That was all very well, and nobody had any kick comin'. Then one day

in the spring, we came across our first "sleeper."

What's a sleeper? A sleeper is a calf that has been ear-marked, but

not branded. Every owner has a certain brand, as you know, and then he

crops and slits the ears in a certain way, too. In that manner he

don't have to look at the brand, except to corroborate the ears; and,

as the critter generally sticks his ears up inquirin'-like to anyone

ridin' up, it's easy to know the brand without lookin' at it, merely

from the ear-marks. Once in a great while, when a man comes across an

unbranded calf, and it ain't handy to build a fire, he just ear-marks

it and let's the brandin' go till later. But it isn't done often, and

our outfit had strict orders never to make sleepers.

Well, one day in the spring, as I say, Larry and me was ridin', when we

came across a Lazy Y cow and calf. The little fellow was ear-marked

all right, so we rode on, and never would have discovered nothin' if a

bush rabbit hadn't jumped and scared the calf right across in front of

our hosses. Then we couldn't help but see that there wasn't no brand.

Of course we roped him and put the iron on him. I took the chance to

look at his ears, and saw that the marking had been done quite recent,

so when we got in that night I reported to Buck Johnson that one of the

punchers was gettin' lazy and sleeperin'. Naturally he went after the

man who had done it; but every puncher swore up and down, and back and

across, that he'd branded every calf he'd had a rope on that spring.

We put it down that someone was lyin', and let it go at that.

And then, about a week later, one of the other boys reported a

Triangle-H sleeper. The Triangle-H was the Goodrich brand, so we

didn't have nothin' to do with that. Some of them might be sleeperin'

for all we knew. Three other cases of the same kind we happened across

that same spring.

So far, so good. Sleepers runnin' in such numbers was a little

astonishin', but nothin' suspicious. Cattle did well that summer, and

when we come to round up in the fall, we cut out maybe a dozen of those

T 0 cattle that had strayed out of that Hahn country. Of the dozen

there was five grown cows, and seven yearlin's.

"My Lord, Jed," says Buck to me, "they's a heap of these youngsters

comin' over our way."

But still, as a young critter is more apt to stray than an old one

that's got his range established, we didn't lay no great store by that

neither. The Hahns took their bunch, and that's all there was to it.

Next spring, though, we found a few more sleepers, and one day we came

on a cow that had gone dead lame. That was usual, too, but Buck, who

was with me, had somethin' on his mind. Finally he turned back and

roped her, and threw her.

"Look here, Jed," says he, "what do you make of this?"

I could see where the hind legs below the hocks had been burned.

"Looks like somebody had roped her by the hind feet," says I.

"Might be," says he, "but her heels lame that way makes it look more

like hobbles."

So we didn't say nothin' more about that neither, until just by luck we

came on another lame cow. We threw her, too.

"Well, what do you think of this one?" Buck Johnson asks me.

"The feet is pretty well tore up," says I, "and down to the quick, but

I've seen them tore up just as bad on the rocks when they come down out

of the mountains."

You sabe what that meant, don't you? You see, a rustler will take a

cow and hobble her, or lame her so she can't follow, and then he'll

take her calf a long ways off and brand it with his iron. Of course,

if we was to see a calf of one brand followin' of a cow with another,

it would be just too easy to guess what had happened.

We rode on mighty thoughtful. There couldn't be much doubt that cattle

rustlers was at work. The sleepers they had ear-marked, hopin' that no

one would discover the lack of a brand. Then, after the calf was

weaned, and quit followin' of his mother, the rustler would brand it

with his own iron, and change its ear-mark to match. It made a nice,

easy way of gettin' together a bunch of cattle cheap.

But it was pretty hard to guess off-hand who the rustlers might be.

There were a lot of renegades down towards the Mexican line who made a

raid once in a while, and a few oilers [2] livin' near had water holes

in the foothills, and any amount of little cattle holders, like this T

0 outfit, and any of them wouldn't shy very hard at a little sleeperin'

on the side. Buck Johnson told us all to watch out, and passed the

word quiet among the big owners to try and see whose cattle seemed to

have too many calves for the number of cows.

The Texas outfit I'm tellin' you about had settled up above in this

Double R canon where I showed you those natural corrals this morning.

They'd built them a 'dobe, and cleared some land, and planted a few

trees, and made an irrigated patch for alfalfa. Nobody never rode over

this way very much, 'cause the country was most too rough for cattle,

and our ranges lay farther to the southward. Now, however, we began to

extend our ridin' a little.

I was down towards Dos Cabesas to look over the cattle there, and they

used to send Larry up into the Double R country. One evenin' he took

me to one side.

"Look here, Jed," says he, "I know you pretty well, and I'm not ashamed

to say that I'm all new at this cattle business--in fact, I haven't

been at it more'n a year. What should be the proportion of cows to

calves anyhow?"

"There ought to be about twice as many cows as there're calves," I

tells him.

"Then, with only about fifty head of grown cows, there ought not to be

an equal number of yearlin's?"

"I should say not," says I. "What are you drivin' at?"

"Nothin' yet," says he.

A few days later he tackled me again.

"Jed," says he, "I'm not good, like you fellows are, at knowin' one cow

from another, but there's a calf down there branded T 0 that I'd pretty

near swear I saw with an X Y cow last month. I wish you could come

down with me."

We got that fixed easy enough, and for the next month rammed around

through this broken country lookin' for evidence. I saw enough to

satisfy me to a moral certainty, but nothin' for a sheriff; and, of

course, we couldn't go shoot up a peaceful rancher on mere suspicion.

Finally, one day, we run on a four-months' calf all by himself, with

the T 0 iron onto him--a mighty healthy lookin' calf, too.

"Wonder where HIS mother is!" says I.

"Maybe it's a 'dogie,'" says Larry Eagen--we calls calves whose mothers

have died "dogies."

"No," says I, "I don't hardly think so. A dogie is always under size

and poor, and he's layin' around water holes, and he always has a big,

sway belly onto him. No, this is no dogie; and, if it's an honest

calf, there sure ought to be a T 0 cow around somewhere."

So we separated to have a good look. Larry rode up on the edge of a

little rimrock. In a minute I saw his hoss jump back, dodgin' a

rattlesnake or somethin', and then fall back out of sight. I jumped my

hoss up there tur'ble quick, and looked over, expectin' to see nothin'

but mangled remains. It was only about fifteen foot down, but I

couldn't see bottom 'count of some brush.

"Are you all right?" I yells.

"Yes, yes!" cries Larry, "but for the love of God, get down here as

quick as you can."

I hopped off my hoss and scrambled down somehow.

"Hurt?" says I, as soon as I lit.

"Not a bit--look here."

There was a dead cow with the Lazy Y on her flank.

"And a bullet-hole in her forehead," adds Larry. "And, look here, that

T 0 calf was bald-faced, and so was this cow."

"Reckon we found our sleepers," says I.

So, there we was. Larry had to lead his cavallo down the barranca to

the main canon. I followed along on the rim, waitin' until a place

gave me a chance to get down, too, or Larry a chance to get up. We

were talkin' back and forth when, all at once, Larry shouted again.

"Big game this time," he yells. "Here's a cave and a mountain lion

squallin' in it."

I slid down to him at once, and we drew our six-shooters and went up to

the cave openin', right under the rim-rock. There, sure enough, were

fresh lion tracks, and we could hear a little faint cryin' like woman.

"First chance," claims Larry, and dropped to his hands and knees at the

entrance.

"Well, damn me!" he cries, and crawls in at once, payin' no attention

to me tellin' him to be more cautious. In a minute he backs out,

carryin' a three-year-old goat.

"We seem to be in for adventures to-day," says he. "Now, where do you

suppose that came from, and how did it get here?"

"Well," says I, "I've followed lion tracks where they've carried

yearlin's across their backs like a fox does a goose. They're tur'ble

strong."

"But where did she come from?" he wonders.

"As for that," says I, "don't you remember now that T 0 outfit had a

yearlin' kid when it came into the country?"

"That's right," says he. "It's only a mile down the canon. I'll take

it home. They must be most distracted about it."

So I scratched up to the top where my pony was waitin'. It was a

tur'ble hard climb, and I 'most had to have hooks on my eyebrows to get

up at all. It's easier to slide down than to climb back. I dropped my

gun out of my holster, and she went way to the bottom, but I wouldn't

have gone back for six guns. Larry picked it up for me.

So we went along, me on the rim-rock and around the barrancas, and

Larry in the bottom carryin' of the kid.

