near as we thought we could, an' not skeer thim, we each picks out wan
an' let him have it where we believed it would do the most good. Mine
never ran ten feet; Jim's fell down within a quarter; the third wan
struck off down the valley at a great rate, an' Jim, bein' hell-bent fer
ropin' things, hollered, 'Le's rope it, le's rope it!' an' jabbed his
spurs into his pony an' tore off, takin' down his rope an' makin a loop
as he wint.
"'Rope him if ye will,' sez I, lammin' me old digger wid me quirt, 'but
it's meself that ropes no outlandish heathin thing lookin' more like it
come out of old Noah's ark than a daycent, respectable range critter'.
But I follered along as fast as I could git me pony to move, him bein'
none too anxious to git close to the slobberin' cross between a
step-ladder an' a hayrack, that was lumberin' along ahead of us.
"Jim's pony was a darlin' to run, an' as he was a-gittin' closer for a
throw I sez to meself, 'If iver that crazy lad ahead puts his line on to
that there travelin' maynagerie he's a-follerin' he's a-goin' to need
help to turn it loose, sure.' So I waits fer the outcome, feelin'
certain I'd be needed before long.
"Bimeby Jim he gits a good chanst fer a throw an' drops his line over
the long, ungainly head in front of him; but the rope, instid of
grippin' the critter's throat, slipped back an' drew up ag'in its
breast, an' whin Jim tried to check him up the pony couldn't hold him.
Whin the hard jerk come Jim's flank cinch busted, the pony begins to
pitch, an' between the pitchin' an' the saddle drawin' up on the pony's
neck, poor Jim lost out an' went up into the air like a shootin' star,
landin' on his head in a pile of rocks. The saddle stripped over the
pony's head, an' away went the whole outfit, through brush, over rocks,
across washes, like hell a-beatin' tanbark. The rope bein' tied hard an'
fast to the horn, Jim's new $50 saddle wint danglin' along behind, like
a tin can tied to a dog's tail. When Jim come to, a few minutes later
on, he wiped his hand across his face, looked at the blood on it, an'
sez to me, sort of foolish like, 'What struck me, Pat?'
"'I reckon 'twas wan of Jeff Davis's camels,' sez I."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE TRINIDAD KID
There's a girl I'd love to see,
She's a waiting there for me,
'Way down yonder in the southwest land.
She has eyes of dreamy blue,
And her heart is always true,
'Way down yonder on the Rio Grande.
The singer was riding slowly around a herd of steers "bedded down" on an
open flat about a quarter of a mile from the western, or Mexican bank of
the river of which he sang.
It was the first guard, from eight to ten, and the steers, having had a
fine day's grazing, were all lying down chewing their cuds as
comfortably as a bunch of milk cows in a dairy barn.
Across the herd his "side partner" on the guard was riding toward him,
so that twice in each circle of the herd they met for an instant and
then each jogged on into the darkness.
As they met this time the singer finished the verse, and his pony
acknowledged the slight shifting of his rider's body in the saddle by
coming to a stop.
"Gimme a match," demanded the singer as he felt in his vest pocket for
the "makings." "Here 'tis," replied the other, "and I reckon I'll just
build a smoke myself."
"Let's jog along together," suggested the second man, "and you sing, for
if we stand here and strike a match this herd of oxen will just about
get up and quit the flats."
Down along the river bank the dim spark of the cook's fire showed where
the outfit was camped, while a short distance beyond it the Rio Grande
at full flood roared like a sullen yellow monster.
The fringe of cottonwoods and _Tornillos_ along its bank were outlined
against the background of the sky like shadow pictures, while an
occasional dull crash told of the loss of another slice of the Republic
of Mexico where, undermined by the swift flood, a piece of the bank had
dropped into the river and was on its way to the gulf.
"Do you reckon we'll have much trouble swimmin' these steers tomorrow?"
asked the singer, as, contrary to the rules of night-herding of all cow
outfits, they rode along together.
"No, I don't believe we will," was the reply. "Uncle John savvys this
river like a native, an' if he looks at it tomorrow an' says 'Cross
'em,' they'll make it all right."
"Well, she's sure high, and 'tain't the water I'm afraid of half so much
as the infernal quicksand. I never did like the water, nohow." He shook
his head: "Once I got into the quicksand in the Little Colorado over in
Arizony and like to ended up in the _Campo Santo_ fer sure."
