THE FENCELESS LAND
The next day Jack was ordered to travel with the herd in company with
Jack Mason and Rube. Mason was a man who had not been long in this
part of the country. He was not a pilgrim, for he had been born among
the mountains of the West, and had spent all his life in the fenceless
country. As a very young man he had worked his way up to the north, and
for several years had lived on or near the Blackfeet Reservation, and
Hugh knew him well. When he found him in the round-up camp Hugh had
spoken of him to Jack in high terms.
"He's harum-scarum," he had said, "but he's a good prairie man, and I
don't think he's afraid of anything that wears hair or feathers. He
does not always believe in obeying laws that he does not approve of,
and I've heard he has been in trouble once or twice on that account;
but he's a square man, and a man that it's safe for you to know, and
to tie to under ordinary conditions. Sometimes, however, he goes off
half-cocked, and when he does that I shouldn't want you to tie to him.
He's a man that's growing better every day, but he needs experience and
balance, and I don't believe there's any way for Jack Mason to get
that, except by living in the world and finding out for himself a whole
lot of things that he don't know yet.
"There's another thing about Mason," Hugh went on; "he's terrible
stout, quick with his hands, and quite a wrestler. I mind the only time
I ever saw him wrestle. The fellow that tackled him got a handful. It
was at the Blackfeet Agency. A big husky chap came over from Canada
and went around blowing about how good he could wrestle. He threw the
blacksmith, who was pretty stout, and a big Indian that was persuaded
to try him, and after he had done that he talked louder than ever. He
was an Englishman that had been in the mounted police. Finally somebody
who had seen Mason in a scuffle told the man that he couldn't throw
Mason, and the Englishman wanted to bet he could, and at last got all
worked up about it. Mason kept refusing and dodging and putting off,
until the Englishman was about crazy to make a match, and at last Mason
said he would go him. They put up five dollars a side to wrestle on the
flat out in front of the stockade. When they got hold of each other,
the Englishman started in to throw Mason quick, but however hard he
tried, he didn't seem to stir him out of his tracks. But suddenly,
while they were all watching and wondering what was going to happen,
Mason give a kind of a twist and threw the Englishman over his head,
and he lit on his back three or four steps away, with the wind all
knocked out of him. It took five or ten minutes to bring him to, and
then he was only just able to walk, and had to be helped back into the
stockade. He didn't talk much about wrestling after that, and left in
the course of two or three days.
"You notice Mason sometime when he's in swimming and see his arms and
shoulders, and the pins he's got under him. He's stout, I tell you."
Mason was a good cow hand and a most cheery, delightful fellow. No
matter how gloomy the situation, how hard the rain poured or the cold
wind blew, he whistled and sang in hearty fashion, made jokes and
laughed at those of others, and altogether got out of life a great deal
of enjoyment.
Those who were to drive the herd went out early to relieve the night
herders. They were in no haste to start the cattle, which were given
some time to feed before being pushed along to the next camp. While
the cattle were feeding they needed no special attention for they were
not likely to try to wander until they had eaten their fill. So the
three herders got together on a knoll from which a good view of the
country could be had, and sat there watching the stock as it fed. Rube
whittled tobacco, and time and again filled his old black pipe; but the
two Jacks, being non-smokers, looked over the wide plain before them,
and noted, as one may note if one sits down and stares at a landscape,
the various things that were happening among the wild dwellers of that
landscape.
Scarcely half a mile to the north was an old doe antelope which in
the early morning light had seemed much interested in the cattle and
trotted down toward them on a tour of inspection. Those who saw her
felt pretty sure that hidden somewhere in the neighborhood she had
a couple of little kids; and sure enough after the old mother had
satisfied herself that there was no danger in those great groups of
dark animals, her two tiny young ones came out from their hiding-place
and played around her.
Along a distant hillside off to the south, Jack Mason's keen eye
detected a moving object, and after watching it for a while he turned
to Jack.
"There goes a wolf, traveling back after his night's hunting to find a
place to lie by during the day," he said.
After it had been pointed out, they could see the great beast trotting
smoothly along over the prairie toward some bushy ravines higher up on
the hill.
"Except for the cattle and the wild animals," Mason said, "there's not
much to be seen here."
"Not much," answered Jack. "It's lonely; but I like the very
lonesomeness of it."
"Yes," responded Mason; "so do I. I don't know anything much better
than to ride along over the prairie, or to sit alone on top of the
hill and just see what goes on all about you. Most people wouldn't see
anything, but the man that has got his eyes open sees a whole lot."
"Ho!" put in Rube, "you fellows talk as if you had never before been
where it was lonely. I have; and there's too much loneliness out here
for me. I'm getting to be like the fellow I heard of who was riding
fence down in Texas on one of those big fenced ranches. He never saw
anybody from week-end to week-end, and one time when he came into a
ranch to get his supplies, he said it was so darned lonely out there
that he'd got into the habit of taking off his hat and saying 'Howdy'
to every fence post that he passed."
