jump an'
landed in the middle of the creek, with six or eight feet of muddy water
runnin' in it. Lord, didn't Peck wake up suddenlike, an' squall for
help? We all turned out in a hurry, but he swam across, an' the opposite
side bein' sort of slopin'like, the pony scrambled out. Then Peck was
afeered to cross back in the dark, an' stayed over thar all night,
a-shiverin' an' a-shakin' an' a-cursin' like a crazy man. When we got up
for breakfast that mornin' at four o'clock it was clear, an' cold, an'
dark. The cook he goes down to the creek an' hollers to Peck sort of
sarcastic-like, 'Come to breakfast, Peck!' an' Peck he gets mad an'
swears at the _cocinero_ pretty plenty, an' said ef he didn't go back
he'd turn loose on him with his six-shooter, an' the cook, bein' pretty
rollicky hisself, he goes back to the wagon an' pulls his Winchester an'
starts fer the creek agin, but Jackson stops him an' turns him back.
When it comes daylight Peck went down the creek a mile and finds a place
to cross whar it wa'n't so deep, an' so gits back to camp jist as we was
pullin' out.
"The Big Colorado were a powerful stream when we reached it, bein' all
swollen by heavy rains up in the mountains an' we all kinder hated to
tackle it. Before he left, the old man told the wagon-boss to ferry the
outfit an' horses over in the boat, but to swim the steers.
"You know how Lee's Ferry is; the river comes out of a box cañon above,
an' the sides break away a little, an' then a mile below it goes into
the box agin, where the walls is three thousand feet high an' the
current runs like a mill-race.
"It was shore a nasty place to swim a bunch of steers, an' Jackson, he
knowed we had a big job on hand when we got there. Jackson was the best
wagon-boss I ever see or worked under. He was a tall, slim chap, could
outwork any two men in the outfit, wasn't afeerd of nothin', an' though
he couldn't read or write, I tell you, boys, he savvyed cows a heap.
What he didn't know 'bout cows wa'n't worth knowin'. He didn't let the
steers water the day before, so's they'd be powerful dry an' take to the
river easier.
"We fust got the wagon over on the ferry boat, which was a big concern,
long enuff to drive a four-hoss team onto, an' which was rowed by four
men. The cook he was mighty skerry 'bout goin' onto this here boat,
'cause he said 'bout a year afore that he'd been a-punching cows in
southern Arizony, an' a feller there shipped a lot of cattle up inter
Californey to put on an island in the ocean near Los Angeles. They
loaded 'em onto flat scows with a high railin' round 'em, an' put 'bout
fifty head on each scow an' a puncher on it to look out fer 'em. Goin'
over to the island the tug what was a-towin' 'em by the horn of the
saddle, so to speak, busted the string, an' thar bein' quite a wind
blowin', an' big ole waves a-floppin' round, the four scows began to
butt an' bump up agin' one another like a lot of muley bulls a-fightin',
an' the cattle got to runnin' back an' forth an' a-bellerin' an'
a-bawlin', an' them punchers, they shore thought their very last day had
come. The cook he never expected to see dry land agin', an' he jist
vowed if he ever got back to the prairie that he'd punch no more cows on
boats.
"Well, bimeby, the tug got a new lariat onto 'em agin' an' corraled 'em
all safe enuff at the wharf, but the cook 'lowed he war a dry-land
terrapin an' wouldn't ever agin get into no such scrape, not ef he
knowed hisself. However, he did get up 'nuff spunk to tackle the ferry,
an' went over safely. After we got the wagon acrost, we went back an'
started the cattle down the side cañon what leads into the crossin'.
"Jackson's idee was to git the hosses ahead of the steers an' let 'em
follow. You know hosses swim anywheres, an' the cattle will allers
foller 'em. So he puts three men in a little boat, two to row an' one to
lead a hoss knowin' the balance would foller him right across.
"The hoss-wrangler hed the 'cavvy' all ready, an' jist as the leaders of
the herd come down to the water's edge the boys in the boat pulled out,
a-leadin' a hoss, an' the other hosses follered right in an' was soon
a-swimmin'. Then when they was all strung out an' doin' fine, we crowded
the steers into the water after 'em. They was all powerful dry an' took
to the water easy 'nuff, an' afore the leaders knowed it they was
a-swimmin' in fine shape. Jackson wouldn't let us holler or shoot till
we got 'em all inter the water, an' then we jerked our six-shooters an'
began to fog 'em an' yell like a bunch of Comanches.