"Say" and his companion handed him a flaming match--"you smoke up a
little an' fergit all that. We got troubles aplenty without huntin' up
imaginary things to git skeered of. Did you hear the yarn that stray man
was a-tellin' in camp tonight?" he remarked, with the evident intention
of drawing his friend from so gloomy an outlook.
"Never a word; I was shoeing my horse when he was talkin' an' didn't
hear what he was sayin'. What was he talkin' about?" the singer queried.
"Well," said the other, "it 'pears like he was workin' fer the Turkey
Track outfit in Arizony and him an' another Turkey Track screw comes
over the line to git a little touch of high life among the _paisanos_ on
this side. Well, they gits it all right, for between half a dozen
Mexican women, two or three _hombres_, an' a kaig of mescal, 'tain't
hard to start something; an' when the dust settled down this stray gent
finds hisself with a dead man on his hands an' him over here where it's
the eagle an' the snake instead of the Stars an' Stripes a-flyin'
overhead. I was busy makin' down my bed an' never heerd how he come out
'ceptin' he says there was some fool law these Mexicans has which don't
allow the body of any one what dies on Mexican soil to be taken out of
the country for five years. So he had to leave his friend there instead
of gittin' him acrost an' plantin' him up in the Pan Handle where his
folks lived."
"What for don't they let any dead body be taken out of this here
country?" And the boy turned uneasily in his saddle.
"Damfino," replied the other; "reckon it's just some cranky notion these
Greasers got; maybeso they likes your sassiety an' hates to part with
you, but, anyhow, that's the law all right, all right, an' if you dies
here, you stays here, for five years, if no longer."
"Say, Jim," the kid's voice was full of awe; "My old mammy's up yonder
in Trinidad, an' by hooky, if I was to die down here an' she couldn't
git hold of me to bury me up there where she laid the old man an' my
sister, she's like to go plum loco, fer sure."
"Well, you better make your plans to die on 'tother side the line or
else so close to it that somebody can haze you across without any of
them there _Rurales_ gittin' on to your game," was Jim's reply, as he
returned from chasing a steer back into the herd. "So far as I'm
concerned," he continued, "I don't reckon it makes much difference where
I'm stuck away, for I'm a drifter an' ain't got no kin that I knows of,
an' I guess when a feller's dead he kin hear ole Gabe blow his horn on
this side the Rio Grande jist as easy as on 'tother."
The next morning the sun was just peeping over the sand hills away to
the east when Uncle John, who had been down along the river since the
first gray streak in the sky announced the coming of day, rode into camp
as the boys were catching out their horses. As the wagon boss glanced at
him, he nodded and said, "All right, George, we'll try it this morning;
the river has fallen a lot since last night."
"Which means that I turns this here mule loose an' gits me a horse,"
remarked one of the riders who had just roped a little black saddle
mule, "fer a mule ain't no earthly good in water. If they gits their
ears wet, they jist lays down on you, an' quits right there."
"On her hand I placed a ring,
When I left her in the spring,
'Way down yonder in the southwest land."
The singer's voice rose above the shouts of the other boys as they
pushed the cattle along toward the river.
"An' she said she'd not forget me,
Oh, she'll be there to meet me,
'Way down yonder on the Rio Grande."
"That's right, Kid, sing to 'em. Time you've got through with this here
muddy water job she won't know you if she is there to meet you," laughed
the horse-wrangler.
As the herd swung down to the river, the horse-wrangler had his entire
_remuda_ at the water's edge, and with two men to help him he slowly
forced the horses out into the stream, with old Bennie, the crack
"cutting horse" of the outfit, in the lead. The old rascal had been used
for this work for ten years and well knew that there was a nose bag full
of oats waiting for him on the further bank of the river.
As the steers on the O. T. ranch had always been handled by placing the
horse herd ahead of them when corraling or taking a narrow trail down
some cañon, they followed the horses with little delay.
On the upper side of the lead cattle rode the Trinidad Kid on his best
horse.
"Oh I know a shady spot,
Where we'll build a little cot,
'Way down yonder in the southwest land.
"And the mocking birds will sing,
And the wedding bells will ring,
'Way down yonder on the Rio Grande,"
he sang loudly as his pony plowed through the muddy water.
"Say Dick," shouted the man behind him, "ain't you going to ask us to
all the doings when them wedding bells cut loose?"
