"RANGE-RIDING."
"Hello, kid! Who you lookin' for?" The voice was deep and full and had a
cheerful, confident ring in it.
John looked up quickly and saw standing in the narrow doorway a man whom
he rightly guessed to be Barney Madden. He was a man over thirty, of
medium height, rather slight, wiry build, showing good, hard
condition; his face, decorated with a brown mustache, was a good
one--determination, courage, and an abundant sense of humor could be
seen there. He had deep-set, blue-gray eyes, which could be both stern
and merry.
"I'm looking for you, I guess," the youngster answered, after a moment's
pause, "if you're Barney Madden. My name's Worth, John Worth, and Mr.
Baker sent me out here to help you range-ridin'."
"Sure, I'm Barney Madden. I'm plumb glad to see yer; you look like a
good, husky kid, and will help me a lot, I hope. Put your horse in the
dug-out yonder, then come back and help me get supper," and he pointed
to a little, cave-like house built to shelter the horses of the
range-riders in winter.
Soon the sorrel was contentedly munching hay in the warm stables with
three or four other horses.
Returning to the shack, John found Barney on his knees blowing the fire
vigorously.
"Well, kid, you'd better go down to the creek for some water." Barney
spoke in a disjointed fashion, between puffs. "Can you cook?"
The youngster said he could a little.
"Well, suppose you try on this supper. I ain't no cook, never was; don't
like it. If you'll take care of the eatin' outfit I'll be satisfied all
right."
The supper over, Madden expressed his complete satisfaction, and so John
was installed chief cook and head (also foot) of the commissary
department.
The following morning his work as a cow-puncher began. At mining,
sheep-ranching, and horse and mule herding he had served a full
apprenticeship, and he now became a full-fledged cowboy. Each of his
previous occupations had helped to fit him for the present undertaking.
Almost from his babyhood he could ride, and about the same time he
learned to "throw the rope," as the act of casting the lariat is called,
and by constant practice had grown more and more proficient.
The duties of the range-rider, as he soon learned, were to cover a
certain territory (which in this case was that section which lay between
Saffron and Buffalo creeks) to see that the different bunches of cattle
did not get into trouble, or, in case they did get into difficulties, to
rescue them. Each morning the two rose with the sun, and after a very
simple toilet--to put on a hat and a pair of spurs sufficed sometimes--a
breakfast of bacon, bread, and coffee was dispatched. Saddling their
mounts was the next thing in order, and each day the horse that had been
idle the day before was selected. This operation is easier to describe
than to accomplish, for, as a rule, the cow pony has a strong dislike
for the clinging saddle, and especially for the hind cinch--it
interferes with his free breathing and grips him at a tender spot. When
the horse has been led out and the fifty-pound (or more) saddle is
thrown over his back, the fun begins; he prances around as if on hot
iron, and a keen eye and quick foot are needed to keep out of reach of
hoofs or teeth; at length, during an unguarded second, the flapping
cinch is captured and brought under his belly in the twinkling of an
eye; the strap on the other side is rove through the ring, and with a
quick pull tightened; but the pony, who has been expecting this, takes a
deep breath, and at the same time humps his back. If the rider is
inexperienced and secures the strap when the pony is thus puffed up he
will come to grief when he tries to mount, the saddle promptly slipping
round as soon as he puts his weight on the stirrup, and the knowing
horse empties his lungs and straightens his back. John was up to all
such tricks, and when "Roany" (the sorrel's companion and the spare
horse allotted to the young rider) blew himself up, he simply put his
foot up against the pony's side and gave a tremendous and sudden heave.
It is a rather inconsiderate and humiliating method--for the horse.
Roany grunted protestingly; immediately his girth was reduced several
inches and John made the cinch fast.
The horses saddled, the two riders went in opposite directions, visiting
the well-known haunt of each bunch of cattle in the section of country
committed to their care. In pleasant weather, when the feed was good and
water plenty, this was by no means an irksome duty. The horse is fresh
and full of life; the rider, exhilarated by the bracing air and swift
motion, shouts aloud from pure joy at being alive. The day's circuit
completed, he comes back to the shack, somewhat tired, but the possessor
of an appetite that would make a dyspeptic toiler in a city office still
paler with envy.
