A MIGRATION.
All that summer John tended the work stock, keeping them together on
good feeding ground during the short night and driving them into camp
soon after daylight.
Much of this work was very pleasant; the two herders, Curran and John,
met regularly and many were the long talks and interchanges of
experiences they enjoyed.
The rainless summer nights were cool enough to be refreshing and yet
warm enough to make the time spent in the open air delightful. But when
rain came all this was changed. The horses became nervous and restless
and required constant watchfulness and continual riding, regardless of
treacherous foothold and hidden, water-filled prospect holes. The long,
yellow "slicker" or oilskin coat, being cut deep in the back and hanging
over the rider's legs to his spurred heels, served but poorly to keep
out the driving rain, and by morning he was fairly soaked. Arriving in
camp with his dripping charges, he would dismount stiffly, and after a
half-cold breakfast crawl into a damp bed under an oozing tent.
John, however, learned to take things as they came, good or ill,
gathering valuable experience from right and left. Curran was a horseman
of long standing, and gave the fast-maturing boy a great many points
that served him in good stead later in life. He taught him how to detect
any uneasiness in the stock that might grow into fright and start a
stampede; how to check this by voice and by constant active presence;
and, above all, by force of example he showed that only through quick
thought and unhesitating exposure of himself to danger could harm to his
charges be averted. By nature courageous, almost to recklessness, John
learned these lessons unconsciously.
And so the summer passed--herding horses at night, sleeping and panning
gold by day. By the latter operation he was able to add, on an average,
fifty cents a day to his hardly princely income of seven dollars a week.
As the warm season drew to a close, the night wrangler's work became
more of a hardship and less a pleasure; only by dint of constant
exercise and a roaring fire was the life made endurable. The night's
work over, horse and rider would come in stiff with cold and not
infrequently wet as well.
"Well, kid, the outfit breaks camp this week," said cook to John one
cold, wet morning in November as he slid off his patient beast. "Here's
your coffee; keep it out of the wet."
"Can't break any too soon for me," said John, sipping the steaming
beverage and clinging tightly to the tin cup with both hands for the
sake of the warmth it contained.
"Must be pretty tough this time o' year," said cook sympathetically.
"More coffee?"
"You bet," answered the other. "I couldn't stand it if I wasn't
all-fired tough. I'll have to be tough if I go range-ridin' this
winter."
Curran put this thought into his head, where it had been growing until
it became a resolve.
"So you're goin' range-ridin', eh, kid?"
John nodded and asked the cook where he was going.
"Well, I'll tell yer," he said, stopping to wipe his hands on the flour
bag that served for an apron, "I'm goin' straight back East where my
folks live; soon's I get back to town I'm goin' to buy a railroad ticket
East and go right off."
"Good enough," said John confidently, but rather sceptical at heart, for
he knew of many men whose good resolutions melted under the direful
influence of the first glass of whiskey that went down their throats.
"Well, I'm off to bed," he concluded, making for the bed that Frank had
vacated but a little while before. He knew he needed all the rest he
could get. The following morning, as he came near the collection of
tents with the horses, he heard Murphy shouting: "Rustle round now,
boys; get the cook outfit loaded, the tents down, and your beds rolled
up--quick. We'll be in town by noon."
The work was taken up with such a will that John barely got his share of
coffee, bacon, beans, and bread before the cook's stores were stowed
away ready for travelling.
It was a very different crowd that now set out for the town, and yet it
was the same lot of men. Nine months' heavy, open-air work had dispelled
weakness and brought strength, had replaced bad temper with
cheerfulness, and had, moreover, filled pockets with Uncle Sam's good
coin.
Frank and John, his chum, again sat on the scraper that trailed behind a
wagon, not now for fear of contact with ill-tempered, almost desperate
men, but for the sake of comparative quiet and to escape the practical
jokes that none in the wagon could avoid.
"Well," said Frank, "would you rather wrestle dishes in Helena or
wrangle horses in the open?"
"I'd rather wrangle than wrestle," said John, taking the cue with a
laugh, "weather or no; and I'd like to go out again soon."
On reaching town the men parted company, each to seek the pleasure that
most attracted him. John at once hunted up Tom Malloy, who was still
prosperous and evidently glad to see him.
"Well, kid, how did you get along?" he said, in his old, familiar,
kindly way. The boy first paid him for the saddle he had borrowed, to
which he had become accustomed and attached, and then told in detail of
his experiences.
"Do you want to get back to pot-wrestling?" asked Molloy at length.
"No; not on your life!" and John told him of his liking for work in the
open and his distaste for town life.
"Right you are, kid," said Tom encouragingly, "the town's no place for
you, or for me, either," he added rather sadly. "I'll be done up some
day"--a prophecy which proved but too true.
John and Frank took lodgings together, and for a time did nothing but
travel round the town, noting the changes that had been made since they
had been away and taking in such cheap amusement as the place offered.
It was on one of these jaunts round the streets that John met his
friend the cook, blear-eyed, slouchy, and dirty, the bold mustache he
was usually so proud of drooping dismally.
"Why, cook, I thought you were in the East by this time," said the
ex-wrangler, remembering the solemn resolution confided to him a few
days before.