"I reckon so," was the answer, "and what's more, if I gets me onto the
yonderly side of this streak of mud, I'm a going to stay there. I've
seen all I want to of this 'mañana land.'"
Just at the critical time, when everything seemed to be working out all
right, a great wave of water swept down the stream and broke with a
crash right in front of the leading steers. They hesitated for a moment,
then another wave broke, and still another, and in an instant the
leaders were swinging back on to each other in their senseless panic. In
less than a minute a hundred of them were swimming round and round in
the muddy waters, a whirling, struggling mass of horns and bodies. They
jumped upon one another, bearing the under ones down into the water,
until it was boiling with the fighting, maddened animals.
The kid did not wait for orders. Well he knew that it was up to him to
break up that milling mighty quick or the whole day's work was lost.
Heading his pony toward the struggling mass of animals, he drove at them
without an instant's hesitation.
"Oh the mocking birds will sing,
And the wedding bells will ring,
'Way down yonder on the Rio Grande."
Singing at the top of his voice and swinging his slicker over his head,
he swept down on the outside steers, being crowded on to them by the
swift current against which his plucky pony struggled hard. Had he
abandoned the effort and turned the animal up stream, facing the
current, he might have breasted it and held his own, but the kid
resolutely kept his place as well as he could.
"'Way down yonder on the Rio Grande,
'Way down yonder in that southwest land,"
he sang valiantly as he thrashed the steers with his yellow slicker,
trying to turn them from their course. He was rapidly accomplishing his
purpose, and a few of the leaders were already turned and about to
string out for the shore, when one broad-horned fellow right behind him
raised in the water like some huge sea monster, and lunged upon his
horse's hips with both front feet.
The weight of the steer drove the horse down into the water, the swift
current swept him on to his side, and in a second he was under the mass
of steers, his rider hanging to him.
A few minutes later the horse came into view from below the cattle but
the boy was missing. Uncle John, at the first sign of trouble had dashed
toward the spot, and as the horse came into sight leaned from his
saddle, grabbed the bridle rein and pulled the half-drowned animal on
to his feet in the shallower water. Spurring into the deep water again,
he and the men with him swung up and down the line of cattle, watching
with eager, anxious eyes for the slightest sign of a human form, but
they could see nothing.
Meantime the steers were rapidly crossing, and the leaders had already
climbed out on to the opposite bank and were working back from the
river, coughing and shaking their dripping bodies.
Two other men joined Uncle John in the search for the lost singer, but
though they watched every spot, riding up and down the stream for a
mile, they were unable to discover any sign of the boy.
Leaving Jim and another man to watch the river, the rest of the outfit
pushed the steers out on to the open range to graze.
Up and down the bank all that day the two men rode, reinforced by all
the others who could be spared from the herd. Across the seat of the
saddle on the horse ridden by the boy was a deep scar where the rowels
of his spur had cut the leather, done probably as he slipped from the
horse as he went under.
The steers could not be held there long, so the next morning Uncle John,
with a heavy heart, started the outfit at daybreak for the railroad
loading pens, thirty miles away, leaving Jim, who had asked for the job,
behind to keep a lookout for the body of the drowned cowboy. All day
long he rode the banks of the river. Every eddy as well as the great
rafts of driftwood, was carefully searched. Just a short time before
sunset he noticed a couple of buzzards a little lower down on the river
slowly circling overhead. He knew their keen eyes saw something, and
both hoping and dreading that it was what he sought, he worked his way
down towards the point over which the great birds were hovering. Here
the river had cut into the sandy bank and a thicket of willows hung over
the yellow water. Getting down onto one knee, Jim peered under them.
Yes, there was "something" there. His heart came into his mouth, he
gasped for breath, and the cold sweat stood on his face in great drops.
A long, lance like pole from a nearby pile of drift wood, furnished him
with a tool to sound the depth of water along the bank. It was not over
waist deep, the bottom was firm, and, dropping off the bank, he waded
down under the overhanging brush. There, floating in the stream, was the
body of the Kid. A bough had caught in the belt of his leather "chaps"
and held it firmly. It was the work of a moment for Jim to attach one
end of his saddle rope to the belt and carry the other back with him to
the open spot above the willows. His first intention was to tow the body
up to a place where it could be taken out and then go for help.