By and by we came to the ranch house, stopped to wait. The minute

Larry hove in sight everybody was out to once, and in two winks the

woman had that baby. They didn't see me at all, but I could hear, plain

enough, what they said. Larry told how he had found her in the cave,

and all about the lion tracks, and the woman cried and held the kid

close to her, and thanked him about forty times. Then when she'd wore

the edge off a little, she took the kid inside to feed it or somethin'.

"Well," says Larry, still laughin', "I must hit the trail."

"You say you found her up the Double R?" asks Hahn. "Was it that cave

near the three cottonwoods?"

"Yes," says Larry.

"Where'd you get into the canyon?"

"Oh, my hoss slipped off into the barranca just above."

"The barranca just above," repeats Hahn, lookin' straight at him.

Larry took one step back.

"You ought to be almighty glad I got into the canyon at all," says he.

Hahn stepped up, holdin' out his hand.

"That's right," says he. "You done us a good turn there."

Larry took his hand. At the same time Hahn pulled his gun and shot him

through the middle.

It was all so sudden and unexpected that I stood there paralysed.

Larry fell forward the way a man mostly will when he's hit in the

stomach, but somehow he jerked loose a gun and got it off twice. He

didn't hit nothin', and I reckon he was dead before he hit the ground.

And there he had my gun, and I was about as useless as a pocket in a

shirt!

No, sir, you can talk as much as you please, but the killer is a

low-down ornery scub, and he don't hesitate at no treachery or

ingratitude to keep his carcass safe.

Jed Parker ceased talking. The dusk had fallen in the little room, and

dimly could be seen the recumbent figures lying at ease on their

blankets. The ranch foreman was sitting bolt upright, cross-legged. A

faint glow from his pipe barely distinguished his features.

"What became of the rustlers?" I asked him.

"Well, sir, that is the queer part. Hahn himself, who had done the

killin', skipped out. We got out warrants, of course, but they never

got served. He was a sort of half outlaw from that time, and was

killed finally in the train hold-up of '97. But the others we tried

for rustling. We didn't have much of a case, as the law went then, and

they'd have gone free if the woman hadn't turned evidence against them.

The killin' was too much for her. And, as the precedent held good in a

lot of other rustlin' cases, Larry's death was really the beginnin' of

law and order in the cattle business."

We smoked. The last light suddenly showed red against the grimy

window. Windy Bill arose and looked out the door.

"Boys," said he, returning. "She's cleared off. We can get back to the

ranch tomorrow."

[2] "Oilers"--Greasers--Mexicans.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE DRIVE

A cry awakened me. It was still deep night. The moon sailed overhead,

the stars shone unwavering like candles, and a chill breeze wandered in

from the open spaces of the desert. I raised myself on my elbow,

throwing aside the blankets and the canvas tarpaulin. Forty other

indistinct, formless bundles on the ground all about me were sluggishly

astir. Four figures passed and repassed between me and a red fire. I

knew them for the two cooks and the horse wranglers. One of the latter

was grumbling.

"Didn't git in till moon-up last night," he growled. "Might as well

trade my bed for a lantern and be done with it."

Even as I stretched my arms and shivered a little, the two wranglers

threw down their tin plates with a clatter, mounted horses and rode

away in the direction of the thousand acres or so known as the pasture.

I pulled on my clothes hastily, buckled in my buckskin shirt, and dove

for the fire. A dozen others were before me. It was bitterly cold.

In the east the sky had paled the least bit in the world, but the moon

and stars shone on bravely and undiminished. A band of coyotes was

shrieking desperate blasphemies against the new day, and the stray

herd, awakening, was beginning to bawl and bellow.

Two crater-like dutch ovens, filled with pieces of fried beef, stood

near the fire; two galvanised water buckets, brimming with soda

biscuits, flanked them; two tremendous coffee pots stood guard at

either end. We picked us each a tin cup and a tin plate from the box

at the rear of the chuck wagon; helped ourselves from a dutch oven, a

pail, and a coffee pot, and squatted on our heels as close to the fire

as possible. Men who came too late borrowed the shovel, scooped up

some coals, and so started little fires of their own about which new

groups formed.

While we ate, the eastern sky lightened. The mountains under the dawn

looked like silhouettes cut from slate-coloured paper; those in the

west showed faintly luminous. Objects about us became dimly visible.

We could make out the windmill, and the adobe of the ranch houses, and

the corrals. The cowboys arose one by one, dropped their plates into

the dishpan, and began to hunt out their ropes. Everything was obscure

and mysterious in the faint grey light. I watched Windy Bill near his

tarpaulin. He stooped to throw over the canvas. When he bent, it was

before daylight; when he straightened his back, daylight had come. It

was just like that, as though someone had reached out his hand to turn

on the illumination of the world.

The eastern mountains were fragile, the plain was ethereal, like a sea

of liquid gases. From the pasture we heard the shoutings of the

wranglers, and made out a cloud of dust. In a moment the first of the

remuda came into view, trotting forward with the free grace of the

unburdened horse. Others followed in procession: those near sharp and

well defined, those in the background more or less obscured by the

dust, now appearing plainly, now fading like ghosts. The leader turned

unhesitatingly into the corral. After him poured the stream of the

remuda--two hundred and fifty saddle horses--with an unceasing thunder

of hoofs.

Immediately the cook-camp was deserted. The cowboys entered the

corral. The horses began to circle around the edge of the enclosure as

around the circumference of a circus ring. The men, grouped at the

centre, watched keenly, looking for the mounts they had already decided

on. In no time each had recognised his choice, and, his loop trailing,

was walking toward that part of the revolving circumference where his

pony dodged. Some few whirled the loop, but most cast it with a quick

flip. It was really marvellous to observe the accuracy with which the

noose would fly, past a dozen tossing heads, and over a dozen backs, to

settle firmly about the neck of an animal perhaps in the very centre of

the group. But again, if the first throw failed, it was interesting to

see how the selected pony would dodge, double back, twist, turn, and

hide to escape second cast. And it was equally interesting to observe

how his companions would help him.

They seemed to realise that they were not wanted, and would push

themselves between the cowboy and his intended mount with the utmost

boldness. In the thick dust that instantly arose, and with the

bewildering thunder of galloping, the flashing change of grouping, the

rush of the charging animals, recognition alone would seem almost

impossible, yet in an incredibly short time each had his mount, and the

others, under convoy of the wranglers, were meekly wending their way

out over the plain. There, until time for a change of horses, they

would graze in a loose and scattered band, requiring scarcely any

supervision. Escape? Bless you, no, that thought was the last in

their minds.

In the meantime the saddles and bridles were adjusted. Always in a

cowboy's "string" of from six to ten animals the boss assigns him two

or three broncos to break in to the cow business. Therefore, each

morning we could observe a half dozen or so men gingerly leading wicked

looking little animals out to the sand "to take the pitch out of them."

One small black, belonging to a cowboy called the Judge, used more than

to fulfil expectations of a good time.

"Go to him, Judge!" someone would always remark.

"If he ain't goin' to pitch, I ain't goin' to make him", the Judge

would grin, as he swung aboard.

The black would trot off quite calmly and in a most matter of fact way,

as though to shame all slanderers of his lamb-like character. Then, as

the bystanders would turn away, he would utter a squeal, throw down his

head, and go at it. He was a very hard bucker, and made some really

spectacular jumps, but the trick on which he based his claims to

originality consisted in standing on his hind legs at so perilous an

approach to the perpendicular that his rider would conclude he was

about to fall backwards, and then suddenly springing forward in a

series of stiff-legged bucks. The first manoeuvre induced the rider to

loosen his seat in order to be ready to jump from under, and the second

threw him before he could regain his grip.

"And they say a horse don't think!" exclaimed an admirer.

But as these were broken horses--save the mark!--the show was all over

after each had had his little fling. We mounted and rode away, just as

the mountain peaks to the west caught the rays of a sun we should not

enjoy for a good half hour yet.

I had five horses in my string, and this morning rode "that C S horse,

Brown Jug." Brown Jug was a powerful and well-built animal, about

fourteen two in height, and possessed of a vast enthusiasm for

cow-work. As the morning was frosty, he felt good.

At the gate of the water corral we separated into two groups. The

smaller, under the direction of Jed Parker, was to drive the mesquite

in the wide flats. The rest of us, under the command of Homer, the

round-up captain, were to sweep the country even as far as the base of

the foothills near Mount Graham. Accordingly we put our horses to the

full gallop.

Mile after mile we thundered along at a brisk rate of speed. Sometimes

we dodged in and out among the mesquite bushes, alternately separating

and coming together again; sometimes we swept over grassy plains

apparently of illimitable extent, sometimes we skipped and hopped and

buck-jumped through and over little gullies, barrancas, and other sorts

of malpais--but always without drawing rein. The men rode easily, with

no thought to the way nor care for the footing. The air came back

sharp against our faces. The warm blood stirred by the rush flowed

more rapidly. We experienced a delightful glow. Of the morning cold

only the very tips of our fingers and the ends of our noses retained a

remnant. Already the sun was shining low and level across the plains.