[Illustration: A LITTLE BOX OF A CABIN IT WAS. (_Page 243._)]
But John began range-riding during the hardest season of the year, when
keen, searching winds had to be faced, blizzards encountered, and work
of the hardest, most depressing kind had to be done.
"By gum! this beats all," said Barney one morning, some months after
John joined him. He got out of his bunk, and, walking over to the single
window, looked out. "Snowin' yet. Here this thing's been goin' on fer
ten days steady; grass all covered up, cattle near done, and horses worn
out--and it's snowin' yet! Seem's if Providence was down on us," and
Barney proceeded with his morning toilet, pulling on his boots and
grumbling under his breath.
John had something of the same idea in his mind; he began to think all
this terrible weather was punishment meted out to him for running away
from home. For two weeks the two riders had been in the saddle fourteen
hours a day, and the strain was beginning to tell on both men and
beasts. This was the terrible winter of 1886-87, when many cattlemen
were almost ruined.
"Come, kid; get a move on," said Barney rather wearily. "It's tough, but
it's got to be done."
They tramped out into the blinding flurry of flakes and routed out their
unwilling horses. There was no frisking, and no tricks to avoid
saddling; the poor beasts stood resignedly and allowed their masters to
put them into their bonds without a protest.
"So long," shouted John.
"S'long," returned the other.
And so they separated. John followed the frozen Saffron Creek. It was
lined with brush which afforded some shelter for the half-starved cattle
that were collected in compact bunches at different points for the sake
of warmth. Six hundred head of cattle were thus scattered along the two
creeks. Each of these John visited, and with shouts and blows urged them
from the cover where otherwise they would stay--dazed, stupid, gradually
growing weaker till they died in their tracks. Once in the open, they
moved more briskly, butting and crowding each other till their blood got
circulating again, and they took some interest in searching for the
scanty grass revealed by their trampling hoofs.
This morning, after riding a half mile or so from the shack, John came
upon a bunch of stock. He shouted at them and slapped those nearest with
his hat; soon all were moving towards the open. All went well till a big
snow bank was encountered; this the shivering cattle, weakened by
hunger, refused to tackle, so John drove his horse into the white bank,
and by floundering through two or three times a trail was made. Still
the stock refused to go through; but at last, with much urging and
pushing by Roany, breast to rump, three were forced to the other side
and the others reluctantly followed. One old cow still remained, weak,
wavering, her last calf sapping her vitality; back went John and Roany;
the rope was uncoiled and the noose dropped over her horns. A couple of
turns having been taken round the saddle horn, Roany scratched and
tugged, the old cow struggled a bit, and in a jiffy the brave little
horse "snaked" her through.
A little further on the same thing was done with another bunch.
From time to time, as he rode along, John saw queer mounds partly or
wholly covered with snow: they were the cattle that had succumbed. Many
more then living he knew would give up, try as he might and did to
protect them.
Further on he noted a fresh victim, and as he drew near two gray,
slinking forms left it.
"Hold on, Roany; we'll have to get a shot at those," and suiting the
action to the word he pulled his steed up and drew his six-shooter. The
wolves were moving off slowly, licking their bloody chops and snarling
at the interruption of their feast, their heads turned back toward the
boy, their teeth showing, their yellow eyes gleaming. _Crack_ went
John's pistol, and one fell over kicking. The other bolted for cover.
_Crack_, _crack_, the shots rang out, and he too dropped. In a minute
both wolves were skinned by making a cut along each leg and down the
belly, and then with a strong pull yanking the pelt off. The legs were
tied together and both skins hung over the branch of a nearby tree, the
location being carefully noted. Then the boy rode on his melancholy
task.
As the daylight began to wane, the effect of the hard day's work was
felt by both horse and rider, and John looked forward to the time, but
a couple of hours off now, when he would return to the warm shack and
satisfy his already ravenous hunger. They were still many miles from
shelter, and he knew that travelling must be difficult, if not
dangerous.
