HERDING HORSES AND PANNING GOLD.
"Seems to me," said John to his new partner, Frank Bridges, "that this
is a pretty tough gang. Half of 'em drunk, and the rest of 'em ready to
take your head off if you speak to 'em."
"Oh, well," answered the other, "some of them got out of money quicker
than others and so got out of liquor quicker. It's kinder hard to go
back to work in the wilds after loafing round the town a good while.
You'll find that they're not such a bad lot when they're sober and get
to workin'."
The two were sitting on one of the scrapers that trundled behind the
wagons--a vehicle which, though not exactly comfortable, was
exclusive--they had it entirely to themselves. All day long they had
travelled thus, except at dinner time, when a short halt was made. John
said he would almost as lief ride a brake beam as a "break-back," for so
he had christened this jolting equipage.
Long after dark they saw the white tents of the camp loom up, and in a
minute after their arrival it was the scene of bustling activity. Orders
were bawled, greetings were shouted, the teamsters yelled and swore at
their horses. But above the din rose the voice of Old Murphy, the
contractor: "Here, boys, rustle round and get these horses out of the
harness. Worth, saddle up and take these horses to the other bunch and
watch 'em all till morning." Then, turning to his foreman: "Ricks, get
this fellow a saddle horse."
"The others are tied up yet, Mr. Murphy," the man ventured.
"What! Not out yet?" roared the boss. A regular tirade followed, and
John realized that he must do his work well to escape a tongue-lashing.
He was rather staggered at the order to saddle up and get out at ten
o'clock at night, with a lot of strange horses, in a country he did not
know.
"Say, Frank," he said to his friend, who was busy unloading the
rolled-up "beds" or bedding, "this is no joke; I don't want to lose a
lot of horses and maybe kill myself in the bargain--it's going it blind
with a vengeance."
"You'd better make a stab at it, anyhow," he was advised. "The old man's
raging, and you might lose your job if you showed the white feather."
"You ready yet, Worth?" It was Murphy's voice, and John jumped at the
sound of it.
"Give me a hand, Frank, will you. Bring the blasted old cayuse over here
while I get the saddle ready. I'll do it or bust," and John suited the
action to the word.
In a few minutes the boy was in the saddle and following the already
straggling bunch of horses.
"Keep your eye open for prospect holes," shouted Frank.
"You want to watch those horses like thunder, Worth," called out Murphy,
who seemed to be everywhere at once. "They're strangers to each other,
and they'll split up and scatter to the four winds if you don't watch
'em. Some's from Oregon and some's from Utah, and if they get separated
it'll cost mor'n they're worth to get 'em back again. You've got
fifty-six head--keep counting 'em." The "old man" apparently did not
want him to get beyond the sound of his voice, but kept following and
shouting instructions. Perhaps he realized that he was giving the boy a
trying, and possibly dangerous, task.
"All right," shouted John cheerfully, but at heart he was not so
confident.
It was long after ten and quite dark; the horses in front were mere
shadows and could only be distinctly made out by the tramp of their
hoofs. To count them exactly was almost impossible, for it was hard to
tell where one horse began and another ended. The old beast John was
riding, however, knew his business, and it was well he did, for it was
necessary to trust almost entirely to his acuteness and keen sense of
smell. Horses and herder splashed across the creek and pushed their way
through the brush and up the hill opposite.
The boy realized that his work was cut out for him, and he determined he
would see the thing through. The hills and gulches round about were new
to him. There might be precipices, quicksand bottoms, bogs, and, worst
of all, the night-rider's menace, old prospect holes. These were short,
narrow, and often deep ditches dug by miners in their search for the
precious metal. Besides all this, he was on a horse he had never thrown
a leg over before and of whose disposition and capabilities he knew
nothing.
"If I only had Baldy!" he thought as the cayuse he was riding plunged
into the brush after the retreating bunch.
Immediately his trouble began. The old horses, old companions, jealous
of the newcomers, tried to elude them, and the latter were none too
anxious for their company. John could only gallop forward and back and
all around, restraining this scattering tendency as best he could, and
depending on his mount's sagacity to avoid holes and obstructions. A
merry dance his charges led him--merry in the lively sense only--up and
down, in and out, over what kind of country he could only guess. All he
could see of his troublesome charges was a shadowy back now and then, or
a high-thrown head silhouetted against a lighter patch of sky or a bank
of sand.
He judged himself to be two miles from camp before the animals seemed to
think of stopping to feed. Even then they were determined to separate,
and it taxed John's vigilance to the utmost to keep them together. His
horse began to tire, it was many hours before daylight, and something
had to be done--at once. An old gray mare carried a bell on her neck and
John noticed that the rest of the bunch followed her blindly. If he
could catch and tie her up the others might be more inclined to stay in
one spot. How to do this was the question. She was too wily to be caught
by hand, and if in throwing the rope the loop missed, she would scatter
the entire herd in a minute. For a while he gave up the plan, but it
grew more and more difficult for his weary horse to keep up the
continued darting to and fro.