The shadows of the canons modelled the hitherto flat surfaces of the

mountains.

After a time we came to some low hills helmeted with the outcrop of a

rock escarpment. Hitherto they had seemed a termination of Mount

Graham, but now, when we rode around them, we discovered them to be

separated from the range by a good five miles of sloping plain. Later

we looked back and would have sworn them part of the Dos Cabesas

system, did we not know them to be at least eight miles' distant from

that rocky rampart. It is always that way in Arizona. Spaces develop

of whose existence you had not the slightest intimation. Hidden in

apparently plane surfaces are valleys and prairies. At one sweep of

the eye you embrace the entire area of an eastern State; but

nevertheless the reality as you explore it foot by foot proves to be

infinitely more than the vision has promised.

Beyond the hill we stopped. Here our party divided again, half to the

right and half to the left. We had ridden, up to this time, directly

away from camp, now we rode a circumference of which headquarters was

the centre. The country was pleasantly rolling and covered with grass.

Here and there were clumps of soapweed. Far in a remote distance lay a

slender dark line across the plain. This we knew to be mesquite; and

once entered, we knew it, too, would seem to spread out vastly. And

then this grassy slope, on which we now rode, would show merely as an

insignificant streak of yellow. It is also like that in Arizona.

I have ridden in succession through grass land, brush land, flower

land, desert. Each in turn seemed entirely to fill the space of the

plains between the mountains.

From time to time Homer halted us and detached a man. The business of

the latter was then to ride directly back to camp, driving all cattle

before him. Each was in sight of his right- and left-hand neighbour.

Thus was constructed a drag-net whose meshes contracted as home was

neared.

I was detached, when of our party only the Cattleman and Homer

remained. They would take the outside. This was the post of honour,

and required the hardest riding, for as soon as the cattle should

realise the fact of their pursuit, they would attempt to "break" past

the end and up the valley. Brown Jug and I congratulated ourselves on

an exciting morning in prospect.

Now, wild cattle know perfectly well what a drive means, and they do

not intend to get into a round-up if they can help it. Were it not for

the two facts, that they are afraid of a mounted man, and cannot run

quite so fast as a horse, I do not know how the cattle business would

be conducted. As soon as a band of them caught sight of any one of us,

they curled their tails and away they went at a long, easy lope that a

domestic cow would stare at in wonder. This was all very well; in fact

we yelled and shrieked and otherwise uttered cow-calls to keep them

going, to "get the cattle started," as they say. But pretty soon a

little band of the many scurrying away before our thin line, began to

bear farther and farther to the east. When in their judgment they

should have gained an opening, they would turn directly back and make a

dash for liberty. Accordingly the nearest cowboy clapped spurs to his

horse and pursued them.

It was a pretty race. The cattle ran easily enough, with long, springy

jumps that carried them over the ground faster than appearances would

lead one to believe. The cow-pony, his nose stretched out, his ears

slanted, his eyes snapping with joy of the chase, flew fairly "belly to

earth." The rider sat slightly forward, with the cowboy's loose seat.

A whirl of dust, strangely insignificant against the immensity of a

desert morning, rose from the flying group. Now they disappeared in a

ravine, only to scramble out again the next instant, pace undiminished.

The rider merely rose slightly and threw up his elbows to relieve the

jar of the rough gully. At first the cattle seemed to hold their own,

but soon the horse began to gain. In a short time he had come abreast

of the leading animal.

The latter stopped short with a snort, dodged back, and set out at

right angles to his former course. From a dead run the pony came to a

stand in two fierce plunges, doubled like a shot, and was off on the

other tack. An unaccustomed rider would here have lost his seat. The

second dash was short. With a final shake of the head, the steers

turned to the proper course in the direction of the ranch. The pony

dropped unconcernedly to the shuffling jog of habitual progression.

Far away stretched the arc of our cordon. The most distant rider was

a speck, and the cattle ahead of him were like maggots endowed with a

smooth, swift onward motion. As yet the herd had not taken form; it

was still too widely scattered. Its units, in the shape of small

bunches, momently grew in numbers. The distant plains were crawling

and alive with minute creatures making toward a common tiny centre.

Immediately in our front the cattle at first behaved very well. Then

far down the long gentle slope I saw a break for the upper valley. The

manikin that represented Homer at once became even smaller as it

departed in pursuit. The Cattleman moved down to cover Homer's

territory until he should return--and I in turn edged farther to the

right. Then another break from another bunch. The Cattleman rode at

top speed to head it. Before long he disappeared in the distant

mesquite. I found myself in sole charge of a front three miles long.

The nearest cattle were some distance ahead, and trotting along at a

good gait. As they had not yet discovered the chance left open by

unforeseen circumstance, I descended and took in on my cinch while yet

there was time. Even as I mounted, an impatient movement on the part

of experienced Brown Jug told me that the cattle had seen their

opportunity.

I gathered the reins and spoke to the horse. He needed no further

direction, but set off at a wide angle, nicely calculated, to intercept

the truants. Brown Jug was a powerful beast. The spring of his leap

was as whalebone. The yellow earth began to stream past like water.

Always the pace increased with a growing thunder of hoofs. It seemed

that nothing could turn us from the straight line, nothing check the

headlong momentum of our rush. My eyes filled with tears from the wind

of our going. Saddle strings streamed behind. Brown Jug's mane

whipped my bridle band. Dimly I was conscious of soapweed, sacatone,

mesquite, as we passed them. They were abreast and gone before I could

think of them or how they were to be dodged. Two antelope bounded away

to the left; birds rose hastily from the grasses. A sudden chirk,

chirk, chirk, rose all about me. We were in the very centre of a

prairie-dog town, but before I could formulate in my mind the

probabilities of holes and broken legs, the chirk, chirk, chirking had

fallen astern. Brown Jug had skipped and dodged successfully.

We were approaching the cattle. They ran stubbornly and well,

evidently unwilling to be turned until the latest possible moment. A

great rage at their obstinacy took possession of us both. A broad

shallow wash crossed our way, but we plunged through its rocks and

boulders recklessly, angered at even the slight delay they

necessitated. The hardland on the other side we greeted with joy.

Brown Jug extended himself with a snort.

Suddenly a jar seemed to shake my very head loose. I found myself

staring over the horse's head directly down into a deep and precipitous

gully, the edge of which was so cunningly concealed by the grasses as

to have remained invisible to my blurred vision. Brown Jug, however,

had caught sight of it at the last instant, and had executed one of

the wonderful stops possible only to a cow-pony.

But already the cattle had discovered a passage above, and were

scrambling down and across. Brown Jug and I, at more sober pace, slid

off the almost perpendicular bank, and out the other side.

A moment later we had headed them. They whirled, and without the

necessity of any suggestion on my part Brown Jug turned after them, and

so quickly that my stirrup actually brushed the ground.

After that we were masters. We chased the cattle far enough to start

them well in the proper direction, and then pulled down to a walk in

order to get a breath of air.

But now we noticed another band, back on the ground over which we had

just come, doubling through in the direction of Mount Graham. A hard

run set them to rights. We turned. More had poured out from the

hills. Bands were crossing everywhere, ahead and behind. Brown Jug

and I went to work.

Being an indivisible unit, we could chase only one bunch at a time;

and, while we were after one, a half dozen others would be taking

advantage of our preoccupation. We could not hold our own. Each run

after an escaping bunch had to be on a longer diagonal. Gradually we

were forced back, and back, and back; but still we managed to hold the

line unbroken. Never shall I forget the dash and clatter of that

morning. Neither Brown Jug nor I thought for a moment of sparing

horseflesh, nor of picking a route. We made the shortest line, and

paid little attention to anything that stood in the way. A very fever

of resistance possessed us. It was like beating against a head wind,

or fighting fire, or combating in any other of the great forces of

nature. We were quite alone. The Cattleman and Homer had vanished.

To our left the men were fully occupied in marshalling the compact

brown herds that had gradually massed--for these antagonists of mine

were merely outlying remnants.

I suppose Brown Jug must have run nearly twenty miles with only one

check. Then we chased a cow some distance and into the dry bed of a

stream, where she whirled on us savagely. By luck her horn hit only

the leather of my saddle skirts, so we left her; for when a cow has

sense enough to "get on the peck," there is no driving her farther. We

gained nothing, and had to give ground, but we succeeded in holding a

semblance of order, so that the cattle did not break and scatter far

and wide. The sun had by now well risen, and was beginning to shine

hot. Brown Jug still ran gamely and displayed as much interest as

ever, but he was evidently tiring. We were both glad to see Homer's

grey showing in the fringe of mesquite.