"Come, Roany, old boy, brace up!" he called cheerily to his fagged
mount, giving him a friendly pat on the neck at the same time. "We've
got to get home." And he touched him lightly with his quirt. The good
horse responded bravely and floundered through the deep snow, emerging
on a bare, wind-swept spot where he could make much better time. The
pace was so good that John could almost feel in imagination the warm
glow of the fire and smell the fragrance of frying bacon.
As they went on their way they reached a steep little hill, the sides of
which were covered deep with snow; down this they plunged with
ever-increasing speed. Suddenly Roany stopped, stopped so short, indeed,
that John was thrown over his head into a bank of snow. As soon as might
be he picked himself up, dug the snow out of his eyes, ears, and mouth,
and looked to see what the trouble was. Roany was struggling violently.
John soon found that he had stepped into a deep badger hole, the sides
and top of which, frozen hard, were unyielding, and held the poor
beast's leg like a vise, twisting and breaking the joint badly. The boy
saw at once that Roany would have to be killed; that there was no help
for him. It would be a mercy to put him out of his misery, for he could
feel him quivering, and his eyes bulged out with pain. It was a
hazardous position for himself, but for the moment he forgot it in his
distress for his horse.
"Roany, old boy, I've got to kill you," he said, feeling that he must
justify his act--really one of mercy. "You'll freeze to death if I
don't."
He drew his six-shooter from the holster, put the muzzle against the
horse's forehead, then, turning his face away, pulled the trigger. A few
convulsive struggles and Roany's sufferings were over.
John loosened the cinch, and with considerable difficulty pulled the
saddle from under and hung it to a nearby poplar; the bridle was treated
likewise; then he stood up and looked around him, wondering what he
should do next.
It was no time for sentiment, so he gave his whole thought to the best
way of reaching the shack. He was already tired and hungry; the wind was
blowing the still falling snow so that it was blinding, and there were
seven miles of rough country to cover before shelter could be reached.
John set his teeth, and, after giving a final glance at his faithful
horse, he set out. This time, fortunately, he had but himself to think
of and look out for, and if he could cover the distance before freezing
all would be well. He struck off to the right, and, after floundering
through drifts, sliding down steep places, and fighting the biting blast
in the open, he came to the creek that ran past the shack: he had but to
follow it. Hour after hour he toiled along, his body bathed with sweat,
his hands, feet, and face icy cold. The snow blown in his eyes blinded
him, hidden obstructions tripped him, and hunger took away his strength.
Late that night he stumbled through the door of the shack into the
warmth and light.
Barney was wide awake and watching.
"By God! I'm glad you're in," he said, grabbing him by the arm and
dragging him forward; then, as the lamp-light shone on him clearly, he
turned him round and pushed him out again.
"Your face is white: it's frozen. Get snow on it, quick."
John thought he had had enough snow on him that day--face and all--to
last him the rest of his life, but he submitted to the rough rubbing
that Barney gave him without a word, and soon the chalky look gave way
to the glow of red blood circulating freely.
He was thoroughly exhausted, but the food and fire prepared by his
partner revived him somewhat, and he turned into his rough, hard bunk
and slept like a hibernating bear.
When the sun came out bright and warm and the snow began to melt, the
havoc wrought by the storm became manifest. Only the strongest cattle
remained alive, and of these most were males. The survivors were weak
and their bones almost punctured their worn-looking skins. In the more
sheltered spots lay many once sturdy cows and heifers that later became
a heap of whitened bones. Though the thaw revealed all these horrors, it
also uncovered the herbage, and little by little the remaining animals
began to gain strength and weight.
Now the range-riders were kept busy pulling the foolish ones out of big
holes. Each day the various bunches of cattle were visited, and with
discouraging frequency some of them would be found mired helplessly,
weakened by their long fast and rendered crazy by fright; their
struggles to get out of the sticky mud only sunk them more deeply. It
now became the cowboy's duty to throw his rope over the mired beast's
horns, make the other end fast to the saddle horn, then to urge the
sturdy little cow-pony forward with whip and spur. The pony tugs, the
cow struggles, and soon she is standing on _terra firma_, exhausted,
indeed, but safe. This is hard work for the pony and its rider, to say
nothing of the cause of all the trouble--which is looked upon merely as
so much beef to be saved.