Wading up the stream, he climbed out on the bank and sat down to rest
for a moment. It was second nature for him to get out his pipe and
tobacco, and as he sat there the talk between himself and the singer
around the herd the night before the crossing came to his mind. What
could he do? The body was found on Mexican soil. About a hundred yards
from the bank behind his was a little Mexican _jacal_, or hut, where he
had noticed half a dozen children--even now he could hear their shouts
as they played. To get it away from there was seemingly impossible.
The twilight was nearly over and in the east the sky was glowing with
the light of the moon, which almost at the full would soon rise. For
half an hour he sat there thinking, the pipe smoked out and dead between
his teeth. Then he rose, knocked the ashes out on his boot heel, slipped
the pipe into his pocket, and worked his way carefully up to the top of
the bank behind him. Peering through the fringe of trees, he saw in the
moonlight the mud daubed _jacal_. A dog barked, in the distance a coyote
answered with its shrill "yip, yip," and from the limbs of a
mesquite--the family chicken coop--a rooster saluted the rising of the
moon with a cheerful crow. In front of the _jacal_ a bright spark glowed
where the fire of mesquite limbs over which the evening supper had been
cooked, was dying away, and he could dimly make out the forms of the
family asleep on the ground near the hut.
Then, satisfied with the condition of things, he carefully worked his
way back to the edge of the river, and, having looked to the rope, which
he had fastened to a sharp piece of drift driven into the sand, lay down
by it and in ten seconds was fast asleep.
About three o'clock the next morning, just as the moon dropped behind
the cottonwoods along the river, throwing deep shadows over its sullen
tide, four steers, probably lost from the herd the day before, came down
to the river to drink. As they reached the edge of the water one raised
his head quickly and snuffed the air. The others also threw up their
heads and tested the air with their keen noses, their great ears cocked
forward to catch the slightest sound. High headed and suspicious, they
all stood for an instant, and then as if with one impulse ran back a few
steps and stopped to look again.
Out there in the deep shadow something moved slowly and heavily. Now and
then a splash came from the object as the water struck against it.
The steers snuffed and licked their lips as do such animals where fear
and curiosity is struggling in them for the mastery. Then as the
something moved more distinctly, with terror in their eyes they all
turned and burst into the darkness behind them, crashing through the
young cottonwoods and over piles of loose driftwood in their mad haste
to escape--they knew not what. Still, the "something" came on; slowly it
moved through the muddy waters until the form of a man could be
distinguished in the uncertain light, carrying some heavy load.
At the edge of the river the man placed his burden on the soft sand and
dropped down, panting for breath.
* * * * *
At noon that day, a single horseman rode a tired, sweat-covered animal
into a little town on the railroad some thirty miles from the river. Two
hours later, away to the north, under the snow-capped Rockies, where the
city of Trinidad nestles below the Raton Pass, a lone woman received
this brief message:
"Dick was accidentally drowned yesterday crossing the river. Wagon
will be here tomorrow with body, Please wire instructions.
"JAMES SCOTT."
[Illustration]
PABLO
By permission _The Breeder's Gazette_, Chicago, Ill.
"And Pablo."
"Señor?" And the boy looked inquiringly at the speaker. "You stay right
here around this meadow. Here's plenty of feed and water for your band
till I come back from town. Savvey?"
"Si, Señor."
"I won't be gone but three days, Pablo," continued the man, shifting
uneasily in his saddle, "an' it's a tough deal to give you, but there's
nothing else to do. That misable, onery Mack is drunk down in town an'
won't never git out till his money's all gone an' somebody takes him by
the scruff of the neck an' kicks him out of the saloon an' loads him
onto his horse. You've got twelve hundred ewes an' 'leven hundred of the
best lambs that this here range has ever seen. There's ten _negros_,
_tres campanas_, an' _cinco chivos_; reckon you can keep track of 'em
all?"
"Si, Señor," assented the boy, in whose veins flowed the blood of almost
three centuries of sheepherders, "_tres_ bells-_campanas_," and three
fingers indicated the number of belled ewes in the bunch, "_cinco_
goats," and one outspread hand showed the number of goats with the ewes,
"_diez_ black-a markers," holding up all ten fingers.
"That's right, _muchacho_," answered the man; "you keep track of your
markers an' bells an' goats, an' you won't lose any sheep. There's
plenty of water here for your camp, and the sheep won't need any for
some days. There's a lot of poison weeds lower down on the mountain, an'
it won't do to graze the band that-a-way. Take 'em up toward the top if
you go anywhere; but keep your camp here an' stay with it till I come
back, savvey?"