"You all know thar's one thing to be afeered of in swimmin' a lot of
cattle, and that's when they gets to millin'. Jackson had swum cattle
across the Pecos in Texas, an' the Yellowstone in Montana, an' saveyed
'xactly what to do. But this here Colorado at Lee's Ferry is a bad place
to tackle, fer you're bound to get out on the other side afore you get
into the box cañon, or your name's Dennis, 'cause once a feller gits
into the cañon he's got to go on clean down about a hundred miles afore
he can strike a level place big enuff to crawl out on.
"Soon as the cattle got well strung out, Jackson began to undress
hisself. He took off all his clothes but his pants, an' then buckled his
six-shooter belt around him, an' pulled the saddle off'n his hoss.
"I says, 'Bill, you ain't a-goin' to try to swim it, are you?' an' he
says, 'No, not 'less I have to; but if they gets to millin' out thar
we'll lose the whole herd, an' the only way to break it up is to ride
out an' shoot among 'em an' skeer 'em.' He knowed it were risky, for if
anything went wrong he was shore to be carried into the cañon an'
drowned. But Bill Jackson wa'n't the sort of a wagon-boss to stop at
anything to save the herd, an' sure 'nuff, 'bout the time the leaders
got fairly into the middle of the river, 'long comes a big cottonwood
tree a-driftin' an' whirlin' down stream right into 'em. That skeert 'em
an' turned 'em, an' 'fore we knowed it they was doubled back on the
balance an' swimmin' round an' round, for all the world like driftwood
in a big eddy in a creek. This was what Jackson was afeerd of, an' he
pushed his hoss into the river an' takes his six-shooter in his hand. He
was ridin' a little Pinto pony they called 'Blue Jay,' one of the best
all-around cow-ponies I ever see.
"Old Blue Jay he jist seemed to savey what was wanted of him, an' swam
'long without any fuss. When Jackson gits out close to the millin'
steers he begin to holler an' shoot, an' he called to the fellers in the
boat to come back an' try to stop 'em. Now, you all know what a risky
thing it is to go near a steer a-swimmin' in the water, for he's sure
to try to climb up on you. Jackson knowed this, but he swam Blue Jay
right slap-dab inter the bunch an' tried to scatter 'em an' stop 'em
from millin'.
"Just how it happened we couldn't tell; but first thing we seen Jackson
was right in the middle of the millin' critters, an' in a minute they
had crowded pore old Blue Jay under, an' all we seen of Jackson was his
hands went up an' then he was lost in the whirlin' mass of horns that
was goin' round and round. A man had no chance at all to swim, 'cause
their hoofs kep' him under all the time, an' they was packed so close a
feller couldn't come up between 'em, anyway. The boys in the boat tried
to do something, but 'twan't no use, fer he never come up, an' when they
got too close one big steer throwed his head over the side of the boat
an' purty nigh upset 'em, so they had to keep away to save theirselves.
But they kep' up a-shootin' an' a-hollerin' 'till the leaders finally
struck out for shore, an' in a few minutes the whole herd was strung out
for the opposite side an' sooner than I kin tell it they was all
standin' on dry land, an' not a single one missin'.
"Meantime the boys in the boat had watched everywhere for pore Jackson's
body, but they never got sight of it, though they went 'most down to the
mouth of the box cañon. Thar was lots of big trees an' drift a-runnin',
an' we guessed his body had been caught in the branches of a tree an'
carried down with it. Pore old Blue Jay come floating past 'em, an' they
tried to catch him, but the current was so swift they couldn't do it.
All they wanted was to get Jackson's silver-mounted bridle off'n him,
'cause 'twas easy 'nuff to see that the pony was quite dead.
"Well, the rest of us crossed in the big ferry-boat an' rounded up the
steers, which was grazin' up the cañon on the other side, an' moved 'em
out a couple of miles to camp. Shorty, bein' the oldest hand in the
outfit, took charge, an' sent two of us back to the ferry, to try an'
see ef Jackson's body could be found, but the feller what runs the ferry
said 'tain't no use lookin' fer him, 'cause the swift current would
carry him miles and miles down the cañon without ever lodgin' anywhere.
So we went back, an' Shorty gave it up an' decided to push the herd on
next day. We was a blue ole crowd that night around the campfire, I tell
you. All the boys liked Jackson, an' besides, they was a-thinkin' of his
wife an' two kids what was a-waitin' for him at the headquarter ranch up
in Utah.
"Shorty sent a letter from the ferry settlement to the old man,
a-tellin' him what had happened, an' we come along up with the cattle,
arrivin' safely at the ranch without any more misfortunes."
