famously. The boy pushed the band out on to the mountainside, away from
camp, telling Pancho to care for them while he went to find the two pack
burros and drive them back to camp. All day long the boy watched the
herd as a hen watches her chicks. Over and over again he counted the ten
black "markers," those black sheep that come in every flock and without
which no herder would work. If all ten of them were there in the herd it
was safe to presume that none of the ewes had been lost, for, as they
grazed back and forth through the timber, "cuts" might happen to the
best of herders. Once he counted but nine. Yes, surely there were but
nine. He called the dog to his side, pointed to a ridge beyond them and
told the animal to go over there and look for the missing ones.
Away Pancho bounded, stopping often to look back at his master for
orders. The boy waved his arm and the dog went on until he stood a black
speck at the top of the ridge. With foot upraised and ears cocked, he
watched again for commands. Another wave of the arm and the dog dashed
over the ridge and out of sight. Half an hour later an eager bark came
from the ridge, and there, slowly toiling through the trees, came the
lost sheep, followed by the faithful dog, keeping them moving toward
the herd and yet not hurrying them beyond the speed of the lambs. In
their lead was the black marker. Once more his ten _negros_ were all
there.
The next night from over the mountain-top rolled a great wave of black
smoke. The sheep, "bedded down" near the camp, were uneasy and kept
sniffing at the heavy air. At daylight the boy pushed them from the bed
ground and worked them up toward the mountain-top, where the trees
stopped growing and there was little danger of fire reaching them.
Leaving the dog to care for the sheep, the boy climbed up higher until
he could see about him. On every side was a sea of smoke. Great black
billows rolled up from below him and the wind blew a gale from the
direction of the other side of the mountain. The _patron_ would be back
that night, but until then Pablo must stay where he was, for had he not
been told to do so? All day he watched the smoke boiling up about him.
The sheep were restless and bunched up in spite of his efforts to get
them to scatter out and graze as they should.
In the afternoon he worked his way down the mountainside, below the
meadow and, perched on a huge boulder, watched the fire licking its way
slowly through the forest. As far as he could see the red line stretched
like a fiery snake, but unless the wind changed it would not reach his
camp for some time yet.
If only the _patron_ would come and relieve him of this responsibility!
All those ewes with their fine lambs grazing there, and depending on
him, Pablo, for protection and care. What should he do? He must not
leave the camp, and still, if he kept the sheep there and the fire
really came to the meadow, they might all die.
Late that evening the wind changed and blew up the cañon like a gale,
carrying with it clouds of smoke and burning brands which started fires
far in advance of the main line. But the boy stayed with the sheep, wide
awake and watchful, hardly taking time to eat his simple meals of
_frijoles_, mutton and bread. Below him, the sky was alight with the
flames. Now and then a thunderous crash told where some giant of the
forest had given up the fight--three hundred and fifty years' work
undone in an hour. Half a dozen coyotes and a wildcat skulked out of the
timber that fringed the meadow and buried themselves in the little clump
of willows that grew about the spring. By midnight he realized that to
stay where he was meant death for himself and his woolly charges. The
sheep were restless, constantly moving about on the bed ground, the
lambs running and bleating through the herd as if they, too, realized
the danger. The dog whined and looked anxiously toward the coming light,
which now made the night almost as bright as noonday.
"What would'st thou do, Panchito?" said the boy. "Did not the _patron_
tell us to remain here until he came, and yet, shall we stay and die
when the fire comes?" Then the thought came to him that up higher on the
mountain the sheep would be safe if once there.
At the first sign of coming day he set about his preparations for
leaving. First, he tore from its pins the light tent, spread it out on
the ground, swept into it the small supply of food which the camp
contained, and rolled the tent about it. Then, with a short-handled
camp shovel he dug a shallow hole in the soft mountain soil into which
he placed, first, the sheepskins and blankets which formed his bed and
then the bundle of the tent, covering it all with the dirt, thus
securing it from the fire.
Having thus protected his food supply, he sent the dog around the sheep
to bunch them up and started them up the mountainside. The sheep,
frightened by the smoke and approaching fire, moved rapidly, and inside
of half an hour the boy had them all bedded down on a great bare granite
field in the middle of a little boulder-strewn valley where, ages ago,
some slipping, sliding glacier had smoothed and polished the surface of
the rocks until they were like some gigantic table top. The valley was
far above timber and the sheep safe from fire.
