“Simple” Sample, cow-hand employed by Sterling Carr, owner of the
Footstool outfit, was initiating Mariel Lancaster, visitor from
Pennsylvania, into the mysteries of saddling a horse.
“There aint no need for you-all to saddle a horse, long as you’re
around the ranch, here, ma’am,” he protested as he led a “plumb gentle”
sorrel outside the Footstool corral. “They’s most always some of the
boys about, that’s willin’ to he’p you if you say the word.”
Mariel, who had equipped herself with a quirt belonging to Margaret
Carr, her school chum who had induced her to pay a visit to the
Footstool ranch in Wyoming, frowned slightly and attempted to slap her
boot, as if she had held a riding-crop. The quirt, however, was too
limber, and refused to slap.
“I understand, but that’s just why I want to learn,” she insisted with
some little spirit. “What if I’d be out somewhere alone, and have to
saddle--”
“I bet you-all wont be ridin’ around alone, ma’am--not’s long as young
Mr. Otis is here,” remarked Simple with assurance. He hadn’t failed to
use his eyes during the week that Mariel had been a guest of the ranch,
and his years gave him certain privileges which the other “boys”
lacked.
Mariel flushed slightly, and then laughed.
“But he isn’t here today,” she challenged, as if seeking to elicit
further information concerning Otis.
“No, ma’am,” Simple replied, his eyes narrowing as he looked away
southward toward the Gros Ventre range, “I reckon he’s out there
somewheres lookin’ over the range. First thing, ma’am, don’t go
swishin’ that quirt around these broomtails. They’re liable to think
yore in earnest. Old Dynamite, here, he’s plumb peace-lovin’ an’
reasonable, but even he’s got some right funny idees about quirts.
“Step up an’ gentle him some, ma’am, so he’ll know yore intentions is
honorable. Not from that end, ma’am, or he may kick yore slats out--beg
pardon, ma’am, I mean he mayn’t see it the right way. Go at him from
the head end. That’s right.
“Naow fold yore saddle-blanket--so. Keep on the nigh side, an’ ease it
over his spine. Slide it back with the grain of the hair. Fine. I bet
that saddle’s a purty big heft for you-all, aint it, ma’am? Naow reach
under his bel--I mean, reach under him an’ grab that cinch. Run the
latigo through the ring--like this. Naow pull--hard.”
Mariel turned to her instructor, sorely puzzled.
“Very well. But what do you do when he swells all up, like this?”
“Kick him in the slats, ma’am. Kick him in the slats. Leastways, that’s
what I’d do, seein’ as how you-all ast me. But I guess you-all cain’t
do nothin’ but talk to him. No, that wont do, neither, cause a lady
cain’t talk the language that ol’ reprobate understands. Reckon you’ll
have to wait till he gits out o’ breath. Naow--pull quick, ma’am. Good!
Tie it jest like you’d tie a man’s necktie. You aint never tied a man’s
necktie? It’s like this-hyere.”
Mariel, panting but triumphant, stood back and admired her handiwork.
“There!” she cried exultantly. “Sometime I’ll get you to teach me how
to put those--er--trademarks on the livestock. They call this the
Footstool ranch because its trademark looks like a footstool, don’t
they?”
“Yes’m. Only they don’t exactly call it a trademark. That horizontal
line is the top of the footstool, and them two lines that slants away
underneath, they’re the laigs.”
“You have such odd names for your--er--brands. Yesterday I heard Mr.
Carr talking about the Lazy Y. What’s that like?”
“Jest the letter V, ma’am, leanin’ over to one side, like it was too
lazy to stand up straight. That’s old man Yarmouth’s brand.”
“And the Flying A. That’s Mr. Bledsoe’s mark, isn’t it?”
“Yes’m. The bar of the letter A sticks out on each side, like wings.
An’ because it looks like the letter A with wings, they calls it the
Flying A. I notice young Jess Bledsoe’s been over quite frequent of
late.”
Mariel colored, but smiled. “I think he’s so typically Western. He
seems to be made for these picturesque cowboy costumes.”
“I reckon he never misses a chance to make his spurs jingle, ma’am,”
Simple remarked, tugging at the tobacco-tag dangling from his vest
pocket. “He wears the biggest hat and the hairiest chaps between the
Wind River reservation and the Tetons. He likes to tell how he captured
Ed Gunn, the outlaw, after Ed had shot the gun out of Jess’ hand,
incidentally shootin’ Jess’ little finger off. But don’t get him wrong,
ma’am--I bet he can set on the hurricane deck of any bronc in these
parts, an’ he can shoot the eye out of a needle. Trouble is, he knows
it. But I reckon that’ll wear off in time.”
“I’ve heard already how Mr. Bledsoe lost his little finger,” said
Mariel soberly. “He must be very daring. He tells me that the
cattle-raisers are bothered by thieves who steal their stock. I should
think they’d do something about it.”
“They will, ma’am--when they catch ’em. Rustlin’ aint the healthiest
occupation in the world. Reckon it’s the Radley boys, over in the Hole.
That’s Jackson’s Hole proper, ma’am, over to the west there. Mebbe
you’ve heard about Jackson’s Hole, ma’am, as a hangout for cattle
thieves an’ such. Most folks think they hide in the Hole. But they
don’t. Anybody can get into Jackson’s Hole. But when anyone comes,
lookin’ for calves that’s been monkeyed with with a runnin’-iron, the
boys jest draws back into the Tetons, where you cain’t find ’em in a
thousand years.
