FIGHTING THE ITCH
Monroe and the three men left to him after Bow-Wow had departed for Twin
River and Wayback, in the company of Whitby, were too small a force to
attempt the round-up, so they put in the day riding over those sections
of the range farthest removed from the Hog Back, examining every cow
they found. At nightfall they had the pleasure of reporting to Buck
that the entire portion of the range along the Little Jill, extending
from the river to the middle of the ranch, was free from infection; as a
matter of fact the conclusion reached in council was that only that
portion of range bounded by the Black Jack, the south line, and
Blackfoot Creek needed to be cleaned up. This meant that two-thirds of
the ranch was free from the itch, and the infected third contained less
than a fourth of the Double Y cows.
Plans for the round-up were considered and soon arrived at. All the men
with the exception of three, were to be actively engaged in the
round-up. They were to start from the south line and drive northwest
towards the Hog Back. The Black Jack made a natural barrier on the west
and would hold the herd safely on that side. The three other punchers
were to ride even with the drive line, but on the other side of
Blackfoot Creek, and keep ambitious cows from crossing onto the
non-infected portions of the range. This arrangement would constantly
force the cattle onto the wedge-shaped range at the juncture of the two
waters. Here the herd could be dipped and driven across the shallow
Blackfoot onto a clean territory, where they would be held for further
observation. Then if the rest of the range showed signs of infection
the round-up and dipping could be carried on again at other points. If a
strict line could be maintained along the Blackfoot the Hog Back range
would be fenced off effectually from the non-infected cattle on the
other parts of the ranch. The question of building an actual fence to
separate the Hog Back range from the rest was gone into thoroughly and
the decision was unanimous that twelve miles of fence was too big a
proposition to be attempted at that moment; if necessary it could be put
up later when it was found that patrolling the creek was inadvisable.
But perhaps a side light can be thrown on this quiet decision when it is
remembered how fervently a cowman hated fences. These men were all of
the old school and preferred to keep barb-wire as a theory and not a
fact.
That evening Bow-Wow returned with a crowd of cow-punchers of varying
degrees of fitness, all eager to take cards in any game at fifty dollars
a month. The majority of them were not up to the standards Buck
cherished; if they had been, they would not have been waiting for a job.
But it was certain they knew how to punch cows, enough for the demands
of the moment--and Jake waxed eloquent and sarcastic when he hazarded a
guess as to when they had eaten their last square meal. Perhaps, after
all, digging huge ditches would not be so bad, for cooking three meals a
day for twenty-odd hungry men was more of a task than he cared to
tackle. But Bow-Wow had exercised some intelligence of his own, as
after events showed. Two of his squad were ex-cooks. The "ex" is used
advisedly, for if ever cooks were "ex" it was these two; this was the
decision voiced simultaneously by twenty hungry men at the first meal
prepared by the two. Sam Hawkins suggested that they had quit cooking
to save their lives, and regretted that they had so made their choice.
The drive went ahead without more than the usual bluster and confusion,
and the end of the first day found the round-up well under way.
Outlying free range had been thoroughly combed, in which assistance had
been given by neighboring ranches; Buck, in carrying out his policy of
supplying his own help, had not failed to notify other owners and
foremen that they could rely on the Double Y for its contingent of men
when the general round-up should take place. The drivers were divided
into two squads for day work and three for night riding around the herd;
the two-squad arrangement was made for meal times, one squad eating
while the other worked. There was no time lost at meals because each of
the ex-cooks, in a chuck wagon alloted to him, preceded the drive and
was never very far from the field of operations. Thus were system and
order gained the first day, which meant time saved in the end.
Buck intended to spend his nights in the ranch house as usual, and when
he gained it the first night he found two things of interest. The first
announced itself by sending him to his hands and knees within three feet
of his front door; the second was a telegram from McAllister saying that
a special had the right of way, and from the wording Buck could see it
pounding into the Northwest, over crossings and past switch towers, its
careening red tail lights bearing a warning to would-be range-jumpers if
they did but know it. The message further stated that the consignment
was under the personal attention of a puncher who, having grown sick of
the stock yards, was cheerfully availing himself of the opportunity of
getting back to the open range at no expense. Buck sighed with relief
as he realized that the ingredients of the dip were already on the way,
and could not be sidetracked or lost without the subduing of a very
irritable cow-puncher. As he put the message away he remembered the
first thing that had impressed itself on him, and went out to take a
look at it.