Leaving the dog to watch the sheep, he hastened back to the meadow,
there to await the coming of the _patron_ as he had been bidden. Once
upon the prairie, where his father lived, he had seen the men go out to
meet an approaching fire and by means of back firing keep it away from
the houses and fields.
In the camp was a stick of pitch pine which some one had brought for
starting fires. Taking the ax, he quickly split off a handful of
splinters, which he bound together with a handy piece of baling wire.
Going to the lower end of the meadow toward the fire with his improvised
torch, he started a line of small fires, hoping they would spread and
thus be some slight protection to the meadow.
The wind favored him, and in a short time he had a wide swath burned
clear along one side of the meadow and his fire was eating out into the
forest and would keep the flames back some distance.
As the main fire line came along he was smothered with the clouds of
smoke and waves of heat which swept down as from a furnace. He stood it
as long as he could, fighting back the fire at every point where the
flames were eating out into the meadow. Burning brands ate holes in his
cotton shirt, and the soles of his "teguas," or rawhide moccasins, were
burned through and through. As the mass of fire reached his back-fire
line he ran to the little spring in the middle of the meadow and threw
himself into it, rolling over and over in the mud and water about it.
The coyotes and wildcat that had taken refuge there hardly noticed his
presence in the face of the coming danger.
Half an hour or more of stifling smoke and burning heat and he dared to
leave his place in the spring. About the meadow some of the trees were
burning clear to their tops, and great logs were blazing everywhere, but
the force of the fire was spent and had gone on past him and he was left
as on an island in midocean.
It was far past noon. Perhaps the _patron_ would come today. He found
the shovel and dug up the buried tent with its precious contents and
made a hasty meal of bread and meat. Then, taking a piece of the meat
for the faithful Pancho, he struck out into the blackened area about him
to find the sheep which he had left to the dog's care that morning.
He was very tired and his almost bare feet were badly cut and burned,
causing him to stop and rest frequently, but he finally reached the
granite ledge, and there found the sheep, with the dog watching their
every movement, and woe unto the ewe or venturesome lamb that attempted
to wander too far into the valley, for he was at its heels in a minute
to drive it back.
That evening, about dark, two men rode into the upper end of the meadow.
The face of each was black and grimy with smoke and sweat. Their eyes
were red and swollen and their horses so tired they stumbled as they
moved. As they came out of the blackened area about the meadow and were
able to see across it the man in advance stopped his horse.
"Lord, I do hate to think of leaving that poor little devil up here all
alone with them sheep," he said to his companion. "Naturally I hate to
think of losing the sheep, but to have him burnt up too is awful."
Suddenly he straightened up in his saddle and rubbed his eyes. "Say,
Bill," he called, "is that a bunch of sheep there, or are my eyes
fooling me?" Before Bill could reply a dog barked and came racing toward
them.
"Well, if it ain't Pancho as I'm a sinner," was the man's delighted cry.
Then the tinkle of a sheep bell reached their ears. They spurred their
tired horses into a trot and soon reached the spot where once stood the
camp tent. In the dim light they saw a freshly dug hole with a tent
lying beside it, upon which was piled a miscellaneous assortment of food
and camping utensils, mutely telling the story of how the camp outfit
had been saved.
Nearby on a pile of sheep skins and under an old blanket lay a boy
sleeping soundly. The eager barking of the dog and the heavy tread of
the horses awoke him, and with a start he sprang to his feet. His
clothing was a mass of mud, his face so black and tear-stained that it
was almost unrecognizable, but the sheepman sprang from his horse and
grabbed him in his arms with a strange choking in his throat he could
hardly conquer.
"Why, Pablo boy, _muchacho mio_, how did you pull through this hell fire
and save yourself and the sheep too?" he asked, patting the dirty cheeks
and mud-filled hair.
"The _patron_ told me to stay here till he returned," said the boy,
"there are all the sheep, the ten markers, the three _campanas_, and the
five _chivos_, that the _patron_ left with me. All are there." The
child's eyes glowed with the pride of accomplishment.
