OLD FRIENDS
It was almost sunset when Powell and Jack rode over the hill and saw
the round-up camp in the valley, far below them. There was a big bunch
of cattle still scattered out and feeding, but about them were the four
or five riders who were keeping them together, and who a little later,
and before dark, would bring them up into a close bunch, to bed them
down. Off to one side was the cávaya, or horse bunch, which contained
the strings of the different riders, six or seven or eight horses to a
man, and the work horses that were used on the chuck and bed wagons.
Lounging around the camp were the men, apparently waiting for supper,
which the cook announced just before Powell and Jack reached the camp.
The men hurried up to the tent; each one supplied himself with plate,
cup, knife, fork and spoon, and went over to the cook-stove and helped
himself to food. When Powell and Jack stopped close to the camp, it
was a boisterous crowd of full-mouthed men who shouted and waved their
hats to them. Every one knew Powell, and half a dozen recognized Jack,
who as a little fellow had been known to most of them. Jack was glad
to see them all, but his eye roved about, looking especially for Hugh,
who, after the first outbreak, rose from the ground, where he had been
sitting filling his pipe, and walked over to Jack and gave him a
cordial hand-clasp.
"Well, son," drawled Hugh, "I'm sure glad to see you again. It's a
long time since we've met, and I reckon we'll have lots to say to each
other, now that we've got together again."
"You bet we will, Hugh," cried Jack; "and we can't begin too soon,
according to my notion."
A moment later their talk was interrupted by Charley Powell, who,
slapping Jack vigorously on the back, told him to take off his saddle
and turn his horse loose, for he was going to take the horses over and
turn them into the cávaya. Jack unsaddled and let his horse go, and
then Hugh said to him:
"Go get your supper now, and after you've eaten, or while you're
eating, come out here and set down. I want to see you and talk to you,
even if your mouth is full and you can't talk to me."
Jack hurried to the cook's tent and presently returned with a plate
heaped high with food, and a cup of coffee brimming over, so that the
steaming fluid dripped from it at every step. He sat down and began to
eat, while Hugh, whose pipe was now going well, began to talk.
"Well, son, you've surely growed a heap since we saw each other last.
You're taller now, I reckon, than I am; but you ain't nigh so thick;
the fact is, it looks as if it was about time for you to stop growing
long, and begin to grow broad, but then I reckon there's time enough
for that, maybe. Do you remember that last trip we made, when we went
up over the ice in those high mountains in the main range? Do you
remember the time Tony Beaulieu and his partners shot holes in the
tent? And do you remember that Indian that stopped us over by the
crossing of St. Mary's River and wanted whisky?"
"You bet I remember it all, Hugh," said Jack; "but I think what I
remember best of all is the way you held Tony Beaulieu and how he burst
out crying when he couldn't get away; and the way old Calf Robe quirted
those Indians that had stopped us."
"Yes, that sure was a good trip," replied Hugh; "but, then, I don't
know as it was better than a whole lot of other trips we made. That
first time, when we went up to the Piegan country, when you counted a
_coup_, and you and Joe found that sack of gold; that must have been
a dandy trip for you, because you were so much younger, and because
everything that you saw was new and strange and exciting.
"Now this summer you're going to have a mighty quiet time, I reckon,
with plenty of hard work; nothing to see, except ride circle, getting
in at night feeling as if your feet belonged a yard apart; then maybe
going out on night herd, and serenading these cattle, if a storm comes
up and they get anyways uneasy. No, you can't expect to have much
happen in a cow camp."
"Oh, I don't know, Hugh," laughed Jack; "there are lots of things that
can happen out in this country yet. Of course, there's not much except
hard work and grief that happens in a cow camp, and yet there's some
excitement in riding and roping, and there's always a chance that we
may run across a bear and have some fun with him."
"Well," Hugh replied, "the country is getting pretty quiet now. Maybe
it's because I'm getting old, and maybe it's because I've seen a good
many things happen, but I certainly don't get excited the way I used
to."
By this time Jack had finished eating. Putting his things together, he
carried them back to the cook's tent, and then returned to Hugh, and
sat down close beside him.
"Well, Hugh," he said, "there was something happened yesterday that I
want to tell you about; though I shouldn't say anything about it to
anybody else, unless it gets to be talked about. You speak about the
country being in a bad way and no good any more, and sometimes I think
you're right. Now something happened yesterday over at Powell's that I
wouldn't have believed could have taken place in a country where there
are men, and American men at that! It isn't a thing I want to talk
about, but I do want to tell you about it, and to ask you whether you
think what I did was right. I am not doubtful about it myself, but I'd
like to have your opinion, too."
With that Jack opened his heart and told Hugh all the events of the day
before.
The story finished, Hugh sat for some time without speaking, looking at
his pipe which had gone out while he listened. At last he raised his
eyes.
"Well, son, I think that what you did was the wisest possible thing
to have done. Of course you didn't have much choice in the matter.