The light in his hand revealed the sodless strip fifty feet long and
four feet wide. Its depth was to the under side of the grass, a matter
of two or three inches. There was a stake at each corner of the bare
rectangle and these supported a one-strand fence made of lariats.
Buck scratched his head and then growled a profane request to feel the
head of the man who was responsible. He strode into the house and
stopped in the kitchen door; and Jake very wearily turned around on his
chair and looked at him with intent curiosity.
"What 'n h--l is that scalped grass for?" demanded Buck, evenly.
"That's th' beginnin' of ditch number one," replied Jake. "How 'd you
like them lines, eh? Straight as a die. Took me all mornin' to lay 'em
out like that."
"Did it? I congratulate you, Jake--likewise I sympathize with you. I
reckon you 'll get it down a foot in a couple o' weeks, eh?"
"Oh, quicker'n that," modestly rejoined Jake.
"Did n't I tell you to dig them ditches close to where th' Blackfoot
empties into th' Jack?" demanded Buck. "Are you figgerin' on extendin'
it from here to there? I don't want a trench no fifteen miles long.
To-morrow mornin' you ride with me an' I 'll show you where to dig. An'
don't you bother stakin' it off exact, neither. I want them ditches all
finished in _three_ days. Did you reckon I was goin' to drive two
thousand head of itch cows fifteen miles so I could dip 'em bang up agin
my own front door!"
Pickles bounced in, his rifle under his arm. "Hullo, Buck!" he cried.
"Shot a coyote to-day!"
"Good, Pickles," smiled Buck. "Want a job shootin' a _man_ to-morrow?"
"Betcher life! Is it Dave?"
"No, it's Jake, here," replied Buck. "You take yore rifle an' come with
me an' Jake to-morrow. If he don't dig fast enough to suit you, you
shoot him in th' laig."
"Betcher life! Which leg?" asked Pickles, agog with anticipation.
"I 'm leavin' that to you, Pickles. You 're gettin' big enough to
figger things out for yoreself."
"Will he limp like Hopalong?"
"Worse, mebby."
Jake, grinning, feared Pickles might be carried away with his zeal, and
he put in a laughing objection; but he sobered instantly at Buck's sharp
reply.
"I mean it. He 'll shoot if he 's a friend o' mine. I ain't goin' to
lose a lot of cows 'cause I 've got a man too lazy to dig. You 've got
yore orders, Pickles: obey 'em like a real Bar-20 puncher."
"Betcher life I will. Just like Hopalong Cassidy!"
Jake groaned at the intense earnestness in Pickles' declaration; to
emulate the great Hopalong Cassidy was enduring honor in Pickles' eyes,
and from past performances and several duels with the boy, Jake reached
the conclusion that he was slated to do some very rapid digging on the
morrow.
"Lemme use _yore_ rifle, Buck!" asked Pickles, his eyes shining with the
joy of living. He knew he could do a great deal better with Buck's
repeater, and the thought of exploding .45-70 cartridges was a delight
beyond his wildest dreams.
Jake's heart stopped for the reply and he sighed with relief as Pickles'
face fell; but the boy's spirits rose like a balloon. "All right, Buck;
I can get him with my gun, though I ought to have a repeater."
* * * * *
The round-up went forward swiftly and the day that McAllister's special
puffed into Wayback and snorted onto the siding, found the Hog Back
country swept clean of cattle, the herd being held close to Jake's two
big ditches. Buck had known the magnitude of the task he set for Jake
and when the cook showed he was anxious to do his share of the work,
Buck had told off men enough to help him get through in time. The
digging was hard and unaccustomed work and the men were changed
frequently, all but Jake; he seemed to consider it a matter of pride to
stick to the job and made a point of throwing the last shovelful of dirt
as well as the first; as a consequence his altitude was below normal for
a week afterwards, and it was a month before he forgot to grunt with
every breath.