"Well," laughed Mason, "he must have suffered for lack of company; but
I would never have that complaint."
"Hugh tells me that you've lived up in the Piegan country," said Jack,
addressing Mason. "Were you up there long?"
"Three or four years. I expect I'll go back there before long. Six or
eight years ago I drifted up from the south through this country, and
finally brought up among the Piegans. I've been across the line a few
times to the British, and have stopped a little while with the Bloods
and the north Piegans. You know that in old times, when the first
treaties were made, the Piegans split up on the question of where they
should live. Some of them liked the country to the south of the line,
and some that to the north. Originally all the three tribes of the
Blackfeet came from way up north on the Red Deer River, or maybe still
farther, to the east of that. I've heard old John Monroe--maybe you
know him--"
"I should say so!" exclaimed Jack. "I lived in his lodge all one
summer."
"Well," continued Mason, "I've heard old John Monroe tell a mighty good
story about the way the Blackfeet came down from the northeast, and how
they first met the white people."
Here Rube interrupted.
"I think we had better start these cows along. A lot of 'em have quit
feeding and the first thing we know they'll be lying down, and then
we'll have a hard time to get them to move. Better come on and start
'em now. The longer we put it off the harder work and slower it'll be."
"That's gospel," said Jack Mason. "We've got to whoop these cows up,
and we haven't any time for writing ancient history now."
"Yes," agreed Jack, "I suppose we've got to move; but look here, Mason,
I want to get you to tell me that story, if you will. I've an idea
that I've heard bits of it up North, but if you can give it to me in a
connected fashion I wish you would."
"Why sure," Mason answered. "I'd like to tell it to you the best I
can; but you know very well that I can't tell it the way old John
Monroe could. He's half Indian and that means that he's a natural sign
talker; and then he's got a dash of French in him, that makes him
willing to talk, and he talks well; and then I expect the Scotch--for
old Hugh Monroe's father must have been Scotch, if the name counts
for anything--gives him a sense of humor. So he's a rattling good
story-teller. Of course, for me, and maybe for you, he's sometimes
a little hard to understand, because he talks a language made up of
English, French, Cree and Blackfeet. Sometimes I miss the connection,
but his stories are always good. The best ones that I ever heard,
though, were those that he told in Cree to Billy Jackson, and that
Billy Jackson interpreted for me, for Jackson is no slouch of a
story-teller himself."
As they talked, the men rode over toward the cattle and going about
them started those that were lying down and at last got the whole bunch
moving very slowly in the direction they wished them to go. Among
the cattle were three or four partially crippled animals that had
been lamed either by the horns of other cows in the crowding, or by
falling in bad places. Most of the hurts were trifling and would soon
pass away, but there was one two-year-old steer that had a very bad
shoulder and could use only one foreleg. He could get along very slowly
and with difficulty. As Rube and Jack passed each other, riding to and
fro to keep the stock going, Rube pointed to the steer.
"I hate to drive that cripple," he said; "and I'd leave him in a minute
if I wasn't afraid that the wolves or coyotes would kill him to-night."
"Yes," answered Jack; "I am afraid if he were left behind he would
never see the morning light; even a bunch of coyotes could kill him
without any trouble, for just as soon as they crippled his hind legs,
he would fall over and they would eat him alive."
"I reckon," decided Rube, "the best that we can do is to keep him
going, and if we get him into camp to-night, we'll let McIntyre say
what shall be done with him."
About noon the boys came to a stream and, driving the cattle down to
it, made up their minds that they would give them an hour or two of
rest. When Mason came up, Jack spoke to him about the crippled steer
and asked what he thought about it, repeating what he and Rube had said
a little while before.
"You're right about that," said Mason. "I don't believe he'd last out
the night; for, as you say, the coyotes would kill him. If he were
well, he could stand off a bunch of coyotes, but as he is, he wouldn't
last long. You talk about crippling up his hind legs. Do you savvy,
Jack, how it is that a buffalo or a steer, or a cow, gets hamstrung?"
"I always supposed that a wolf just bit through that big tendon that
runs down from the ham to the hock, and, of course, if that's cut or
broken that cripples that leg entirely."
"Right you are," said Mason, "up to a certain point; but did it ever
occur to you how big and tough that tendon is, and did you ever stop to
think whether a wolf could bite through it with one snap of his jaws?"
"No; I confess that I never did. But now that you speak of it, it looks
to me like a pretty good-sized contract for any animal to bite through
that tendon at a single snap."