Together we soon succeeded in throwing the cows into the main herd.

And, strangely enough, as soon as they had joined a compact band of

their fellows, their wildness left them and, convoyed by outsiders,

they set themselves to plodding energetically toward the home ranch.

As my horse was somewhat winded, I joined the "drag" at the rear. Here

by course of natural sifting soon accumulated all the lazy, gentle, and

sickly cows, and the small calves. The difficulty now was to prevent

them from lagging and dropping out. To that end we indulged in a great

variety of the picturesque cow-calls peculiar to the cowboy. One found

an old tin can which by the aid of a few pebbles he converted into a

very effective rattle.

The dust rose in clouds and eddied in the sun. We slouched easily in

our saddles. The cowboys compared notes as to the brands they had

seen. Our ponies shuffled along, resting, but always ready for a dash

in chase of an occasional bull calf or yearling with independent ideas

of its own.

Thus we passed over the country, down the long gentle slope to the

"sink" of the valley, whence another long gentle slope ran to the base

of the other ranges. At greater or lesser distances we caught the

dust, and made out dimly the masses of the other herds collected by our

companions, and by the party under Jed Parker. They went forward

toward the common centre, with a slow ruminative movement, and the dust

they raised went with them.

Little by little they grew plainer to us, and the home ranch, hitherto

merely a brown shimmer in the distance, began to take on definition as

the group of buildings, windmills, and corrals we knew. Miniature

horsemen could be seen galloping forward to the open white plain where

the herd would be held. Then the mesquite enveloped us; and we knew

little more, save the anxiety lest we overlook laggards in the brush,

until we came out on the edge of that same white plain.

Here were more cattle, thousands of them, and billows of dust, and a

great bellowing, and slim, mounted figures riding and shouting ahead of

the herd. Soon they succeeded in turning the leaders back. These

threw into confusion those that followed. In a few moments the cattle

had stopped. A cordon of horsemen sat at equal distances holding them

in.

"Pretty good haul," said the man next to me; "a good five thousand

head."

CHAPTER SIX

CUTTING OUT

It was somewhere near noon by the time we had bunched and held the herd

of some four or five thousand head in the smooth, wide flat, free from

bushes and dog holes. Each sat at ease on his horse facing the cattle,

watching lazily the clouds of dust and the shifting beasts, but ready

at any instant to turn back the restless or independent individuals

that might break for liberty.

Out of the haze came Homer, the round-up captain, on an easy lope. As

he passed successively the sentries he delivered to each a low command,

but without slacking pace. Some of those spoken to wheeled their

horses and rode away. The others settled themselves in their saddles

and began to roll cigarettes.

"Change horses; get something to eat," said he to me; so I swung after

the file traveling at a canter over the low swells beyond the plain.

The remuda had been driven by its leaders to a corner of the pasture's

wire fence, and there held. As each man arrived he dismounted, threw

off his saddle, and turned his animal loose. Then he flipped a loop in

his rope and disappeared in the eddying herd. The discarded horse,

with many grunts, indulged in a satisfying roll, shook himself

vigorously, and walked slowly away. His labour was over for the day,

and he knew it, and took not the slightest trouble to get out of the

way of the men with the swinging ropes.

Not so the fresh horses, however. They had no intention of being

caught, if they could help it, but dodged and twisted, hid and doubled

behind the moving screen of their friends. The latter, seeming as

usual to know they were not wanted, made no effort to avoid the men,

which probably accounted in great measure for the fact that the herd as

a body remained compact, in spite of the cowboys threading it, and in

spite of the lack of an enclosure.

Our horses caught, we saddled as hastily as possible; and then at the

top speed of our fresh and eager ponies we swept down on the chuck

wagon. There we fell off our saddles and descended on the meat and

bread like ravenous locusts on a cornfield. The ponies stood where we

left them, "tied to the ground", the cattle-country fashion.

As soon as a man had stoked up for the afternoon he rode away. Some

finished before others, so across the plain formed an endless

procession of men returning to the herd, and of those whom they

replaced coming for their turn at the grub.

We found the herd quiet. Some were even lying down, chewing their cuds

as peacefully as any barnyard cows. Most, however, stood ruminative, or

walked slowly to and fro in the confines allotted by the horsemen, so

that the herd looked from a distance like a brown carpet whose pattern

was constantly changing--a dusty brown carpet in the process of being

beaten. I relieved one of the watchers, and settled myself for a wait.

At this close inspection the different sorts of cattle showed more

distinctly their characteristics. The cows and calves generally rested

peacefully enough, the calf often lying down while the mother stood

guard over it. Steers, however, were more restless. They walked

ceaselessly, threading their way in and out among the standing cattle,

pausing in brutish amazement at the edge of the herd, and turning back

immediately to endless journeyings. The bulls, excited by so much

company forced on their accustomed solitary habit, roared defiance at

each other until the air fairly trembled. Occasionally two would clash

foreheads. Then the powerful animals would push and wrestle, trying

for a chance to gore. The decision of supremacy was a question of but

a few minutes, and a bloody topknot the worst damage. The defeated one

side-stepped hastily and clumsily out of reach, and then walked away.

Most of the time all we had to do was to sit our horses and watch these

things, to enjoy the warm bath of the Arizona sun, and to converse with

our next neighbours. Once in a while some enterprising cow, observing

the opening between the men, would start to walk out. Others would

fall in behind her until the movement would become general. Then one

of us would swing his leg off the pommel and jog his pony over to head

them off. They would return peacefully enough.

But one black muley cow, with a calf as black and muley as herself, was

more persistent. Time after time, with infinite patience, she tried it

again the moment my back was turned. I tried driving her far into the

herd. No use; she always returned. Quirtings and stones had no effect

on her mild and steady persistence.

"She's a San Simon cow," drawled my neighbour. "Everybody knows her.

She's at every round-up, just naturally raisin' hell."

When the last man had returned from chuck, Homer made the dispositions

for the cut. There were present probably thirty men from the home

ranches round about, and twenty representing owners at a distance, here

to pick up the strays inevitable to the season's drift. The round-up

captain appointed two men to hold the cow-and-calf cut, and two more to

hold the steer cut. Several of us rode into the herd, while the

remainder retained their positions as sentinels to hold the main body

of cattle in shape.

Little G and I rode slowly among the cattle looking everywhere. The

animals moved sluggishly aside to give us passage, and closed in as

sluggishly behind us, so that we were always closely hemmed in wherever

we went. Over the shifting sleek backs, through the eddying clouds of

dust, I could make out the figures of my companions moving slowly,

apparently aimlessly, here and there.

Our task for the moment was to search out the unbranded J H calves.

Since in ranks so closely crowded it would be physically impossible

actually to see an animal's branded flank, we depended entirely on the

ear-marks.

Did you ever notice how any animal, tame or wild, always points his

ears inquiringly in the direction of whatever interests or alarms him?

Those ears are for the moment his most prominent feature. So when a

brand is quite indistinguishable because, as now, of press of numbers,

or, as in winter, from extreme length of hair, the cropped ears tell

plainly the tale of ownership. As every animal is so marked when

branded, it follows that an uncut pair of ears means that its owner has

never felt the iron.

So, now we had to look first of all for calves with uncut ears. After

discovering one, we had to ascertain his ownership by examining the

ear-marks of his mother, by whose side he was sure, in this alarming

multitude, to be clinging faithfully.

Calves were numerous, and J H cows everywhere to be seen, so in

somewhat less than ten seconds I had my eye on a mother and son.

Immediately I turned Little G in their direction. At the slap of my

quirt against the stirrup, all the cows immediately about me shrank

suspiciously aside. Little G stepped forward daintily, his nostrils

expanding, his ears working back and forth, trying to the best of his

ability to understand which animals I had selected. The cow and her

calf turned in toward the centre of the herd. A touch of the reins

guided the pony. At once he comprehended. From that time on he needed

no further directions.

Cautiously, patiently, with great skill, he forced the cow through the

press toward the edge of the herd. It had to be done very quietly, at

a foot pace, so as to alarm neither the objects of pursuit nor those

surrounding them. When the cow turned back, Little G somehow happened

always in her way. Before she knew it she was at the outer edge of the

herd. There she found herself, with a group of three or four

companions, facing the open plain. Instinctively she sought shelter.