The hauling of the lumber exercised the ingenuity and strained the
resources of Jean LaFrance, the only man in the locality who possessed
anything on wheels capable of carrying it. Inasmuch as he could ill
spare the time, although sorely needing the money, it exhausted Jean's
stock of oaths to the point where his own language failed him; even
English, which he understood, seemed singularly tame and unworthy the
occasion; so that he fell back on his carefully reserved specimens of
German expletives, which he did not in the least understand, and these
with constant repetitions carried him through. Two men, driving the two
borrowed chuck wagons, succeeded in transporting the rest of the
shipment, and Whitby, to his great satisfaction, found that McAllister
had not forgotten his fee.
The junction of the Blackfoot with the Jack presented a busy scene. The
close-packed blue-clay, which had made hard work for the diggers, now
proved a help, the timbers fitting snug without backing. Meanwhile the
more important part, the preparing of the solution, went on under the
direction of Whitby; his calm handling and frequent active cooeperation
without becoming warm or soiled was a wonder to see. Under the huge
caldrons, which had been the first of the consignment to arrive, wood
had been piled ready for the match; on bases made of logs stood rows of
whiskey barrels; shallow troughs were filled and re-filled with water
until the swelling wood took up and became water-tight. Far into the
night they worked, and now the crackling fires were giving the night
shift trouble with the snorting cattle. Weird shadows darted out over
the ground, lengthened and vanished as the men moved about the fires,
worked over the lime-slaking troughs or poured off the compound paste
into the steaming caldrons. When the barrels were filled with the first
lot of the mixture, Whitby relented and the men stumbled off to rest.
With the dawn they were at work again; and now the dipping troughs came
into use as the saturated solution was drawn off from the barrels,
leaving the sediment at the bottom, and dumped into the troughs, where
water was added to reduce it to the required strength. Night was
approaching again before the water arose to nearly the required level;
the men were thoroughly tired and Whitby, reluctantly and as a result of
a direct order from Buck, called a halt. Buck knew the temper of his
men better than Whitby: at anything directly connected with range
duties, provided they were familiar with it, they would work until they
dropped; but this was something whose usefulness remained to be proven.
Buck was too wise to push them in such a case, but he grinned cheerfully
as he turned away from the reluctance on Whitby's face. The Britisher
was surely a glutton for work.
The prudence of Buck's reasoning was shown by the eagerness with which
the men responded to the call next morning. In less than an hour Whitby
announced all ready and the men entered upon a scene which they
individually and collectively swore repaid them for their trouble. At
Whitby's shout, two of the men riding herd cut out the first bunch of
cattle and drove them toward the dipping trough; the flimsily
constructed horse corral swarmed with laughing, joking punchers who
roped their mounts with more or less success in the first attempt, while
outside the wranglers darted forward and back, wheeling on a pie dish,
checking the more ambitious of the ponies that resented a confinement
limited to a single line of lariats; saddles dropped onto recalcitrant
backs and were cinched with a speed nothing short of marvellous to a
layman, and the whooping punchers were jerked away to the herd.
The first lot of cows, some twenty in number, flirting their tails and
snorting in angry impotence, entered the wide opening between a
wedge-shaped pair of fences and galloped toward the narrow vent which
led to the trough. And now was seen Buck's wisdom in continuing the
fence along the edge of the troughs a few feet, both at entrance and
exit: the first brute, a magnificent three-year-old, appeared to realize
the crush that would come and spurted for the opening; the significance
of the situation did not appeal to him until he was close to the edge;
he slid to the very brink and gathered himself for a leap, but the fence
was too high; the next instant the cattle behind, urged on by Cock
Murray, whooping like an Indian, bumped into the hesitating brute and he
fell forward into the trough with a bellow of rage and started on his
swim to the other end.
When Cock Murray, with Slow Jack close behind, had followed the bunch
between the fences, they were assailed by a chorus of shouts to which
they paid no heed whatever. Slow Jack, being in the rear, caught a
glimpse out of the tail of his eye of Whitby running and waving his
arms; he looked around for the cause of so much excitement and was in
time to see the second bunch, instead of being driven over to the other
trough as they should have been, come thundering into the wedge and
drive down upon him. Slow Jack shot up to the fence, threw one leg
along the neck of his pony and skimmed through the opening he made for,
with nothing to spare and a scratched saddle; after which he spent
several profane seconds in telling the chaffing drivers what he thought
of them. His annoyance was forgotten when they suddenly doubled up,
shrieking with laughter, and pointed toward the shoot.