At last he decided to make the trial--it was the last resort and the
cast must be successful. He made ready his lariat, holding a coil in his
left hand and the wide loop in his right, and waited an instant for a
good opportunity. The gray mare stood out more distinctly than the other
horses and made a better mark, but at best it would be a difficult
throw. For several seconds John sat still in his saddle, the noose
circling slowly round his head, his arm still, only the supple wrist
bending. The old mare was watching him. The rope now began to whistle as
its speed increased. Suddenly the belled mare snorted and started off on
a run; John shut his teeth hard, threw at what looked like a neck, took
a couple of turns round the horn of the saddle with the slack rope, then
waited.
Almost at once the line tightened. A gentle pressure was put on the
bridle rein, and the pony's weight checked the mare in her flight. The
throw was a good one, and the mare was caught. The shock was great, and
John's pony was green at this sort of business and the tightening
cinches made him jump in lively fashion. The mare too had not learned
that it is useless to "run against a rope," and for a while kept John
and his mount busy; but the increasing tightness of the slip noose round
her neck soon quieted her and enabled the boy to tie her up short to a
tree.
The remedy proved to be effective; soon all the horses were feeding
quietly round the tied leader.
John congratulated himself on his success and prepared to take a
much-needed rest, but was interrupted by the sound of another bell far
up the gulch. Evidently there were other horses feeding near, and it was
essential to keep them separated; so he trotted to a point between the
herd and the place from which the ringing came. Again he dismounted from
his sweating pony and sat down to rest, when, chancing to glance over
his shoulder, he saw a small fire blazing a quarter of a mile away. "No
rest for the weary," he grunted resignedly, mounted once more and
started out to investigate. As he rode slowly nearer he made out a man
sitting cross-legged by the fire, his face in strong relief, his back
almost lost in shadow. Behind stood a saddled horse, barely showing in
the gloom.
John rode up, slapping his chaps with his quirt to let the stranger know
that he was a horseman also and giving fair warning of his approach.
Otherwise he might be taken for a horse thief and shot on sight.
[Illustration: A ROPE CORRAL WAS DRAWN ABOUT THE SADDLE BAND. (_Page
281._)]
The stranger rose quickly and retreated into the shadow. John did not
like this. "Hullo, pardner!" he called, drawing nearer.
"Hullo, stranger," replied the other. "Are you lost?"
"No. I'm Murphy's night herder. Pretty dark night, isn't it?"
The man returned to the circle of firelight, his suspicions allayed,
thus evidencing his own honesty. John dismounted and came up to him,
glad to have some one to talk and listen to.
"You night-herdin' too? I heard a bell ringing up the gulch and I
guessed there was another bunch of horses up there."
"Yep. I've got Brady's horses up there," and he nodded in the direction
of a dimly visible lot. John described the difficulties he had
experienced and asked if there were many prospect holes about.
"Yes, lots of 'em," answered the Brady man. "An' they're deep too. I was
ridin' along with my bunch last spring, spurrin' my horse to get ahead
of the critters, when he went plump into a blamed hole--and he's there
yet. I only got away by the skin of my teeth."
"I guess I'm in great luck to get through this safe," said John. "I was
never on this range till after dark to-night."
"Horses all there?" inquired the other, nodding towards John's charges.
"Sure. But I guess I'd better count 'em."
"My horses are like a lot of sheep. I'll go along with you."
The two rounded the animals together again and counted them as well as
the darkness would allow. They agreed that they numbered fifty-six and
John breathed easier.
And so the first night passed, the two herders chatting pleasantly till
dawn, when they parted, agreeing to meet some other night.
A little before daybreak John rounded up his bunch and began driving
them in the direction of the camp. When daylight came he counted them
again and to his satisfaction found them all there. In spite of the
tiresome trip of the day before, the hard riding of the preceding
evening, and the long night's vigil, he felt as gay as the lark that
soared overhead pouring out a song entirely out of proportion in volume
to its size. He hummed blithely an Indian war chant, made over for the
occasion, and breathed in the early morning fragrance with a feeling of
exhilaration that made him forget for the time that he had gone to work
the night before supperless and had not put his teeth into anything
edible since.
The sight of the cook preparing breakfast speedily reminded him that he
had an "aching void," which seemed to extend to his very heels.
The boss's query, "Got 'em all, Worth?" was answered, with pardonable
pride, in the affirmative. For John felt that he had done good work.
The breakfast was soon over, and what a breakfast! Baked beans, bacon,
bread, and coffee, a feast fit for the gods, John thought, as he rolled
into the bed that Frank had previously showed him. He was sound asleep
in a minute and entirely unconscious of the bustle and noise about him.
Murphy was giving orders in stentorian tones that could be heard half a
mile away; the unwilling horses were being harnessed to the big
scoop-like scrapers and to the wagons containing tools; the men were
divided into gangs, the new arrivals, cross, surly, and suffering from
aching heads, starting with irritating slowness. Soon all hands were
hard at work, "moving hills to fill up hollows," making a level trail
for the iron horse.