I felt Little G's muscles tighten beneath me. The moment for action

had come. Before the cow had a chance to dodge among her companions

the pony was upon her like a thunderbolt. She broke in alarm, trying

desperately to avoid the rush. There ensued an exciting contest of

dodgings, turnings, and doublings. Wherever she turned Little G was

before her. Some of his evolutions were marvellous. All I had to do

was to sit my saddle, and apply just that final touch of judgment

denied even the wisest of the lower animals. Time and again the turn

was so quick that the stirrup swept the ground. At last the cow,

convinced of the uselessness of further effort to return, broke away on

a long lumbering run to the open plain. She was stopped and held by

the men detailed, and so formed the nucleus of the new cut-herd.

Immediately Little G, his ears working in conscious virtue, jog-trotted

back into the herd, ready for another.

After a dozen cows had been sent across to the cut-herd, the work

simplified. Once a cow caught sight of this new band, she generally

made directly for it, head and tail up. After the first short struggle

to force her from the herd, all I had to do was to start her in the

proper direction and keep her at it until her decision was fixed. If

she was too soon left to her own devices, however, she was likely to

return. An old cowman knows to a second just the proper moment to

abandon her.

Sometimes, in spite of our best efforts a cow succeeded in circling us

and plunging into the main herd. The temptation was then strong to

plunge in also, and to drive her out by main force; but the temptation

had to be resisted. A dash into the thick of it might break the whole

band. At once, of his own accord, Little G dropped to his fast,

shuffling walk, and again we addressed ourselves to the task of pushing

her gently to the edge.

This was all comparatively simple--almost any pony is fast enough for

the calf cut--but now Homer gave orders for the steer cut to begin, and

steers are rapid and resourceful and full of natural cussedness.

Little G and I were relieved by Windy Bill, and betook ourselves to the

outside of the herd.

Here we had leisure to observe the effects that up to this moment we

had ourselves been producing. The herd, restless by reason of the

horsemen threading it, shifted, gave ground, expanded, and contracted,

so that its shape and size were always changing in the constant area

guarded by the sentinel cowboys. Dust arose from these movements,

clouds of it, to eddy and swirl, thicken and dissipate in the currents

of air. Now it concealed all but the nearest dimly-outlined animals;

again it parted in rifts through which mistily we discerned the riders

moving in and out of the fog; again it lifted high and thin, so that we

saw in clarity the whole herd and the outriders and the mesas far away.

As the afternoon waned, long shafts of sun slanted through this dust.

It played on men and beasts magically, expanding them to the dimensions

of strange genii, appearing and effacing themselves in the billows of

vapour from some enchanted bottle.

We on the outside found our sinecure of hot noon-tide filched from us

by the cooler hours. The cattle, wearied of standing, and perhaps

somewhat hungry and thirsty, grew more and more impatient. We rode

continually back and forth, turning the slow movement in on itself.

Occasionally some particularly enterprising cow would conclude that one

or another of the cut-herds would suit her better than this mill of

turmoil. She would start confidently out, head and tail up, find

herself chased back, get stubborn on the question, and lead her pursuer

a long, hard run before she would return to her companions. Once in a

while one would even have to be roped and dragged back. For know,

before something happens to you, that you can chase a cow safely only

until she gets hot and winded. Then she stands her ground and gets

emphatically "on the peck."

I remember very well when I first discovered this. It was after I had

had considerable cow work, too. I thought of cows as I had always seen

them--afraid of a horseman, easy to turn with the pony, and willing to

be chased as far as necessary to the work. Nobody told me anything

different. One day we were making a drive in an exceedingly broken

country. I was bringing in a small bunch I had discovered in a pocket

of the hills, but was excessively annoyed by one old cow that insisted

on breaking back. In the wisdom of further experience, I now conclude

that she probably had a calf in the brush. Finally she got away

entirely. After starting the bunch well ahead, I went after her.

Well, the cow and I ran nearly side by side for as much as half a mile

at top speed. She declined to be headed. Finally she fell down and

was so entirely winded that she could not get up.

"Now, old girl, I've got you!" said I, and set myself to urging her to

her feet.

The pony acted somewhat astonished, and suspicious of the job. Therein

he knew a lot more than I did. But I insisted, and, like a good pony,

he obeyed. I yelled at the cow, and slapped my bat, and used my quirt.

When she had quite recovered her wind, she got slowly to her feet--and

charged me in a most determined manner.

Now, a bull, or a steer, is not difficult to dodge. He lowers his

head, shuts his eyes, and comes in on one straight rush. But a cow

looks to see what she is doing; her eyes are open every minute, and it

overjoys her to take a side hook at you even when you succeed in

eluding her direct charge.

The pony I was riding did his best, but even then could not avoid a

sharp prod that would have ripped him up had not my leather bastos

intervened. Then we retired to a distance in order to plan further;

but we did not succeed in inducing that cow to revise her ideas, so at

last we left her. When, in some chagrin, I mentioned to the round-up

captain the fact that I had skipped one animal, he merely laughed.

"Why, kid," said he, "you can't do nothin' with a cow that gets on the

prod that away 'thout you ropes her; and what could you do with her out

there if you DID rope her?"

So I learned one thing more about cows.

After the steer cut had been finished, the men representing the

neighbouring ranges looked through the herd for strays of their brands.

These were thrown into the stray-herd, which had been brought up from

the bottom lands to receive the new accessions. Work was pushed

rapidly, as the afternoon was nearly gone.

In fact, so absorbed were we that until it was almost upon us we did

not notice a heavy thunder-shower that arose in the region of the

Dragoon Mountains, and swept rapidly across the zenith. Before we knew

it the rain had begun. In ten seconds it had increased to a deluge,

and in twenty we were all to leeward of the herd striving desperately

to stop the drift of the cattle down wind.

We did everything in our power to stop them, but in vain. Slickers

waved, quirts slapped against leather, six-shooters flashed, but still

the cattle, heads lowered, advanced with slow and sullen persistence

that would not be stemmed. If we held our ground, they divided around

us. Step by step we were forced to give way--the thin line of

nervously plunging horses sprayed before the dense mass of the cattle.

"No, they won't stampede," shouted Charley to my question. "There's

cows and calves in them. If they was just steers or grown critters,

they might."

The sensations of those few moments were very vivid--the blinding beat

of the storm in my face, the unbroken front of horned heads bearing

down on me, resistless as fate, the long slant of rain with the sun

shining in the distance beyond it.

Abruptly the downpour ceased. We shook our hats free of water, and

drove the herd back to the cutting grounds again.

But now the surface of the ground was slippery, and the rapid

manoeuvring of horses had become a matter precarious in the extreme.

Time and again the ponies fairly sat on their haunches and slid when

negotiating a sudden stop, while quick turns meant the rapid

scramblings that only a cow-horse could accomplish. Nevertheless the

work went forward unchecked. The men of the other outfits cut their

cattle into the stray-herd. The latter was by now of considerable

size, for this was the third week of the round-up.

Finally everyone expressed himself as satisfied. The largely

diminished main herd was now started forward by means of shrill cowboy

cries and beating of quirts. The cattle were only too eager to go.

From my position on a little rise above the stray-herd I could see the

leaders breaking into a run, their heads thrown forward as they snuffed

their freedom. On the mesa side the sentinel riders quietly withdrew.

From the rear and flanks the horsemen closed in. The cattle poured out

in a steady stream through the opening thus left on the mesa side. The

fringe of cowboys followed, urging them on. Abruptly the cavalcade

turned and came loping back. The cattle continued ahead on a trot,

gradually spreading abroad over the landscape, losing their integrity

as a herd. Some of the slower or hungrier dropped out and began to

graze. Certain of the more wary disappeared to right or left.

Now, after the day's work was practically over, we had our first

accident. The horse ridden by a young fellow from Dos Cabesas slipped,

fell, and rolled quite over his rider. At once the animal lunged to

his feet, only to be immediately seized by the nearest rider. But the

Dos Cabesas man lay still, his arms and legs spread abroad, his head

doubled sideways in a horribly suggestive manner. We hopped off. Two

men straightened him out, while two more looked carefully over the

indications on the ground.

"All right," sang out one of them, "the horn didn't catch him."

He pointed to the indentation left by the pommel. Indeed five minutes

brought the man to his senses. He complained of a very twisted back.

Homer set one of the men in after the bed-wagon, by means of which the

sufferer was shortly transported to camp. By the end of the week he

was again in the saddle. How men escape from this common accident with

injuries so slight has always puzzled me. The horse rolls completely

over his rider, and yet it seems to be the rarest thing in the world

for the latter to be either killed or permanently injured.

Now each man had the privilege of looking through the J H cuts to see

if by chance steers of his own had been included in them. When all had

expressed themselves as satisfied, the various bands were started to

the corrals.