“Them’s the Tetons over there, ma’am--them snaggle-toothed mountains
that rise right up like a wall. The old French trappers named ’em,
because they’re like a breastworks. Behind that big one, the Grand
Teton, are half a dozen trails leadin’ out to Idaho. Many a posse’s
quit cold, ma’am, when they come to the Tetons.”
“I understand. But isn’t it hard to steal a cow and drive her so many
miles without being seen by some one?”
“They don’t have to drive ’em, ma’am--not on the open range. Jest slap
a brand on a maverick, and leave him. Then come round-up time, when
they’re sorted out, the man with that p’ticler brand gets his calf
without bein’ asked no questions. No one hereabouts would think o’
keepin’ a calf with some one else’s brand on him.
“But even if he does start to drive a critter to his home range, who’s
goin’ to interfere with a man drivin’ home a stray with his own brand
on him? On the open range there aint no restrictions--’cept what the
Gov’ment’s made right recently. The Gov’ment up an’ tells the cow-man
that the open range aint open any more--that the Gov’ment owns it, an’
is goin’ to collect a grazin’-fee for every head of cattle on it.
“I never hearn tell of sech a thing, ma’am. Mebbe you don’t understand
it, but it makes every cow-man boil. Ever since there was a cow in this
country, the cow-men have used the open range without payin’ for it.
How come the Gov’ment makes ’em pay now? Here’s scads of grazin’ land
goin’ to waste. But the Gov’ment’s goin’ to have a real job on its
hands, collectin’ grazin’-fees from these ranchers.”
* * * * *
Mariel failed to comprehend half of the old cow-hand’s tirade, and her
expression showed it.
“But do the ranchers think they can oppose the Government
successfully?”
“They can make it so hot that no ranger’ll dare come in here an’ try to
collect grazin’-fees. It wouldn’t surprise me a mite, ma’am, if Ranger
Fyffe, up at Red Rock ranger station, would up an’ decide to leave the
country right sudden. In fact, the boys was talkin’ last night about
issuin’ him a formal invitation.”
“What if he refused to go?”
“Well, ma’am, the boys have a right persuadin’ way about ’em, I bet
he’d go. If he didn’t--well, he might stay, permanent.”
Horror was growing in Mariel’s eyes as she listened to old Simple’s
explanation.
“You mean to say they’d--they’d kill him?”
“Well, now, ma’am, a wise man can take a hint. There wont be any need
for a killin’. For instance, say, one of the boys is picked to deliver
a cordial invite to this ranger to leave the country--or to quit his
job an’ stay here like an honest citizen, for, y’understand, miss, no
one’s got anything personal against this ranger. If he got kilt, it
would be a matter of principle, so to speak, with no hard feelin’s
toward him.
“Well, s’posin’ he gets uppity an’ balks. What then? Why, mebbe some
one shoots up his place. Then, if he don’t take the hint, mebbe they
start shootin’ in earnest. Nobody believes in unnecessary killin’,
ma’am, ’cept some real gunmen an’ killers. But it all depends on the
feller that delivers the invite, an’ how the ranger’d take it. Naow, if
the messenger’d get lit up a mite, an’ mebbe think he was a woodtick
an’ it was his night to tick, an’ if the ranger got nasty, why,
anything might happen.”
Mariel shuddered and said: “I think it’s a cowardly thing to do.”
“Mebbe so, ma’am, mebbe so,” grinned the old cow-hand, shrugging. “I
reckon you aint the only one thinks so, either. The boys drawed lots to
pick who was to run the ranger off’m the range. The one they picked
wasn’t there. When they told him about it, that was just what he said.
He give ’em h⸺. I mean, ma’am, he said it didn’t look right to him. But
I reckon he was just scared out, ma’am. Left in a huff, he did, sayin’
he was goin’ over to the cabin of Gus Bernat, the trapper, to look for
rustlers. Said the Gov’ment had a right to collect grazin’-fees an’ to
limit the range, an’ that it was all for the cowman’s good in the long
run. Next thing, I bet he’ll be standin’ up for the nester an’ his damn
bob wire--beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. Bobbed wire is goin’ to strangle
the cow-man, if he don’t look aout.”
Mariel glanced at the tiny watch strapped to her wrist. Seemingly she
was deeply interested in Simple’s discourse on the cow-men’s feud with
the rangers, rustlers, nesters and barbed wire. But despite this
apparent interest, she displayed evidences of impatience.
“It’s nearly nine o’clock,” she announced, almost petulantly. “I wonder
if--”
“I shouldn’t wonder, ma’am,” Simple interrupted, grinning, “if that’s
him comin’ naow.”
A dashing figure on a white-stockinged chestnut had rounded the corner
of the bunkhouse, and was approaching the corral at a trot. With almost
a single motion he halted before them, leaped from the saddle and
stood, hat in hand and bridle looped over his arm, smiling and bowing
slightly before Mariel. She returned the smile.
“This is indeed a surprise, Mr. Bledsoe,” she told him brightly,
smoothing a fold in her riding habit. Simple chuckled.
“Just thought I’d drop over to see if the Footstool’s got any line on
those rustlers,” Bledsoe began pleasantly. “Didn’t think I’d be so
fortunate as to find you, Miss Lancaster.” Then, turning to Simple:
“H’lo, Simp. Where’s Otis?”
“Howdy, Jess,” the cow-hand responded. “Reckon Otis is out some’ers
down Gros Ventre way.”
“Wonder if he’s heard about the trouble up at the ranger cabin?”
Bledsoe asked. “Some of the boys says the Sheriff got a hurry-up call
from the Red Rock station.”