"No, I just stopped for one drink and that settled it," confessed the
other. "Haven't a quarter to buy a dinner with now."
John took him to a restaurant and fed him.
This was the first of a series of encounters with ex-campmates. The
first feeling was one of wonder and disgust that the demon of drink
could make such short work of a man; and then came the fear that the
constant drafts upon him would use up his small savings.
"Frank," he said one day, "I've got to get out of this or I'll be stone
broke; do you know of any fellow that will take me on a range?"
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Oh," said John, "this gang takes me for the treasurer of an inebriates'
home, I guess, and will soon scoop every cent I've got."
"That's it, eh?" returned Bridges. "Well, I'll go down the Missouri with
you. I'm pretty well acquainted a hundred and fifty miles or so below,
and I know where I can go range-ridin' for a big cattleman any time."
"If you think you can work me in, I'll go," exclaimed the younger. "I'll
buy that sorrel cayuse from Murphy. I can get him for fifteen, I guess,
and we'll go to-morrow-that is, if you can work me in." This last was
spoken rather dubiously, but Frank assured him that he would fix it
somehow, and the compact was sealed.
The balance of the day was spent in getting their outfit ready. Frank
was already provided with horse, saddle, and bridle, and the other
appurtenances of the rider: chaps, spurs, oilskin slicker, and blankets.
Some of these John possessed also, but he still lacked a horse; a few
simple necessaries in the shape of a frying-pan, tin cups, coffee,
flour, sugar, and the inevitable beans must be supplied for both. The
dicker for John's sorrel was made in short order, and by nightfall all
the outfit was complete. At daylight the following morning they were
busy making up the packs, and a hard job they found it, for nothing
seemed to fit, and apparently there was enough stuff to load a whole
train. It was made up at last into two packs and lashed securely behind
the saddles; they mounted and rode out of the fast-awakening town. One
of the two at least was leaving it for a long time, to return under
very different circumstances. Nothing of this sort entered their minds,
however, and they went out as unconsciously as if off for a half-day's
trip.
Frank knew the country pretty thoroughly, having been over it once or
twice before, so it was plain sailing most of the time. Day after day
they travelled along at a dog trot--a gait that the Western horse can
keep up all day and one which a rider brought up to it finds perfectly
comfortable, but which would shake the teeth out of an Easterner. The
trail was clearly marked, easily followed, and much of the way wide
enough to allow the horsemen to ride side by side.
Though the two had been partners for several months they had seen but
little of each other; during the day at the railroad camp Frank worked
while John slept, and during the night the reverse was the case. This
was the first chance either had of really knowing the other, and both
were well pleased. There was plenty of time and opportunity to talk, and
they soon found that they had plenty of acquaintances in common.
"Ever been to Miles City?" John said one day as they were trotting
steadily along. The leather of the saddles creaked and the cooking
utensils made a regular accompaniment to the thudding hoof-beats.
[Illustration: EACH MAN TOOK HIS ROPE AND FLUNG IT OVER THE HORSE HE
WANTED.
(_Page 281._)]
"Sure. Two years ago this spring."
"That was about the time Dick Bradford and Charley Lang shot each other,
wasn't it?" John was referring to a "killing" that was famous the
country round.
"Yes, and I was right there in Brown's place at the time."
"Tell me about it, Frank. Some say Bradford was to blame and some say
that Lang deserved it. I knew Charley Lang a little and thought him a
nice fellow."
"Well," said Frank, "it isn't a long story; it all happened the same
day, the quarrel and the killing. For some reason there was bad blood
between them; both had been drinking, and a little dispute was enough to
make them ready to pull their guns on each other."
"Charley was pretty quick with his gun," interpolated John, full of
interest.
"So was Dick; but their friends took their shootin' irons away from 'em,
and finally persuaded them to shake hands, and for a time there was no
further trouble, but all the old hands feared that the business would
not end there. Both men came to Brown's place before supper. Maybe you
know the joint--a good many things have happened there, and Brown
himself could tell enough stories to fill a dozen dime novels."
John nodded.
"It wasn't very pleasant there then; the two were plainly looking for
each other's gore, and we all wished we could put a couple of hundred
miles between them. Well, anyway, Dick saw Charley and called him an
ugly name and then invited him to take a drink. He might have refused;
that would have been bad enough, but he did worse, accepted, and took
the glass in his left hand--which, as everybody knows, is a deadly
insult, to accept a man's hospitality with your left hand, leaving your
right free to pull your gun."
"But I should think it might just happen so," suggested John.
"So it might, but Charley made his meaning clear by the look he gave
Dick. Nothing occurred then--neither had a gun--but after supper they
managed to get a six-shooter apiece and soon turned up at Brown's again.
When I came in Charley was sitting on the end of the bar, talking to the
'barkeep,' his hat on the back of his head, his legs swinging, the spurs
on his heels jingling when they touched--the most unconcerned man going.
Dick was leaning against the wall the other side of the room. He was
mad clean through. A couple of fellers were with him, but they couldn't
stop him from jerking out his gun. He fired, but Charley had had his eye
on him and reached for his six-shooter. The same instant the ball hit
him in the chest. He slid off the bar, but as he fell he fired twice,
and both shots went through Dick's heart. Dick died right off and
Charley lived only a few minutes--he died in my arms."