From a slight eminence where I had paused to enjoy the evening I looked

down on the scene. The three herds, separated by generous distance one

from the other, crawled leisurely along; the riders, their hats thrust

back, lolled in their saddles, shouting conversation to each other,

relaxing after the day's work; through the clouds strong shafts of

light belittled the living creatures, threw into proportion the

vastness of the desert.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A CORNER IN HORSES

It was dark night. The stay-herd bellowed frantically from one of the

big corrals; the cow-and-calf-herd from a second. Already the remuda,

driven in from the open plains, scattered about the thousand acres of

pasture. Away from the conveniences of fence and corral, men would

have had to patrol all night. Now, however, everyone was gathered

about the camp fire.

Probably forty cowboys were in the group, representing all types, from

old John, who had been in the business forty years, and had punched

from the Rio Grande to the Pacific, to the Kid, who would have given

his chance of salvation if he could have been taken for ten years older

than he was. At the moment Jed Parker was holding forth to his friend

Johnny Stone in reference to another old crony who had that evening

joined the round-up.

"Johnny," inquired Jed with elaborate gravity, and entirely ignoring

the presence of the subject of conversation, "what is that thing just

beyond the fire, and where did it come from?"

Johnny Stone squinted to make sure.

"That?" he replied. "Oh, this evenin' the dogs see something run down

a hole, and they dug it out, and that's what they got."

The newcomer grinned.

"The trouble with you fellows," he proffered "is that you're so plumb

alkalied you don't know the real thing when you see it."

"That's right," supplemented Windy Bill drily. "HE come from New York."

"No!" cried Jed. "You don't say so? Did he come in one box or in two?"

Under cover of the laugh, the newcomer made a raid on the dutch ovens

and pails. Having filled his plate, he squatted on his heels and fell

to his belated meal. He was a tall, slab-sided individual, with a

lean, leathery face, a sweeping white moustache, and a grave and

sardonic eye. His leather chaps were plain and worn, and his hat had

been fashioned by time and wear into much individuality. I was not

surprised to hear him nicknamed Sacatone Bill.

"Just ask him how he got that game foot," suggested Johnny Stone to me

in an undertone, so, of course, I did not.

Later someone told me that the lameness resulted from his refusal of an

urgent invitation to return across a river. Mr. Sacatone Bill happened

not to be riding his own horse at the time.

The Cattleman dropped down beside me a moment later.

"I wish," said he in a low voice, "we could get that fellow talking.

He is a queer one. Pretty well educated apparently. Claims to be

writing a book of memoirs. Sometimes he will open up in good shape,

and sometimes he will not. It does no good to ask him direct, and he

is as shy as an old crow when you try to lead him up to a subject. We

must just lie low and trust to Providence."

A man was playing on the mouth organ. He played excellently well, with

all sorts of variations and frills. We smoked in silence. The deep

rumble of the cattle filled the air with its diapason. Always the

shrill coyotes raved out in the mesquite. Sacatone Bill had finished

his meal, and had gone to sit by Jed Parker, his old friend. They

talked together low-voiced. The evening grew, and the eastern sky

silvered over the mountains in anticipation of the moon.

Sacatone Bill suddenly threw back his head and laughed.

"Reminds me of the time I went to Colorado!" he cried.

"He's off!" whispered the Cattleman.

A dead silence fell on the circle. Everybody shifted position the

better to listen to the story of Sacatone Bill.

About ten year ago I got plumb sick of punchin' cows around my part of

the country. She hadn't rained since Noah, and I'd forgot what water

outside a pail or a trough looked like. So I scouted around inside of

me to see what part of the world I'd jump to, and as I seemed to know

as little of Colorado and minin' as anything else, I made up the pint

of bean soup I call my brains to go there. So I catches me a buyer at

Henson and turns over my pore little bunch of cattle and prepared to

fly. The last day I hauled up about twenty good buckets of water and

threw her up against the cabin. My buyer was settin' his hoss waitin'

for me to get ready. He didn't say nothin' until we'd got down about

ten mile or so.

"Mr. Hicks," says he, hesitatin' like, "I find it a good rule in this

country not to overlook other folks' plays, but I'd take it mighty kind

if you'd explain those actions of yours with the pails of water."

"Mr. Jones," says I, "it's very simple. I built that shack five year

ago, and it's never rained since. I just wanted to settle in my mind

whether or not that damn roof leaked."

So I quit Arizona, and in about a week I see my reflection in the

winders of a little place called Cyanide in the Colorado mountains.

Fellows, she was a bird. They wasn't a pony in sight, nor a squar'

foot of land that wasn't either street or straight up. It made me

plumb lonesome for a country where you could see a long ways even if

you didn't see much. And this early in the evenin' they wasn't hardly

anybody in the streets at all.

I took a look at them dark, gloomy, old mountains, and a sniff at a

breeze that would have frozen the whiskers of hope, and I made a dive

for the nearest lit winder. They was a sign over it that just said:

THIS IS A SALOON

I was glad they labelled her. I'd never have known it. They had a

fifteen-year old kid tendin' bar, no games goin', and not a soul in the

place.

"Sorry to disturb your repose, bub," says I, "but see if you can sort

out any rye among them collections of sassapariller of yours."

I took a drink, and then another to keep it company--I was beginnin' to

sympathise with anythin' lonesome. Then I kind of sauntered out to the

back room where the hurdy-gurdy ought to be.

Sure enough, there was a girl settin' on the pianner stool, another in

a chair, and a nice shiny Jew drummer danglin' his feet from a table.

They looked up when they see me come in, and went right on talkin'.

"Hello, girls!" says I.

At that they stopped talkin' complete.

"How's tricks?" says I.

"Who's your woolly friend?" the shiny Jew asks of the girls.

I looked at him a minute, but I see he'd been raised a pet, and then,

too, I was so hungry for sassiety I was willin' to pass a bet or two.

"Don't you ADMIRE these cow gents?" snickers one of the girls.

"Play somethin', sister," says I to the one at the pianner.

She just grinned at me.

"Interdooce me," says the drummer in a kind of a way that made them all

laugh a heap.

"Give us a tune," I begs, tryin' to be jolly, too.

"She don't know any pieces," says the Jew.

"Don't you?" I asks pretty sharp.

"No," says she.

"Well, I do," says I.

I walked up to her, jerked out my guns, and reached around both sides

of her to the pianner. I run the muzzles up and down the keyboard two

or three times, and then shot out half a dozen keys.

"That's the piece I know," says I.

But the other girl and the Jew drummer had punched the breeze.

The girl at the pianner just grinned, and pointed to the winder where

they was some ragged glass hangin'. She was dead game.

"Say, Susie," says I, "you're all right, but your friends is tur'ble.

I may be rough, and I ain't never been curried below the knees, but I'm

better to tie to than them sons of guns."

"I believe it," says she.

So we had a drink at the bar, and started out to investigate the

wonders of Cyanide.

Say, that night was a wonder. Susie faded after about three drinks,

but I didn't seem to mind that. I hooked up to another saloon kept by

a thin Dutchman. A fat Dutchman is stupid, but a thin one is all right.

In ten minutes I had more friends in Cyanide than they is fiddlers in

hell. I begun to conclude Cyanide wasn't so lonesome. About four

o'clock in comes a little Irishman about four foot high, with more

upper lip than a muley cow, and enough red hair to make an artificial

aurorer borealis. He had big red hands with freckles pasted onto them,

and stiff red hairs standin' up separate and lonesome like signal

stations. Also his legs was bowed.

He gets a drink at the bar, and stands back and yells:

"God bless the Irish and let the Dutch rustle!"

Now, this was none of my town, so I just stepped back of the end of the

bar quick where I wouldn't stop no lead. The shootin' didn't begin.

"Probably Dutchy didn't take no note of what the locoed little dogie

DID say," thinks I to myself.

The Irishman bellied up to the bar again, and pounded on it with his

fist.

"Look here!" he yells. "Listen to what I'm tellin' ye! God bless the

Irish and let the Dutch rustle! Do ye hear me?"

"Sure, I hear ye," says Dutchy, and goes on swabbin' his bar with a

towel.

At that my soul just grew sick. I asked the man next to me why Dutchy

didn't kill the little fellow.

"Kill him!" says this man. "What for?"

"For insultin' of him, of course."

"Oh, he's drunk," says the man, as if that explained anythin'.

That settled it with me. I left that place, and went home, and it

wasn't more than four o'clock, neither. No, I don't call four o'clock

late. It may be a little late for night before last, but it's just the

shank of the evenin' for to-night.

Well, it took me six weeks and two days to go broke. I didn't know sic

em, about minin'; and before long I KNEW that I didn't 'know sic 'em.

Most all day I poked around them mountains---not like our'n--too much

timber to be comfortable. At night I got to droppin' in at Dutchy's.