"Bill," said the sheepman, "what's that little feller's name what we
used to recite about in school, him that did the stunt about standing on
the burning deck?"
"You mean Casabianca?"
"That's him, that's the chap. Say, Pablo"--his voice choked and he
swallowed hard before the words would come to his lips--"Pablo, you're
Casabianca all righty, and then some, for that little feller didn't save
his bacon by stayin' where he was tole to. You not only saved yours but
twelve hundred of the best ewes and lambs in the state besides. I'll
promise you that ole Santa Claus'll bring you somethin' mighty fine next
Christmas to pay you for this here job."
[Illustration]
THE SHOOTING UP OF HORSE HEAD
By permission _The Argonaut_, San Francisco, Cal.
The town of Horse Head had turned over a new leaf. There was to be no
more "shooting up" of the village. Patience ceased to be a virtue when
the "Cross J" outfit shipped their last train of steers, and everybody
in the gang came into town for a big time, which culminated in a general
"shooting up" of the place.
The lights in all the saloons were bored full of holes, the solitary
street lamp-post, standing in front of the "Apache House"--and the pride
of the heart of the old woman who kept the place--was riddled over and
over again, and every woman in town scared into a fit of hysterics. Then
the town people rose up in their wrath and called on the marshal to put
a stop to it, or resign his office.
Now Jenkins, the marshal, who held the position by virtue of his ability
to shoot quick and true, was something of a diplomat. He was not anxious
to have a row with any of the boys, if it could be avoided, and he was
still further anxious not to lose the confidence of the townspeople, a
nominating convention being due before long. Jenkins was a candidate for
sheriff on the Democratic ticket, and in Colorado County, a nomination
on that ticket was equivalent to an election. Accordingly, being of a
diplomatic turn of mind, as aforesaid, he decided that a little scheming
on his part might work to his advantage. To this end, he rode down to
the little cottonwood "bosque" a few miles below town, where the Cross J
outfit was camped, busily engaged in shoeing horses for another trip
into the mountains, and overhauling the wagon generally.
The result of his visit was that he was authorized by the guilty
"punchers" to enter into negotiations with the town justice, and make
some sort of terms with him, based upon their pleading guilty and
promising good behavior for the future. All this Jenkins successfully
accomplished, and about three o'clock the next afternoon the wily
marshal rode into town accompanied by eight or ten of the boys.
Being arraigned before the town barber, who upheld the dignity of the
law as justice of the peace, they gravely plead guilty to disturbing the
peace and dignity of the place, were fined one dollar and costs each,
which they promptly paid, with many promises of future good conduct.
But alas for such promises! "Cow punchers is pore weak critters, shore,"
old Dad, the cook, used to say; and before sunset that day every last
one of them, unmindful of promises or pledges, was again full of
enthusiasm and cheap whiskey.
"Tex," the bartender at the "Bucket of Blood," had all their
six-shooters behind the bar, and for safety had slyly removed all the
cartridges and inserted empty shells in their place.
About sunset the gang started for camp, their weapons returned to them
with many warnings from Tex not to shoot until clear out of town. They
mounted their ponies and struck out on a dead run down the main street,
whooping and yelling like a bunch of coyotes, but carefully refraining
from firing a shot. About half a mile below town, however, the white
"Yard Limit" sign of the railroad company was too good a mark for the
crowd to pass unchallenged. True, the heavy piece of boiler iron, some
thirty inches across, was pierced in a hundred places from previous
attacks, but a few more wouldn't hurt it, and Baldy Peters, the crack
shot of the camp, drew his revolver and, spurring his pony into a dead
run, took quick aim at the black spot in the center and pulled the
trigger. No answering shot came, and, although he tried all five of the
chambers (no true cowboy or frontiersman ever carries six cartridges in
his revolver) they were all silent.
Baldy jerked his pony up on its haunches, and carefully examined the
cylinder. Sure enough every shell was there, but empty. Jack Gibson, who
had followed Baldy, had the same luck, and when the rest came up a
general investigation followed. It did not take them long to see that
they had been tricked by some one. Their indignation knew no bounds.