"Si, Señor," with a quick nod of the head.
The man dropped off his horse, gave the curly black mop on the boy's
head a hasty pat, picked up the lead rope of a pack mule standing near
and, mounting, rode off down the trail.
The little meadow was located on a small bench high on the breast of a
mountain whose bare granite peaks rose rough and ragged far above the
timber line. At one side of the meadow, under a mighty fir tree, stood
the herder's tent, a white pyramid among the green foliage. If there was
another human being nearer than the little railroad town forty-five
miles away, the boy knew it not. He watched the man ride slowly down the
trail until he disappeared behind a mass of trees. The dog at his side
whined as the man was lost to view and poked his cold muzzle into the
boy's hand.
"Ah, _perrito mio_," and he hugged the fawning animal close to his body,
"the _patron_ has gone and left us here all alone to care for the sheep.
Think of it, I, Pablo, to be trusted with so much. Shall we not care for
them as for our own? Didst hear him say we were not to leave this camp
while he was away? Ten black ones for markers, three bells and five
great _chivos_. Aha, we shall count them each a hundred times a day, and
sly indeed will be the ewe that shall escape from us. Is it not so, my
brave Pancho?" And for answer the dog barked and romped about the lad as
if to show he also appreciated the honor and responsibility thrust upon
the two.
Down the trail the sheepman, Hawk, jogged along toward the town where
Mac, the recreant herder, was doubtless wasting his substance in riotous
living. "If ever I git holt of that there rascal, I'll wear out the
ground with him," he soliloquized. "To go off and leave me with a band
of ewes on my hands at such a time and not come back as he promised.
Serves me right for letting him go, for I might 'a' known he'd not come
back in time. That there Pablo's a good kid all right, but it's a pretty
big risk to turn over to a twelve-year-old boy that many ewes and lambs.
Lucky for me he happened to stay in camp after the lambing was over; his
father's about the best sheepherder on the whole range, and them Mexican
kids would rather herd a bunch of sheep than ride on a merry-go-round.
Well," and he slapped his horse with the end of his rope, "he's got a
good dog, the best in the mountains, an' if he keeps track of his bells
an' markers 'tain't likely he'll lose any sheep. However, there ain't no
use worrying over it, for I couldn't stay there myself any longer, an'
the sooner I gits to town an' hustles that there red headed Mac out to
camp, the better."
[Illustration: "_Hawk met a forest ranger leading a pack mule_"]
Down at the foot of the mountain he met a forest ranger leading a pack
mule.
"What's doing?" asked Hawk of the government man.
"Big fire over on 'tother side of the mountain," answered the ranger.
"Old man phoned me to get over there as soon as ever I could and lend a
hand. Mighty dry season now, and if fire ever gets started it'll take a
lot more men to stop it than we got in this forest. I been riding now
night and day for the last thirty days patroling my district, to lookout
for fires, and I hate to have to go clear over on the other side and
leave it all uncovered."
"How big a district you got, anyhow?" queried the sheepman.
"Little over six townships and a half; that's over a hundred and fifty
thousand acres, and it's all a-standing on edge too"--he waved his
gloved hand toward the range about them--"so there's twice as much, if
you count the mountain sides. The Super, he asked for six more rangers
last fall when he sent in his annual report, but the high collars back
there in Washington said Congress was cutting down expenses and so we'd
have to spread ourselves out and cover the ground, and do the best we
could. That's why the boss rustled the boys out in such a hurry, for we
can't afford to take any chances on a fire getting a start. If it ever
does, it's good-bye trees, for once a fire gets under good headway in
these mountains, with conditions just right, all the fire fighters in
hell couldn't stop it. So long, old man, I've got to be a-drifting."
As the ranger moved off up the cañon, the sheepman turned and glanced up
at the sky toward the spot where he had left Pablo and his charges.
There were no signs of smoke in the clear blue above, so he touched the
horse with his spurs and resumed his journey, content to leave the fire
fighting to the ranger force until he was called on for aid. Anyhow, it
was clear over on the other side of the mountain and he wasn't
interested there, and it would be time enough to worry when it got over
on to his side. Meanwhile, there was that miserable Mac drunk in town
and another band of lambs and ewes somewhere on the range, that he ought
to look in on before long.