With steady spring weather came the opportunity to visit the home ranch,
and John was glad enough to take advantage of it. It was a long time
since he had seen Frank, and, of course, there was much to talk of. It
was Sunday, in the forenoon, and work, for the time being, was slack.
Eight or ten cow-punchers were at the ranch and were amusing themselves
with a little buckskin-colored horse. His viciousness had earned him the
title of "Outlaw"--that is, he was considered unbreakable.
He was in the corral, small of stature, and, to the uninitiated,
innocent enough in appearance; but for all that he had just bucked off
Greaser Tony, as good a rider as one could find in a long day's journey.
The cow-punchers sat on the fence and egged each other on to tackle the
unconquerable little beast; such an exhibition was great sport to the
looker-on, but of doubtful pleasure to the participant.
"Try him, Billy Iron-legs," said one. "You can stick him."
"Try him yourself," responded Iron-legs. "You're lookin' for fun, and
that breakfast you put away needs a little shakin' up."
"How'd the earth look from the bird's-eye view you got of it, Tony?"
said Frank to Greaser Tony, who was off in a corner counting his bruises
and swearing softly.
"Here, Shorty, you ride him; you're always lookin' for somethin'
lively."
Shorty's inclination to kick about his mount was well known; he had a
way of calling whatever horse was set apart for him to ride "old cow" or
"kitten." The proposition to put him on the "Outlaw" and tie him there
was hailed with delight, but he dropped from his place on the fence and
vanished before any one could lay hands on him. At this juncture Frank
came to where John sat, and pointing to one of the men said, "That's the
horse-range boss. I advise you to ride that little buckskin yourself;
'twon't do you any harm and they'll think a lot of you."
Any of these men could ride the horse, but it is never pleasant to ride
a bucking broncho, and it is sometimes dangerous.
John accepted his friend's advice, and when Frank shouted, "Here's a
chap that'll ride the cayuse," he jumped over the fence into the corral
and went up to the outlaw. He was already saddled and a hackamore was
twisted round his nose. John thought he knew horses pretty well, for his
long intimacy with Baldy gave him the inside track of equine character.
The little buckskin's unbroken spirit and courage pleased him and he
felt friendly. The little fellow had been abused; his sides were cut and
barred by quirting, his head and nose were skinned by rough ropes in
still rougher hands.
All men were his enemies, and at John's approach he struck out with his
fore feet, but the boy avoided them and caught the hackamore close up to
the head. He put his left foot in the stirrup. The horse's eye was upon
him, but though the pony was quick he was quicker, and was in the saddle
and had caught the right stirrup before the first jump was finished.
Round one in favor of the boy, and the on-lookers said "Good!"
Then began some of the "tallest" stiff-legged bucking ever seen in that
corral. Head between his legs, back humped, squealing shrilly, the
little horse shot up in the air and came down stiff-legged with a jar
that made the ground tremble. Every trick known to the cunning breed was
tried--jumping sideways, twisting in the air, plunging, rearing front
and back--all in vain. John stuck like a leech till the "Outlaw" tired
himself out. He lasted for fifteen minutes with scarcely a pause. Then
with head drooping, nostrils turned out till the red showed, literally
drenched with sweat, he stood quiet, his body exhausted but his spirit
unconquered.
John dismounted and pulled off the saddle, patted the little horse's
neck, and turned him loose.
It was a pretty exhibition of horsemanship, and the spectators
appreciated it. It was done fairly, there was no "pulling leather"
(holding on) or "hobbling stirrups" (tying them underneath the horse--a
great assistance).
A number of the punchers expressed their approbation. "Good work, kid."
"That's all right, pardner," said they. The boss said nothing, but a
week or two later John got orders to come down to the ranch and bring
his bed.