The sawmill lay on the direct trail to the back country. Every man
headed for the big mountains by way of Sycamore Flats passed fairly
through the settlement itself. So every cattleman out after provisions
or stock salt, followed by his docile string of pack mules, paused to
swap news and gossip with whoever happened for the moment to have
leisure for such an exchange.
The variety poured through this funnel of the mountains comprised all
classes. Professional prospectors with their burros, ready alike for the
desert or the most inaccessible crags, were followed by a troupe of
college boys afoot leading one or two old mares as baggage
transportation. The business-like, semi-military outfits of geological
survey parties, the worn but substantial hunters' equipments, the
marvellous and oftentimes ridiculous luxury affected by the wealthy
camper, the makeshifts of the poorer ranchmen of the valley, out with
their entire families and the farm stock for a "real good fish," all
these were of never-failing interest to Bob. In fact, he soon discovered
that the one absorbing topic--outside of bears, of course--was the
discussion, the comparison and the appraising of the various items of
camping equipment. He also found each man amusingly partisan for his
own. There were schools advocating--heatedly--the merits respectively of
the single or double cinch, of the Dutch oven or the reflector, of
rawhide or canvas kyacks, of sleeping bags or blankets. Each man had
invented some little kink of his own without which he could not possibly
exist. Some of these kinks were very handy and deserved universal
adoption, such as a small rubber tube with a flattened brass nozzle
with which to encourage reluctant fires. Others expressed an individual
idiosyncrasy only; as in the case of the man who carried clothes hooks
to screw into the trees. A man's method of packing was also closely
watched. Each had his own favourite hitch. The strong preponderance
seemed to be in favour of the Diamond, both single and double, but many
proved strongly addicted to the Lone Packer, or the Basco, or the
Miners', or the Square, or even the generally despised Squaw, and would
stoutly defend their choices, and give reasons therefore. Bob sometimes
amused himself practising these hitches in miniature by means of a
string, a bent nail, and two folded handkerchiefs as packs. After many
trials, and many lapses of memory, he succeeded on all but the Double
Diamond. Although apparently he followed every move, the result was
never that beautiful all-over tightening at the last pull. He
reluctantly concluded that on this point he must have instruction.
Although rarely a day went by during the whole season that one or more
parties did not pass through, or camp over night at the Meadow Lake, it
was a fact that, after passing Baldy, these hundreds could scatter so
far through the labyrinth of the Sierras that in a whole summer's
journeying they were extremely unlikely to see each other--or indeed any
one else, save when they stumbled on one of the established cow camps.
The vastness of the California mountains cannot be conveyed to one who
has not travelled them. Men have all summer pastured illegally thousands
of head of sheep undiscovered, in spite of the fact that rangers and
soldiers were out looking for them. One may journey diligently
throughout the season, and cover but one corner of the three great maps
that depict about one-half of them. If one wills he can, to all intents
and purposes, become sole and undisputed master of kingdoms in extent.
He can occupy beautiful valleys miles long, guarded by cliffs rising
thousands of feet, threaded by fish-haunted streams, spangled with
fair, flower-grown lawns, cool with groves of trees, neck high in rich
feed. Unless by sheer chance, no one will disturb his solitude. Of
course he must work for his kingdom. He must press on past the easy
travel, past the wide cattle country of the middle elevations, into the
splintered, frowning granite and snow, over the shoulders of the mighty
peaks of the High Sierras. Nevertheless, the reward is sure for the
hardy voyager.
Most men, however, elect to spend their time in the easier middle
ground. There the elevations run up to nine or ten thousand feet; the
trails are fairly well defined and travelled; the streams are full of
fish; meadows are in every moist pocket; the great box cañons and peaks
of the spur ranges offer the grandeur of real mountain scenery.
From these men, as they ended their journeys on the way out, came tales
and rumours. There was no doubt whatever that the country had too many
cattle in it. That was brought home to each and every man by the
scarcity of horse feed on meadows where usually an abundance for
everybody was to be expected. The cattle were thin and restless. It was
unsafe to leave a camp unprotected; the half-wild animals trampled
everything into the ground. The cattlemen, of whatever camp, appeared
sullen and suspicious of every comer.
"It's mighty close to a cattle war," said one old lean and leathery
individual to Bob; "I know, for I been thar. Used to run cows in
Montana. I hear everywhar talk about Wright's cattle dyin' in mighty
funny ways. I know that's so, for I seen a slather of dead cows myself.
Some of 'em fall off cliffs; some seem to have broke their legs. Some
bogged down. Some look like to have just laid down and died."
"Well, if they're weak from loss of feed, isn't that natural?" asked
Bob.