He had a couple of quiet games goin', and they was one fellow among

that lot of grubbin' prairie dogs that had heerd tell that cows had

horns. He was the wisest of the bunch on the cattle business. So I

stowed away my consolation, and made out to forget comparing Colorado

with God's country.

About three times a week this Irishman I told you of--name

O'Toole--comes bulgin' in. When he was sober he talked minin' high,

wide, and handsome. When he was drunk he pounded both fists on the bar

and yelled for action, tryin' to get Dutchy on the peck.

"God bless the Irish and let the Dutch rustle!" he yells about six

times. "Say, do you hear?"

"Sure," says Dutchy, calm as a milk cow, "sure, I hears ye!"

I was plumb sorry for O'Toole. I'd like to have given him a run; but,

of course, I couldn't take it up without makin' myself out a friend of

this Dutchy party, and I couldn't stand for that. But I did tackle

Dutchy about it one night when they wasn't nobody else there.

"Dutchy," says I, "what makes you let that bow-legged cross between a

bulldog and a flamin' red sunset tromp on you so? It looks to me like

you're plumb spiritless."

Dutchy stopped wiping glasses for a minute.

"Just you hold on" says he. "I ain't ready yet. Bimeby I make him

sick; also those others who laugh with him."

He had a little grey flicker in his eye, and I thinks to myself that

maybe they'd get Dutchy on the peck yet.

As I said, I went broke in just six weeks and two days. And I was

broke a plenty. No hold-outs anywhere. It was a heap long ways to

cows; and I'd be teetotally chawed up and spit out if I was goin' to

join these minin' terrapins defacin' the bosom of nature. It sure

looked to me like hard work.

While I was figurin' what next, Dutchy came in. Which I was tur'ble

surprised at that, but I said good-mornin' and would he rest his poor

feet.

"You like to make some money?" he asks.

"That depends," says I, "on how easy it is."

"It is easy," says he. "I want you to buy hosses for me."

"Hosses! Sure!" I yells, jumpin' up. "You bet you! Why, hosses is

where I live! What hosses do you want?"

"All hosses," says he, calm as a faro dealer.

"What?" says I. "Elucidate, my bucko. I don't take no such blanket

order. Spread your cards."

"I mean just that," says he. "I want you to buy all the hosses in this

camp, and in the mountains. Every one."

"Whew!" I whistles. "That's a large order. But I'm your meat."

"Come with me, then," says he. I hadn't but just got up, but I went

with him to his little old poison factory. Of course, I hadn't had no

breakfast; but he staked me to a Kentucky breakfast. What's a Kentucky

breakfast? Why, a Kentucky breakfast is a three-pound steak, a bottle

of whisky, and a setter dog. What's the dog for? Why, to eat the

steak, of course.

We come to an agreement. I was to get two-fifty a head commission. So

I started out. There wasn't many hosses in that country, and what

there was the owners hadn't much use for unless it was to work a whim.

I picked up about a hundred head quick enough, and reported to Dutchy.

"How about burros and mules?" I asks Dutchy.

"They goes," says he. "Mules same as hosses; burros four bits a head to

you."

At the end of a week I had a remuda of probably two hundred animals.

We kept them over the hills in some "parks," as these sots call meadows

in that country. I rode into town and told Dutchy.

"Got them all?" he asks.

"All but a cross-eyed buckskin that's mean, and the bay mare that Noah

bred to."

"Get them," says he.

"The bandits want too much," I explains.

"Get them anyway," says he.

I went away and got them. It was scand'lous; such prices.

When I hit Cyanide again I ran into scenes of wild excitement. The

whole passel of them was on that one street of their'n, talkin' sixteen

ounces to the pound. In the middle was Dutchy, drunk as a soldier-just

plain foolish drunk.

"Good Lord!" thinks I to myself, "he ain't celebratin' gettin' that

bunch of buzzards, is he?"

But I found he wasn't that bad. When he caught sight of me, he fell on

me drivellin'.

"Look there!" he weeps, showin' me a letter.

I was the last to come in; so I kept that letter--here she is. I'll

read her.

Dear Dutchy:--I suppose you thought I'd flew the coop, but I haven't

and this is to prove it. Pack up your outfit and hit the trail. I've

made the biggest free gold strike you ever see. I'm sending you

specimens. There's tons just like it, tons and tons. I got all the

claims I can hold myself; but there's heaps more. I've writ to Johnny

and Ed at Denver to come on. Don't give this away. Make tracks. Come

in to Buck Canon in the Whetstones and oblige.

Yours truly,

Henry Smith

Somebody showed me a handful of white rock with yeller streaks in it.

His eyes was bulgin' until you could have hung your hat on them. That

O'Toole party was walkin' around, wettin' his lips with his tongue and

swearin' soft.

"God bless the Irish and let the Dutch rustle!" says he. "And the fool

had to get drunk and give it away!"

The excitement was just started, but it didn't last long. The crowd

got the same notion at the same time, and it just melted. Me and

Dutchy was left alone.

I went home. Pretty soon a fellow named Jimmy Tack come around a

little out of breath.

"Say, you know that buckskin you bought off'n me?" says he, "I want to

buy him back."

"Oh, you do," says I.

"Yes," says he. "I've got to leave town for a couple of days, and I

got to have somethin' to pack."

"Wait and I'll see," says I.

Outside the door I met another fellow.

"Look here," he stops me with. "How about that bay mare I sold you?

Can you call that sale off? I got to leave town for a day or two and--"

"Wait," says I. "I'll see."

By the gate was another hurryin' up.

"Oh, yes," says I when he opens his mouth. "I know all your troubles.

You have to leave town for a couple of days, and you want back that

lizard you sold me. Well, wait."

After that I had to quit the main street and dodge back of the hog

ranch. They was all headed my way. I was as popular as a snake in a

prohibition town.

I hit Dutchy's by the back door.

"Do you want to sell hosses?" I asks. "Everyone in town wants to buy."

Dutchy looked hurt.

"I wanted to keep them for the valley market," says he, "but--How much

did you give Jimmy Tack for his buckskin?"

"Twenty," says I.

"Well, let him have it for eighty," says Dutchy; "and the others in

proportion."

I lay back and breathed hard.

"Sell them all, but the one best hoss," says he--"no, the TWO best."

"Holy smoke!" says I, gettin' my breath. "If you mean that, Dutchy, you

lend me another gun and give me a drink."

He done so, and I went back home to where the whole camp of Cyanide was

waitin'.

I got up and made them a speech and told them I'd sell them hosses all

right, and to come back. Then I got an Injin boy to help, and we

rustled over the remuda and held them in a blind canon. Then I called

up these miners one at a time, and made bargains with them. Roar!

Well, you could hear them at Denver, they tell me, and the weather

reports said, "Thunder in the mountains." But it was cash on delivery,

and they all paid up. They had seen that white quartz with the gold

stickin' into it, and that's the same as a dose of loco to miner gents.

Why didn't I take a hoss and start first? I did think of it--for about

one second. I wouldn't stay in that country then for a million dollars

a minute. I was plumb sick and loathin' it, and just waitin' to make

high jumps back to Arizona. So I wasn't aimin' to join this stampede,

and didn't have no vivid emotions.

They got to fightin' on which should get the first hoss; so I bent my

gun on them and made them draw lots. They roared some more, but done

so; and as fast as each one handed over his dust or dinero he made a

rush for his cabin, piled on his saddle and pack, and pulled his

freight on a cloud of dust. It was sure a grand stampede, and I

enjoyed it no limit.

So by sundown I was alone with the Injin. Those two hundred head

brought in about twenty thousand dollars. It was heavy, but I could

carry it. I was about alone in the landscape; and there were the two

best hosses I had saved out for Dutchy. I was sure some tempted. But

I had enough to get home on anyway; and I never yet drank behind the

bar, even if I might hold up the saloon from the floor. So I grieved

some inside that I was so tur'ble conscientious, shouldered the sacks,

and went down to find Dutchy.

I met him headed his way, and carryin' of a sheet of paper.

"Here's your dinero," says I, dumpin' the four big sacks on the ground.

He stooped over and hefted them. Then he passed one over to me.

"What's that for?" I asks.

"For you," says he.

"My commission ain't that much," I objects.

"You've earned it," says he, "and you might have skipped with the whole

wad."

"How did you know I wouldn't?" I asks.

"Well," says he, and I noted that jag of his had flew. "You see, I was

behind that rock up there, and I had you covered."

I saw; and I began to feel better about bein' so tur'ble conscientious.

We walked a little ways without sayin' nothin'.

"But ain't you goin' to join the game?" I asks.

"Guess not," says he, jinglin' of his gold. "I'm satisfied."