You were bound to do whatever Mrs. Powell and little Bess said that
they wanted done, but as it happens what they wanted done was the best
thing that could have been done. It surely would have been mighty
uncomfortable for those two women--as nice women as I ever saw--to
have a man lynched on their account, as you might say, right close to
the house. It was up to you to help them out of that scrape, and you
did it sensibly and well. I'm not a mite surprised at Bessie's killing
that man. She's a mighty smart little girl; thinks quick and acts
quick. I expect if she hadn't shot as she did, there's no telling what
amount of deviltry those two men might have been up to."
"You're right, Hugh, she's plucky and a good shot, and she must have
been mighty quick to think what to do; but, I tell you, it made her
feel mighty bad to be obliged to do it, and for a while after she had
shot she looked as white as a ghost."
"Davis?" reflected Hugh. "I am trying to see if I can't recollect that
name. What sort of looking fellow was the one that got killed?"
"He looked like 'most anybody else, except that he had a more or less
hooked nose, and a black mustache. Mrs. Powell said that his eyes
looked sharp and snappy, and sort of cruel; but of course I didn't see
his eyes."
"I was wondering," said Hugh. "Years ago, down in old Nebraska, I used
to know a cow puncher named Bill Davis, and he might have been this
man. The description fits him well enough, but I don't know as it makes
much difference, seeing he's dead. You say you didn't find any letters
or papers on him."
"Nothing; nothing except a pipe and tobacco and matches, and a little
small change."
"Of course, you don't know anything of what become of the other fellow?"
"Nothing more than what I have told you," said Jack. "He started for
the railroad, and that's the last I saw of him."
"I don't believe you ever will see him; unless he writes you for the
fifteen dollars you owe him. He may do that; but, somehow, I think
likely he'll be too scared even to do that."
"I don't know," replied Jack; "he seemed mightily afraid of the
business end of the six-shooter, but he didn't seem very much afraid
of me; he seemed kind of sorry rather than afraid. Well, it's Powell's
business, and not mine, and I am not going to say anything about it. If
he wants to speak of it, all right."
"I've heard of mighty few people getting into trouble by keeping their
mouths shut," said Hugh, "but of a whole lot that have come to grief
from talking too much. You'll be all right, I think, to keep quiet."
Jack stood up.
"I guess I'll go over and speak to Mr. McIntyre, and get my work laid
out for the next two or three days," he said. "He may want me to go on
night herd to-night. I suppose there are plenty of fellows who will be
mighty glad to get off."
Jack's guess was a good one. The round-up foreman was glad to see him,
of course--glad to get a new hand, and a fresh hand. He told Jack
that the best thing he could do now would be to go out and catch up a
horse and take his turn at night herd until 10 o'clock. Then he could
come in and get five or six hours' sleep before they started to ride
in the morning. The cávaya had just been brought in; and Jack, taking
his rope, went out and caught one of his string and brought it in and
saddled it. Pawnee would have been the horse chosen, but Pawnee had
already carried him from Powell's to the round-up, and Jack thought
the horse entitled to a little rest.
The night was calm and pleasant, and there seemed no reason to suppose
that anything would disturb the cattle, so only two boys were sent out
to ride around them at present, relieving the four or five who had had
charge of them during the latter part of the day, who had now brought
them together and waited until they had finally lain down and were
peacefully chewing the cud under the stars, just then coming out.
Tulare Joe was Jack's companion: a new acquaintance, but a nice looking
fellow, whose name suggested that he came from somewhere in California.
He was a man eight or ten years older than Jack, quiet, pleasant,
soft-voiced, and apparently a rider. As the two approached the cattle
they separated and began to ride around them; and one by one the other
riders, as they met them, exchanged a word or two and turned their
horses in the direction of the camp. Presently from the other side of
the herd, Jack caught the sound of Joe's voice droning out a song, the
words of which he could not hear; but later, when they were relieved by
other boys, and were riding back to camp, he asked Joe to teach him the
song. Joe said that he knew only one verse, which ran like this:
"Oh! the cowboy's life is a dreary one,
He works from dawn till the setting of the sun,
And then his work is left undone,
For his night herding then comes on.
"Sing, who-o, who-o, whoop; cows away;
He works all night and he works all day.
Whoop-i-wo; whoop-i-way;
For very poor chuck and darned poor pay;
Sing, whoop-i-whoa who-ay."
After a few days Jack caught the air of this, and thereafter often sang
it when on night herd.
"I don't know why it keeps the cattle quiet," said Joe, "it certainly
ain't the sentiment; and I don't believe it's the tune. I suppose
like as not it gives them something to think about and keeps them
from looking around, hunting for things to get scared at. Maybe, too,
it gives them confidence when they think that the men and the horses
are right close to 'em all the time. Anyhow, I've always heard about
singing to the cattle ever since I first forked a horse, and I've seen
sometimes, when cattle were mighty nervous and uneasy, when the singing
seemed to keep them from breaking away."
Jack slept soundly that night and the call to grub came all too soon
the next morning.