"Wall," said the old cowman, "in the first place, they're pore, but they
ain't by no means weak. But the strange part is that these yere
accidents always happens to Wright's cattle."
He laughed and added:
"The carcasses is always so chawed up by b'ar and coyote--or at least
that's what they _say_ done it--that you can't sw'ar as to how they
_did_ come to die. But I heard one funny thing. It was over at the
Pollock boys' camp. Shelby, Wright's straw boss, come ridin' in pretty
mad, and made a talk about how it's mighty cur'ous only Wright's cattle
is dyin'.
"'It shorely looks like the country is unhealthy for plains cattle,'
says George Pollock; 'ours is brought up in the hills.'
"'Well,' says Shelby, 'if I ever comes on one of these accidents
a-happenin', I'll shore make some one hard to catch!'
"'Some one's likely one of these times to make you almighty _easy_ to
catch!' says George.
"Now," concluded the old cattleman, "folks don't make them bluffs for
the sake of talkin' at a mark--not in this country."
Nevertheless, in spite of that prediction, the summer passed without any
personal clash. The cattle came out from the mountains rather earlier
than usual, gaunt, wiry, active. They were in fine shape, as far as
health was concerned; but absolutely unfit, as they then stood, for
beef. The Simeon Wright herds were first, thousands of them, in charge
of many cowboys and dogs. The punchers were a reckless, joyous crew,
skylarking in anticipation of the towns of the plains. They kissed their
hands and waved their hats at all women, old and young, in the mill
settlement; they played pranks on each other; they charged here and
there on their wiry ponies, whirling to right and left, 'turning on a
ten-cent piece,' throwing their animals from full speed to a stand,
indulging in the cowboys' spectacular 'flash riding' for the sheer joy
of it. The leading cattle, eager with that strange instinct that, even
early in the fall, calls all ruminants from good mountain feed to the
brown lower country, pressed forward, their necks outstretched, their
eyes fixed on some distant vision. Their calls blended into an organ
note. Occasionally they broke into a little trot. At such times the dogs
ran forward, yelping, to turn them back into their appointed way. At an
especially bad break to right or left one or more of the men would dash
to the aid of the dogs, riding with a splendid recklessness through the
timber, over fallen trees, ditches, rocks, boulders and precipitous
hills. The dust rose chokingly. At the rear of the long procession
plodded the old, the infirm, the cripples and the young calves. Three or
four men rode compactly behind this rear guard, urging it to keep up.
Their means of persuasion were varied. Quirts, ropes, rattles made of
tin cans and pebbles, strong language were all used in turn and
simultaneously. Long after the multitude had passed, the vast and
composite voice of it reëchoed through the forest; the dust eddied and
swirled among the trees.
The mountain men's cattle, on the other hand, came out sullenly, in
herds of a few hundred head. There was more barking of dogs; more
scurrying to and fro of mounted men, for small bands are more difficult
to drive than large ones. There were no songs, no boisterous high
spirits, no flash riding. In contrast to the plains cowboys, even the
herders' appearance was poor. They wore blue jeans overalls, short jeans
jumpers, hats floppy and all but disintegrated by age and exposure to
the elements. Wright's men, being nothing but cowboys, without other
profession, ties or interests, gave more attention to details of
professional equipment. Their wide hats were straight of brim and
generally encircled by a leather or hair or snakeskin band; their shirts
were loose; they wore handkerchiefs around their necks, and oiled
leather "chaps" on their legs. Their distinguishing and especial mark,
however, was their boots. These were made of soft leather, were
elaborately stitched or embroidered in patterns, possessed exaggeratedly
wide and long straps like a spaniel's ears, and were mounted on thin
soles and very high heels. They were footwear such as no mountain man,
nor indeed any man who might ever be required to go a mile afoot, would
think of wearing. The little herds trudged down the mountains. While the
plainsmen anticipated easy duty, the pleasures of the town, fenced
cattle growing fat on alfalfa raised during the summer by irrigation,
these sober-faced mountaineers looked forward to a winter range much
depleted, a market closed against such wiry, active animals as they
herded, and an impossibility of rounding into shape for sale any but a
few old cows.
"If it wasn't for this new shake-up," said Jim Pollock, "I'd shore be
gettin' discouraged. But if they keep out Simeon Wright's cattle this
spring, we'll be all right. It's cost us money, though."
"A man with a wife and child can't afford to lose money," said George
Pollock.
Jim laughed.
"You and your new kid!" he mocked. "No, I suppose he can't. Neither can
a man with a wife and six children. But I reckon we'll be all right as
long as there's a place to crawl under when it rains."