"That's what it is," answered Mason. "If you ever get a chance to try
a knife on that tendon you'll find that unless the knife is sharp like
a razor you'll have to put in a good deal of force, and do some little
sawing to get the blade through the tendon. We all know that a wolf is
big and strong and that he can bite tremendously hard, and that he's
got sharp teeth. I believe that maybe a wolf has force enough in his
jaws to break a man's wrist, if he caught it just at the right point,
but I don't believe that there ever was a wolf whelped that was able
to cut through that tendon at a single snap, unless by accident. Of
course, he might partly cut through it, and the animal's struggles
might break it, but I don't believe that would happen once in a
thousand times. The way the wolves hamstring these animals, so far as
I've been able to see, is by biting that tendon over and over again,
and before long it gets all bruised and more or less shredded, and
swells up and stiffens, and the animal is not able to use his leg. If
this happens to one or both legs, the first thing you know the animal
is down and that's the end of it."
"Well, that's news to me," declared Jack. "I never thought of that
before. I always just took it for granted that a wolf, because he is
big and strong, could and did cut through that tendon by a snap of his
jaws; but the way you put it, it looks to me as if that would not be
possible."
"I've seen a number of cases," Mason continued, "where animals have
been killed by wolves and I've always been interested in hearing about
this hamstringing, so I've paid particular attention to the condition
of that part of the leg, trying to see whether the tendon was ever cut,
and I never have seen a case when it was cut."
"That's a new idea to me," repeated Jack. "I'd like to get more light
on it. Did you ever talk about it to Hugh? He's been on the prairie an
awful long time."
"No; I don't think that I ever talked about it to anybody at all; but
I'm like you, I'd like to know whether it is gospel or not. At all
events, it's what I've seen, and I think it's reason, too."
"It does seem reasonable," said Jack. "Let's ask Hugh when we get
in to-night. Meantime we'll try to push along this cripple and let
McIntyre decide what's to be done with him."
It was late in the afternoon when the herd was turned out to feed near
the camp; and at night, soon after McIntyre got in, Jack told him the
story of the crippled steer, and asked what should be done with it.
"Whose is it?" asked McIntyre.
"One of the Sturgis steers."
"Well," said McIntyre, "you and old man Johnson can decide what's to
be done with it; and whatever you say goes."
Hugh, when consulted, thought that the best thing was to leave it
behind them on the prairie, and that it must take its chances of living
or dying. With rest and feed it would probably recover, but if driven
along with the herd it would be sure to get worse and finally would
have to be killed.
"All right," McIntyre consented; "when we move from here we'll leave
it, and let it take its chance. We'll stop over here to-morrow, and cut
and brand."
That night as they sat around the fire, Jack asked Mason to tell Hugh
what he thought took place when an animal is hamstrung, and then asked
Hugh what his beliefs were about the matter.
"Why," replied Hugh, as he stuffed down the fire in his pipe with
a callous forefinger, "of course, Mason is dead right. I supposed
everybody knew that. Hamstringing buffalo and stock means, I suppose,
crippling them by hurting that big tendon above the hock. I've heard
that in old days sometimes the Mexicans, and maybe the Indians too,
used to ride up behind a buffalo with a right sharp saber or machete
and by making a strong downward stroke did actually cut the hamstring
and hurt the buffalo so that it had only three legs to go on; but I
never supposed that anybody thought a wolf could really cut a hamstring
through in that way. It's just the way Jack Mason says, in ninety-nine
cases out of a hundred, and you'll find that most mountain men and most
Indians who have seen anything will tell you just the same thing.
"I expect you read a whole lot in books that's written by men who never
saw the things happen that they describe: they've read of them perhaps
a good many times, and sort of take it for granted that what they've
read is all right; but, really, they don't know what it means. I guess
this hamstringing business is one of those things. As Mason says, it
might happen now and then that a wolf's jaws that hit that tendon just
right would partly cut it in two, and then the animal might break it in
struggling, but that wouldn't happen often."
"There's another thing, Hugh," Jack said, "that I want Mason to tell
you--about some things he's heard from old John Monroe--some stories
about how the Piegans came from their old home in the North down to
where they live now. I want to get him to tell us about that."
"Why, yes," replied Hugh, "those are right good stories. I've often
heard old John Monroe and other old men talk about that. I supposed
maybe I'd told you about it, but I don't know as I have."
"No; I don't think you ever told me the whole story, though I've heard
you and other people up there talk about it as something that was
perfectly well known."
"Oh, yes," answered Hugh; "it's well known all right. All the old men
know about it, but lots of the young men don't know anything at all
about it. They don't care much about those old stories. All they want
to do is to be riding horses; or maybe some of them, if they should
have a dollar or so, go off down to the Birch Creek and buy some whisky
with it."
"Well, I suppose it's too late to hear the story to-night; but
to-morrow night, if you feel like it, I'd like to have you tell us
those stories, Mason. You would like to hear them over again, wouldn't
you, Hugh?"
"Sure," said Hugh; "I'd like to mighty well."
"Me, too," said Tulare Joe, as he threw the stump of his cigarette into
the fire and rose to go to his blankets.