"An' didn't they never find Jackson's body, Colly?" queried the Kid.
"Wal," said Colly, "that's a singular thing, too. When we gets back to
the ranch the old man he was orful cut up about it, an' hated to think
that the body wasn't found. He'd been down in the Grand Cañon the summer
afore with a lot of fellers, an' he said he believed he could find it
'bout a hundred miles below the ferry, 'cause thar were a place down
thar in the cañon whar the walls widened out fer some twenty miles, an'
thar was quite a valley with grassy meadows an' trees. So he takes one
of the boys an' a pack outfit an' goes off down thar. They had to leave
everything on top of the cañon an' climb down a-foot an' pack their
stuff on their backs. The walls was six thousand feet high thar, an'
they had a hard time gettin' down. Course, it was jist a scratch, but
I'm blest if after four or five days' hunt they didn't find it lodged in
a pile of drift along the river. 'Twas easy 'enuff to tell Jackson's
body, fer he'd had two fingers of his left hand shot off in a fight
once; so they takes it off to a place in the valley whar it was safe
from flood, an' buries it as well as they could, an' next year, he went
back an' packed the remains out of the cañon an' took them clean to the
ranch an' buried 'em jist as if it was his own brother. I tell you, the
boys was ready to swear by old man Saunders after that."
Colorado's story was finished, and as it was about ten-thirty the second
guard-men began putting on overcoats and heavy gloves preparatory to two
hours and a half of watching the herd.
The stars were shining clear and bright, the bells of the horse-herd
came softly over the prairie, making a tuneful chime on the frosty night
air, and as I untied the rope that bound my roll of bedding and kicked
it out on the ground, I could not keep from thinking of poor Jackson's
death and wondering if the morrow held a like fate in store for any of
us.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE TENDERFOOT FROM YALE
By permission _American Forestry Magazine_.
"The trouble with this here forest service business nowadays is, that
they're sendin' out, from the effete and luxurious East, a lot of
half-baked kids, what never seen a mountain in all their lives, don't
know whether beans is picked from trees or made in a factory at Battle
Creek, an' generally ain't got savvy enough to find their way home after
dark.
"Now here's this kid we've drawed in the last deal; nice enough boy, I
reckon, but who's goin' to play nursey to him up in these here hills?"
The speaker glared at his companion as if defying him to meet his
charges against the newcomer and his kind.
"But he's got eddication, Jack," replied his listener, "an' that's what
counts in these days. We got into the service in them good old days when
it was a case of ability to ride a pitchin' bronc, rope a maverick,
chase sheep herders off the earth, shoot the eyes out of a wildcat at
forty yards an' all them things. Nowadays they picks 'em out by their
brand of learnin' an' not by their high-heeled boots."
"Howsomever," he continued, "there's some of them that makes good in
spite of their eddicational handicap. Over on the Sierra last fall we
was all a-settin' in camp one Sunday afternoon when the phone rings like
they was trying to wake the dead with it. The old man gits up to answer
it. When he says, sort of startled-like, 'Fire, where?' we all pricks up
our ears. 'Twas a mighty dry time an' every one was a-prayin' for rain,
for we'd been fightin' fire for the last month and was all in.
"We had a fire lookout station up on top of a high peak an' a man, with
the best glasses money could buy, a-sittin' there who could see all over
the range for fifty miles.
[Illustration: "_We had a fire lookout station on top of a high peak_"]
"Say, people got so they was afraid to make a campfire anywheres in them
hills, an' the rangers swore they had to go behind a tree to light their
pipes, lest he'd see the smoke an' send in a fire call.
"'Shut-eye,' said the old man, meaning the lookout, 'Shut-eye says
there's a big smoke a-comin' out of the cañon below Gold Gulch to the
left of Greyback Peak, an' I reckon we'd better be a-movin' that way.'
"It didn't take us long to saddle up, slap a pack onto a couple of
mules, an' hit the trail. 'Twas a good ten-mile over a rough country,
an' it was mighty nigh dark afore we gets to where we could see smoke
a-boiling out of the cañon over a ridge ahead of us.
"We was all old-timers at the work, 'ceptin' a young feller fresh from
the Yale Forestry School, what had come out for a sort of post-graduate
course in forestry, an' some of them boys was seein' to it he got it all
right.
"He had all the fixin's them fellers bring along with them, fancy ridin'
panties, a muley saddle, a wind bed an' a automatic six-pistol, one of
them things what, after she once gits to shootin', you jist got to throw
her into the creek to stop her goin'.