"What a way to die!" was the only comment John made.
"Those were the very last words Charley spoke," said Frank, more to
himself than to his listener.
"I guess Miles City was the toughest place going then," said the boy.
"Why, I was driving through the town with my father one day (that was
when we were opening a big coal mine down the Yellowstone) and we went
under a half-finished railroad bridge and there, hanging from the ties,
were the bodies of three men. Lynched. Ugh!" John shuddered at the
remembrance of it.
"Was that the case where there was some talk of the men being killed
first and hung afterwards?" inquired Frank.
"Yes. There had been a row in Brown's place, and these three had been
put in jail, but during the night they were taken out and in the
morning were found as we saw them. The regular vigilance committee had
not done it, and the doctor said death first, hanged afterwards."
Both of these characteristic stories were common talk whenever a crowd
got together, but neither Frank nor John had heard the facts told by an
eye-witness before.
It must not be thought all the conversation of these two was of this
blood-and-thunder variety. Frank had lived in the East, and marvellous
were the tales he told about the buildings, the people, and their
doings. The two were so interested in each other, and what each had
seen, that the time passed very quickly, and so John was surprised when
Frank said late one afternoon: "See that blue range of hills about
thirty miles ahead?"
John looked and nodded an assent.
"Well, Baker's ranch is right at the foot of them, and Sun River runs
through it. That's where we're goin'."
The following morning they rode towards the ranch house, past the minor
buildings, the barns and sheds, past the hay stack, now bulging with its
winter store, past the inevitable horse corral, just then containing
several horses which were circling round trying to avoid a cow-puncher's
"rope." As they reached the ranch house proper--a low, single-storied
house built of logs and roofed with split logs covered with turf--a
chunky, white-haired man in overalls stepped out of the door.
"Hello, Mr. Baker," said Frank. "You see you can't lose me."
"Well, Frank, it's you, is it? I'm terrible glad to see you. How are
you?" Mr. Baker's greeting was cordial. "Who's your friend? What's his
name?" he added, noticing John for the first time.
He was introduced, and the warm grasp of the hand that John got from the
old ranchman won him at once.
"Mrs. Baker will bubble over when she sees you, Frank. Tie your horses
and come in."
A long hitching rail ran along the front of the shack, and to this Frank
and John made their horses fast.
Mrs. Baker's greeting was even more cordial than her husband's, and the
youngster looked on at the display of affection rather wistfully. Nor
was he ignored in the general greetings.
"You're just the fellow I want to see, Frank," said the cheerful,
kindly, buxom, albeit gray-haired ranchman's wife. "Mr. B.'s getting
kinder old to be chasing round the ranch looking after cattle and the
range-riders, and I want you to see to all that so I can keep Mr. Baker
at home. Will you do it?" She looked from her husband to Frank and back
again.
"I'm looking for a job, and so's my friend Worth here. If you'll take us
both I'll be glad to stay," and Frank began to enlarge on John's
virtues, and told how they had shared the same bed. He characterized him
as a "plumb good feller."
"Of course he can get to work," said the couple together.
"Got a saddle?" asked the old man.
"Yes, I've got a good outfit," answered the boy.
"Well, you can go range-ridin'." The ranchman spoke in a tone that was
not to be gainsaid--it amounted to a command. John understood vaguely
that range-riding was something like horse-wrangling, only the job he
was now about to undertake would last during the day and night too.
The following day the boy was sent forth to his new work. It was cold,
and the gray November sky had a look of snow in it; the air, too, felt
snowy. In the ranch house all was warm and comfortable: a great fire of
cottonwood logs was blazing in the open fireplace, a few pictures and
examples of needle-work--the evidences of a woman's hand--were
interspersed with mannish things: rifles in rough wooden racks, antlers
of deer and prong-horns, bridles decorated with silver hung here and
there on nails, and a long wooden peg, driven into the whitewashed logs,
supported a richly carved saddle, Mr. Baker's own.
From this cheer and comfort John went into exile, to last several
months--the cold, bitter, winter months of the Northwest.
With the instructions of Mr. Baker and the warnings of Frank ringing in
his ears, he started off for the shack he was to share with an old,
experienced cow-puncher throughout the winter. The eight miles were soon
covered, and he drew up before the little log shack which was to be his
winter home. A little box of a cabin it was, perhaps twelve by fifteen
feet, built solidly of logs and backed up against a low bank for the
shelter it afforded. He dismounted and entered; a single small window
lightened the gloom somewhat and enabled him to see the familiar rough
bunks on either side, one for each occupant; a rough deal table
supported on one side by the wall and on the other by two legs; a
frying-pan, a coffee pot, and a few tin cups--none over-clean--hung near
the fireplace; these completed the decorations and furniture of the
range-riders' shack. It was one of several placed at varying distances
from the home ranch.
After tying his horse and bringing in the few belongings he possessed,
he sat down on the empty bunk and waited for Barney Madden, his mate,
whom he had never seen. He wondered what kind of a fellow he was.