"Jes to think," said Big Pete, "s'posin' one of us ud a got inter a row,
and some blame town galoot had a drawed a gun on him, wouldn't he 'a'
been in a fine ole fix to 'a' jerked his 'hog-leg,' and nary a bean in
the wheel?"
The more they thought about it the madder they got. Revenge they must
have. What its form, they scarcely knew, nor cared. Without more talk,
they all reloaded the weapons from their well-filled belts and turned
their horses' heads toward town, speculating as they rode along as to
just what they would do to show the town of Horse Head the danger of
monkeying with a cow puncher's weapons. As they rode, they hatched up a
plan, suggested from the fertile brain of Mac, the horse-wrangler,
which, they thought, if successfully carried out, would give them the
requisite amount of satisfaction for their wounded dignity.
It was on Tex, the bartender, and Jenkins, the town marshal, that they
poured out the vials of their wrath. Who else than they would have
removed the cartridges from all those cylinders and replaced them with
empty shells?
Now, they knew that Tex was the marshal's right-hand man when it came to
any trouble, and that, during the shipping season, when the outfits were
around town a good deal, each of them kept a horse in the corral back of
the "Bucket of Blood," ready for any emergency. Arriving in town, they
proceeded to get gloriously full again, while Tex and Jenkins, secure in
the knowledge of those empty shells they had placed in their revolvers,
enjoyed the fun and allowed them full play.
Along toward ten o'clock the boys drifted down to the only restaurant in
Horse Head that kept open all night as well as all day. It was kept by
"Chinese Louie," an almond-eyed celestial who ran a store, restaurant,
wash-house, and the village photograph gallery, all under one long roof.
Now, when a puncher gets into a restaurant, the only thing he craves is
ham and eggs. Of beef he has a surfeit. The menu of the round-up wagon
is coffee, bread, and meat three times a day, with awful regularity.
Therefore, the gang was soon busy, seated on high stools at the long
counter. After they had eaten their fill each wadded up his paper napkin
and fired it at the cook, lit a cigar from the case at the end of the
counter, and paid his bill.
Then the fun opened by some one pulling a revolver and taking a shot at
the big kerosene lamp that hung from the ceiling. In an instant twenty
shots were fired; every lamp in the place was out and bored full of
holes; the fancy water cooler that sat in the corner was riddled; and
the coffee and tea pots on the big range behind the counter, as well as
a lot more tempting marks in the way of copper cooking utensils that
hung overhead on a rack, were turned into sieves.
Poor Chinese Louie and his assistant lost no time in making themselves
scarce; and, after it got too dark, for want of lamp-light, to see to
shoot anything more, the now hilarious punchers swaggered out to their
ponies, standing quietly at the "snorting post" in front of the
restaurant, and with a parting volley up the main street toward the
"Bucket of Blood," rode furiously out of town.
Instead of going straight on down the railroad track they turned sharp
to the left, at the first corner, and headed for the county bridge which
spanned the river at Horse Head, a wooden structure with huge beams
overhead, and some six or seven spans long.
Just as they turned the corner out of the main street a couple of shots
whistled past the bunch, proving that Tex and the marshal were alive
and in pursuit. This was what the boys wanted, and they gave shrill
yells of defiance as they pounded through the heavy sand that covered
the road to the bridge. They slowed down a little along here to give
their pursuers a chance to catch up a little; and when the officers
announced their coming, by more shots, some of which came rather close
to the bunch of riders, they fired a few in reply, and thundered across
the bridge at full speed, in spite of the warning sign that promised all
sorts of fines and imprisonment for any one "riding across the bridge
faster than a walk."
Along about the center span four of the boys, Baldy Peters, Jack Gibson,
Dutch Henry, and Long Jim, dropped from their saddles, their ropes in
their hands, and two on each side of the roadway, in the shelter of the
huge beams, hastily made loops in their ropes, and awaited the coming of
the two men. The rest of the gang clattered across the bridge with
shrill whoops, and out on to the hard rocky road beyond, with the four
loose horses following them, as if their riders were still on their
backs.