Slow Jack looked and then looked at them. The second bunch had gone
galloping madly on to the narrow opening, against which they were wedged
and dropping one by one as a third bunch pressed in after them. They
were coming too rapidly and Ned Monroe, riding past from the other
trough, was sending the next bunch in the proper direction and going on
to the herd to put some sense of order into the heads of the rollicking
punchers. Slow Jack quite failed to see anything funny in all this and
said so with force and directness; he added, moreover, a prophecy
regarding idiots, the fulfilment of which was due to take place in the
near, in fact immediate, future, which threatened complete derangement
of the internal economy of said idiots. The idiots were entirely
oblivious. Jack was puzzled. He glanced ahead and noticed a lot more
idiots. Disgusted with his vain attempt to get an explanation, he rode
forward to see for himself.
Cock Murray, having quirted the last of the first bunch into the trough,
became aware of the shouting, gesticulating men who had left their
duties to run toward the fence to attract his attention. In the
cross-fire of warnings he failed to understand any of them, but the
rumbling rush behind brought him suddenly to a realization of his
position. One glance and he saw it was too late to retreat. There was
just one thing to do. "Holy mackerel!" gasped Cock. He put the quirt
to his pony in a frenzy of blows and landed in the dipping mixture with
a jump that carried his pony's feet to the bottom of the trough.
Sputtering and swearing Cock went through to the end; it was useless, as
he knew, to try to climb out over those smooth abrupt walls, and he was
too obstinate to leave his saddle. Which was madder, Cock or the pony,
it would be hard to say. It was when he went climbing up the cleated
incline at the farther end that Slow Jack got his first inkling of the
cause of mirth. He gave one astonished stare, made two or three odd
noises in his throat, and then, gravely and in silence, dropped from his
saddle to the ground. It was not until he lay at full length, the long
reins of the bridle drooping from the bit and his pony gazing at him
inquiringly, that he exploded--but then he laughed steadily for half an
hour.
The cattle, which had not awaited these developments, were dropping into
the trough with praise-worthy regularity and making their way to the
other end; when about half way there and swimming resignedly, a
kind-hearted puncher, wearing a delighted grin in addition to his
regular equipment, and armed with a strong pole, forked at the business
end, leaned forward swiftly, jammed the fork over the unsuspecting cow's
head, and pushed zealously. The result was gratifying to the few
on-lookers, and disconcerting to the cow so rudely ducked; just before
the unfortunate bovine touched the sloping runway to dry earth, another
grinning puncher repeated the dose. The cows, reluctant to enter the
bath, showed no reluctance to leave it and the scene of their
humiliation, and they lumbered away with a speed surprising to those
whose ideas of cows are based upon observation of domesticated "bossies"
in pasture in the East. But they were not allowed to run free, being
driven slowly across a roughly constructed bridge to the farther side of
the Blackfoot, onto the non-infected range, and held there.
"This yere trough is shore makin' some plenty of Baptists," grinned
Chesty Sutton.
"Yep; but with Mormon inclinations," amended Bow-Wow.
"Bow to th' gents," reprimanded Chesty, ducking a cow. "You look like a
drowned rat," he criticised.
"Bow agin," requested Bow-Wow, and the cow obeyed, with a show of fight
when its head came up.
"Some high-falutin' picklin' factory," chuckled Chesty. "Messrs.
Bow-Wow Baker an' Chesty Sutton, world's greatest mite picklers.
Blue-noses, red-noses an' other kinds o' cow inhabitants a specialty.
Give you a whole dollar, Bow-Wow, if you fall in."
"Is that just a plain hope, or a insinooation?" demanded the cheerful
Bow-Wow. "I sleep next to you, so don't get too blamed personal. But
we might put Jake in--though mebby his ain't th' right kind. Hey, Jake;
come here."
"If you wants to see me, you come here," retorted the cook. "I 've seen
all of them ditches _I_ wants to. An' I ain't takin' no chances with a
couple o' fools, neither."
"Hey, Chesty!" called Bow-Wow, delighted. "Here comes that LX steer we
had such a h--l of a time with in th' railroad pens. Soak him good!
Ah, ha, my long-horned friend; you was some touchy an' peevish down
there in Wayback. Take _that_--don't worry, Chesty 's been savin' some
for you, too. _Hard_, Chesty! That's th' boy--bet he 's mad as a
rattler."