At this point there was much digging and scraping to be done, a deep cut
and a long "fill" on the other side. At noon the men trooped back to
dinner--silent until their hunger was satisfied, then noisy and
boisterous--but John slept peacefully through it all.
About four o'clock he woke up and gazed about him wonderingly. He was
lying in a tent, through the open flap of which the sunlight streamed.
A dip in the stream that ran close by refreshed him greatly and
dispelled the sleepy, heavy feeling that had possessed him. The creek
was clear and cool, and John lingered on its banks half clothed, digging
in the sand and mud with his bare feet and hands. As he was dabbling in
the moist earth, he came across some sand that had black streaks in it.
His curiosity was aroused, for he had not seen the like before, and he
gathered some in his hat, intending to ask what it was.
The cook was busy washing beans for supper, so John sat down on a log
near by and watched him idly. His thoughts wandered back to the coal
camp, and he wondered about Ben and Baldy; he longed for both, and for
the moment was tempted to go home and see them; then he realized that
he had chosen the path he was now travelling for himself and felt that
he must follow it out to the end. He thought of the journey to Helena,
of Jimmy the hobo, and of the life he had just left. His brown study was
interrupted with a jolt. "What's that you've got in your hat?" It was
the cook, speaking rather excitedly.
"Oh, that? That's some sand and gravel I picked out down the creek;
brought it up to ask what it is."
"Well, it looks to me like gold." This impressively.
"But it's black," objected John.
"Yes, the black is magnetic iron and often holds gold--maybe there's
enough to pay. Do you know how to work the pan?" Cook was evidently
interested.
The boy professed his ignorance, and the other volunteered to show him.
The pan, a flat, round, shallow tin affair, was taken down to the spot
indicated by John and the lesson began. A little gravel, which included
some of the black sand, was scooped up. Then the pan was taken to the
creek, dipped under, and the water was allowed to run out slowly. This
was repeated over and over, and each time a little sand and gravel was
washed over the edge. At last only the black sand, being heavier,
remained. This the cook showed triumphantly.
"Only a little black sand! Where's the gold?" inquired John.
"It's in the sand, and has to be separated from it by quicksilver, which
absorbs the gold; then you can throw away the sand," explained cook, who
had put away the residue carefully in a bottle and was dipping up more
gravel.
"But how do you take the gold out of the quicksilver?" The boy was
determined to get to the bottom of this thing.
"Why, you can put it in the sun and let it evaporate, leaving the gold,
or you can send it to town to be separated and run the risk of losing
both quicksilver and some of your gold."
John tried panning, but he found it needed a much more practised hand
than his; he spilled out water, gravel, and all, or else he didn't
accomplish anything. Cook's teaching was careful, however, and before
long his pupil was able to gather enough sand, after sleeping and before
beginning his night's work, to realize fifty or sixty cents' worth of
gold when separated.
Immediately after supper John had to saddle his horse and drive the work
stock out to feed. This task was becoming more and more easy as the
horses learned to know each other. He met Curran, Brady's wrangler,
regularly now, and the companionship helped to while away the long night
hours very pleasantly.
Curran was of medium height, stoop-shouldered, and rather bow-legged
from long contact with a horse's rounded body. He was awkward and stiff
when afoot, an appearance accentuated by the suit of canvas and leather
that he wore. In the saddle he was another being, graceful, supple,
strong--seemingly a part of the beast he rode. His skin was tanned and
seamed by long years of exposure to the sun. He might be the very hero
himself of a song he sang to John one night.
BOW-LEGGED IKE.
Bow-legged Ike on horseback was sent
From some place, straight down to this broad continent.
His father could ride and his mother could, too,
They straddled the whole way from Kalamazoo.
Born on the plains, when he first sniffed the air
He cried for to mount on the spavined gray mare.
And when he got big and could hang to the horn
'Twas the happiest day since the time he was born.
He'd stop his horse loping with one good, strong yank,
He'd rake him on shoulder and rake him on flank.
He was only sixteen when he broke "Outlaw Nell,"
The horse that had sent nigh a score men to--well!
He climbed to the saddle and there sat still,
While she bucked him all day with no sign of a spill.
Five years later on a cayuse struck the trail
Whose record made even old "punchers" turn pale.
He was really a terror; could dance on his ear,
And sling a man farther than that stump--to here!
A man heard of Ike; grinned and bet his whole pile
His sorrel would shake him before one could smile.
So the crowd they came round and they staked all they had,
While Ike, sorter innocent, said: "Is he _bad_?"
And durin' their laugh--for the sorrel, you see,
Had eat up two ropes and was tryin' for me--
Ike patted his neck--"Nice pony," says he,
And was into the saddle as quick as a flea.
That sorrel he jumped and he twisted and bucked,
And the man laughed, expectin' that Ike would be chucked.
But soon the cayuse was fair swimmin' in sweat
While Ike, looking bored, rolled a neat cigarette.
And then from range to range he hunted a cayuse
That could even _in-ter-est_ him, but it wasn't any use.
So he got quite melancholic, wondering why such an earth,
Where the horses "had no sperrits," should have given himself birth.