Now, the four men on the bridge were the most skillful rope-tossers in
all that range. Rope-tossers, instead of swinging the rope around their
heads before throwing, spread it out behind and to one side of them, and
with a quick, graceful throw, or toss, launch it with unerring aim over
the head of the animal at which they throw. This method is used almost
entirely in catching horses out of the "cavyyard," and also in catching
calves out of a herd, as it is done so quietly and easily that the
animal is snared before it has a chance to dodge or move.
Tex and the marshal were not quite so foolhardy or ignorant as to feel
that they could capture and arrest the crowd they were after, but the
marshal wanted that nomination in the fall, and felt it was a good
chance to make a "rep" for himself. Tex was to be his chief deputy, if
elected, so he was also eager to do something to prove his valor. Their
idea, therefore, was to make a sort of grandstand play, follow the boys
out a ways, fire a few shots after them at parting, and come back to
town. Hearing them rattle across the bridge and out over the rocky road
beyond, they feared no trap or ambush, and so kept riding in their wake,
firing a shot every few seconds, as much to show the townspeople what
they were up to, as anything else.
As they passed the spot where the four boys were awaiting them, four
silent ropes settled down over the heads and shoulders of the luckless
officers of the law. Going at full speed as they were, there was no
chance to throw off those snakelike coils, and the two riders were
jerked backward over their horses' hips and landed heavily upon the hard
plank flooring of the bridge.
The marshal's six-shooter went off into the air as he wildly threw up
his arms to clear his body of that python-like embrace, while the one
Tex held in his hands flew off into space and dropped into the muddy
waters below. Both men were stunned by the force of the fall, and lay as
if dead on the bridge; but no sooner had they struck than they were
promptly covered by the four men.
The avengers first took their small "hogging ropes" (a short piece of
rope about six feet long, which every well regulated puncher carries,
either in his saddle pocket, or around his waist, to be used in tying
together the feet of any cow or steer he might have to tie down on the
ranges), and secured their prisoners' wrists firmly behind their backs;
then they took a lariat rope and wound it round and round the men's
bodies from shoulders to heels, so that moving their feet or arms was an
impossibility. To do this was not hard, for both men were stunned from
their fearful fall, and lay like logs, while the boys worked on them.
The end of another lariat was passed through under their arms, around
the body, and tied in a "bow-line hitch" behind the back. The two
luckless officers were by this time regaining consciousness, and began
to curse and struggle, but to no avail. At first they feared they were
to be hung, and begged for their lives like good fellows; but as they
were swung off the edge of the bridge and found how they were lashed
with ropes, they pleaded even more fervently, for it looked as if the
boys meant to drown them like rats in a cage. All to no avail. The boys
never answered a word, but went ahead with their work, in the most
matter-of-fact way imaginable. The ropes, tied as they were, suspended
the men by the arms in such a way that they hung fairly upright, and
without any particular pain or suffering from them.
Now, the water of the Puerco is about as vile-smelling and oleaginous
stuff as any one ever saw, tasted, or smelled; indeed, the offensiveness
of the water suggested the name of the river--"Nasty." Especially in
time of floods does it deserve its name. The water then is more like
thin gruel of a yellowish red color, and smells to Heaven. Into this
mess the conspirators slowly lowered the two officers of the law,
regardless of their prayers, entreaties, threats, or curses, of which
each of the two men poured out a liberal supply in tones to wake the
dead.
A turn of the rope about one of the bridge rods served to check the
speed of their descent, and while Baldy Peters got over the railing and
down on to the stone abutment, that he might the better see how far to
lower the men, the rest held onto the ropes and let them down.
Baldy, crouching low on the abutment, peered down into the darkness and
gave orders for the work, so that when the two ropes were tied to a rod,
each man was swinging in the water breast deep. He clambered back onto
the bridge, and the four punchers hastened out into the darkness after
the rest of the gang, who were waiting for them not far off.
The next morning about daybreak, four horsemen rode out of the camp and
headed for the New Mexico line, across which they felt themselves
reasonably safe; for they well knew that the marshal would never follow
and bring them back to relate in court the way they outwitted him and
Tex. All they feared was that he would take a shot at them the first
time he got sight of them, as he certainly would have done had he ever
"met up with" either of the guilty four.
The boys were "drifters," anyhow, as much at home in one place as
another, and good hands were always in demand on the ranches in those
days, so it mattered little where they brought up.