"Look at that moth-eaten scab of a yearlin'," laughed Chesty, pointing.
"Th' firm could declare dividends on th' mites we 'll pickle on her.
_Souse_ she goes! Once more for luck--look at her steam up! H--l,
_this_ ain't work--it's fun. Under you go, Alice dear. Next!"
"Here comes Kinkaid o' th' Cyclone," announced Cock Murray, riding up to
take a hasty look at the operations before he returned to the herd for
another bunch of cows.
Chesty handed his pole to Murray, grabbed up a lariat, and started for
the newcomer, shouting: "Here comes some itch! Dip him, fellers!
Quick!"
Kinkaid manoeuvred swiftly, grinning broadly. "If that stuff is warmer
'n th' water in th' Jack, why, I might be coaxed into it. Howd'y, boys;
thought I 'd come over an' pick up some points."
"How you makin' out on th' Cyclone?" asked Buck.
"Bad--_very_ bad. We tried isolatin' th' mangy ones, but they 're dyin'
like flies in frost time. Lost forty million so far an' I reckon th'
other two 'll die to-morrow. We thought our north range was free, but
they 're on that, too. We drove clean cows up in th' Rockin' Horse
territory an' now they 're showin' signs o' havin' th' itch. Beats all
how it travels."
Cock Murray listened intently, but held his peace. He thought he might
explain how it had travelled toward the Rocking Horse.
"That's where we noticed it first," said Buck. "We found some o' yore
cows on th' Hog Back, an' their trail left th' river just below th'
Rockin' Horse."
Kinkaid looked surprised and asked questions. He sat very quietly for a
few moments and then looked at Buck with a peculiar expression on his
face. "Sick cows don't swim th' Jack, cold as it is now. I wonder who
in h--l--?" he muttered, softly.
"We 're wonderin', too, Kinkaid," replied Buck, slowly. "It's lead or
rope for anybody we ketch at it." Kinkaid nodded his emphatic
endorsement of this.
Whitby was keeping a close watch on the tally of cattle as they emerged,
comparing it with the amount of fresh mixture constantly being added to
that already in the troughs, and he found reason to be thankful that he
had ordered more than he expected to use. Any left over would make all
the less needed at the fall shipment when, as he knew, the dipping would
have to be repeated; not until then could they be assured that the
disease was stamped out.
The first day's work finished less than half the herd, but they
continued, the following day, until the last cow scrambled out. After
which, as a matter of precaution, Buck gave the boys the fun of driving
every pony through the mixture. What had been entertaining before now
became side-splitting, for tired as they were, the savage natures of the
furious victims drew energy from unexpected sources and made a scene
well worth watching, and a little risky for those men waiting with ropes
at the end of the dripping board. The cows were angry, but had neither
the intelligence nor the fighting ability of the maddened animals who
had only a short time before seemed to enjoy the discomfiture of the
animals they were accustomed to drive and bully; and it was only agility
and good luck that the flying hoofs landed on nothing more substantial
than air.
While this did not take long it was too late when finished, and the men
too weary, to break camp; but the next morning saw the chuck wagon piled
high with barrels and caldrons on the way to the ranch house. Some of
the extra men, having in mind the wording of the guarantee of a full
month's pay, cherished the hope that there was no further use for their
services and that they would be paid off and told to leave. They were
disappointed, for instead of loafing or leaving, half of them were set
to planting posts for the fence which it was found necessary to erect
along the creek, while the others rode over the range on the look-out
for cows with signs of itch. A small herd of about a hundred, found
scattered along and near the creek, were dipped as a precautionary
measure, and after a week had elapsed without finding further signs of
the disease, Buck ordered the second squad to begin the Spring or calf
round-up; the fence division patrolled the creek to effect a quarantine
until the wire arrived. They had a two-strand fence extending along
Blackfoot Creek from its source to the river, when the round-up was half
over, and were immediately put to work with the others. When the last
calf was branded, the extra force was let go and Buck waited for some
new deviltry. It came, and turned his hair grayer and deepened the lines
of care on his face. Calves had totalled up well and proved to him that
there was lots of money to be taken out of the Double Y under fair
conditions, but the next blow cut into his resources with crushing
effect and made him waver for a moment.