"But if you don't get a wiggle on you, you are sure goin' to get left

on those gold claims," says I.

"There ain't no gold claims," says he.

"But Henry Smith--" I cries.

"There ain't no Henry Smith," says he.

I let that soak in about six inches.

"But there's a Buck Canon," I pleads. "Please say there's a Buck Canon."

"Oh, yes, there's a Buck Canon," he allows. "Nice limestone

formation--make good hard water."

"Well, you're a marvel," says I.

We walked together down to Dutchy's saloon.

We stopped outside.

"Now," says he, "I'm goin' to take one of those hosses and go

somewheres else. Maybe you'd better do likewise on the other."

"You bet I will," says I.

He turned around and taked up the paper he was carryin'. It was a

sign. It read:

THE DUTCH HAS RUSTLED

"Nice sentiment," says I. "It will be appreciated when the crowd comes

back from that little pasear into Buck Canon. But why not tack her up

where the trail hits the camp? Why on this particular door?"

"Well," said Dutchy, squintin' at the sign sideways, "you see I sold

this place day before yesterday--to Mike O'Toole."

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE CORRAL BRANDING

All that night we slept like sticks of wood. No dreams visited us, but

in accordance with the immemorial habit of those who live out--whether

in the woods, on the plains, among the mountains, or at sea--once

during the night each of us rose on his elbow, looked about him, and

dropped back to sleep. If there had been a fire to replenish, that

would have been the moment to do so; if the wind had been changing and

the seas rising, that would have been the time to cast an eye aloft for

indications, to feel whether the anchor cable was holding; if the

pack-horses had straggled from the alpine meadows under the snows, this

would have been the occasion for intent listening for the faintly

tinkling hell so that next day one would know in which direction to

look. But since there existed for us no responsibility, we each

reported dutifully at the roll-call of habit, and dropped back into our

blankets with a grateful sigh.

I remember the moon sailing a good gait among apparently stationary

cloudlets; I recall a deep, black shadow lying before distant silvery

mountains; I glanced over the stark, motionless canvases, each of which

concealed a man; the air trembled with the bellowing of cattle in the

corrals.

Seemingly but a moment later the cook's howl brought me to

consciousness again. A clear, licking little fire danced in the

blackness. Before it moved silhouettes of men already eating.

I piled out and joined the group. Homer was busy distributing his men

for the day. Three were to care for the remuda; five were to move the

stray-herd from the corrals to good feed; three branding crews were

told to brand the calves we had collected in the cut of the afternoon

before. That took up about half the men. The rest were to make a

short drive in the salt grass. I joined the Cattleman, and together we

made our way afoot to the branding pen.

We were the only ones who did go afoot, however, although the corrals

were not more than two hundred yards' distant. When we arrived we

found the string of ponies standing around outside. Between the

upright bars of greasewood we could see the cattle, and near the

opposite side the men building a fire next the fence. We pushed open

the wide gate and entered. The three ropers sat their horses, idly

swinging the loops of their ropes back and forth. Three others brought

wood and arranged it craftily in such manner as to get best draught for

heatin,--a good branding fire is most decidedly a work of art. One

stood waiting for them to finish, a sheaf of long JH stamping irons in

his hand. All the rest squatted on their heels along the fence,

smoking cigarettes and chatting together. The first rays of the sun

slanted across in one great sweep from the remote mountains.

In ten minutes Charley pronounced the irons ready. Homer, Wooden, and

old California John rode in among the cattle. The rest of the men

arose and stretched their legs and advanced. The Cattleman and I

climbed to the top bar of the gate, where we roosted, he with his

tally-book on his knee.

Each rider swung his rope above his head with one hand, keeping the

broad loop open by a skilful turn of the wrist at the end of each

revolution. In a moment Homer leaned forward and threw. As the loop

settled, he jerked sharply upward, exactly as one would strike to hook

a big fish. This tightened the loop and prevented it from slipping

off. Immediately, and without waiting to ascertain the result of the

manoeuvre, the horse turned and began methodically, without undue

haste, to walk toward the branding fire. Homer wrapped the rope twice

or thrice about the horn, and sat over in one stirrup to avoid the

tightened line and to preserve the balance. Nobody paid any attention

to the calf. The critter had been caught by the two hind legs. As the

rope tightened, he was suddenly upset, and before he could realise that

something disagreeable was happening, he was sliding majestically along

on his belly. Behind him followed his anxious mother, her head

swinging from side to side.

Near the fire the horse stopped. The two "bull-doggers" immediately

pounced upon the victim. It was promptly flopped over on its right

side. One knelt on its head and twisted back its foreleg in a sort of

hammer-lock; the other seized one hind foot, pressed his boot heel

against the other hind leg close to the body, and sat down behind the

animal. Thus the calf was unable to struggle. When once you have had

the wind knocked out of you, or a rib or two broken, you cease to think

this unnecessarily rough. Then one or the other threw off the rope.

Homer rode away, coiling the rope as he went.

"Hot iron!" yelled one of the bull-doggers.

"Marker!" yelled the other.

Immediately two men ran forward. The brander pressed the iron smoothly

against the flank. A smoke and the smell of scorching hair arose.

Perhaps the calf blatted a little as the heat scorched. In a brief

moment it was over. The brand showed cherry, which is the proper

colour to indicate due peeling and a successful mark.

In the meantime the marker was engaged in his work. First, with a

sharp knife he cut off slanting the upper quarter of one ear. Then he

nicked out a swallow-tail in the other. The pieces he thrust into his

pocket in order that at the completion of the work he could thus check

the Cattleman's tally-board as to the number of calves branded.[3] The

bull-dogger let go. The calf sprang up, was appropriated and smelled

over by his worried mother, and the two departed into the herd to talk

it over.

It seems to me that a great deal of unnecessary twaddle is abroad as to

the extreme cruelty of branding. Undoubtedly it is to some extent

painful, and could some other method of ready identification be

devised, it might be as well to adopt it in preference. But in the

circumstance of a free range, thousands of cattle, and hundreds of

owners, any other method is out of the question. I remember a New

England movement looking toward small brass tags to be hung from the

ear. Inextinguishable laughter followed the spread of this doctrine

through Arizona. Imagine a puncher descending to examine politely the

ear-tags of wild cattle on the open range or in a round-up.

But, as I have intimated, even the inevitable branding and ear-marking

are not so painful as one might suppose. The scorching hardly

penetrates below the outer tough skin--only enough to kill the roots of

the hair--besides which it must be remembered that cattle are not so

sensitive as the higher nervous organisms. A calf usually bellows when

the iron bites, but as soon as released he almost invariably goes to

feeding or to looking idly about. Indeed, I have never seen one even

take the trouble to lick his wounds, which is certainly not true in the

case of the injuries they inflict on each other in fighting. Besides

which, it happens but once in a lifetime, and is over in ten seconds; a

comfort denied to those of us who have our teeth filled.

In the meantime two other calves had been roped by the two other men.

One of the little animals was but a few months old, so the rider did

not bother with its hind legs, but tossed his loop over its neck.

Naturally, when things tightened up, Mr. Calf entered his objections,

which took the form of most vigorous bawlings, and the most comical

bucking, pitching, cavorting, and bounding in the air. Mr. Frost's

bull-calf alone in pictorial history shows the attitudes. And then, of

course, there was the gorgeous contrast between all this frantic and

uncomprehending excitement and the absolute matter-of-fact

imperturbability of horse and rider. Once at the fire, one of the men

seized the tightened rope in one hand, reached well over the animal's

back to get a slack of the loose hide next the belly, lifted strongly,

and tripped. This is called "bull-dogging." As he knew his business,

and as the calf was a small one, the little beast went over promptly,

bit the ground with a whack, and was pounced upon and held.

Such good luck did not always follow, however. An occasional and

exceedingly husky bull yearling declined to be upset in any such

manner. He would catch himself on one foot, scramble vigorously, and

end by struggling back to the upright. Then ten to one he made a dash

to get away. In such case he was generally snubbed up short enough at

the end of the rope; but once or twice he succeeded in running around a

group absorbed in branding. You can imagine what happened next. The

rope, attached at one end to a conscientious and immovable horse and at

the other to a reckless and vigorous little bull, swept its taut and

destroying way about mid-knee high across that group. The brander and

marker, who were standing, promptly sat down hard; the bull-doggers,

who were sitting, immediately turned several most capable somersaults;

the other calf arose and inextricably entangled his rope with that of

his accomplice. Hot irons, hot language, and dust filled the air.

Another method, and one requiring slightly more knack, is to grasp the

animal's tail and throw it by a quick jerk across the pressure of the

rope. This is productive of some fun if it fails.

By now the branding was in full swing. The three horses came and went

phlegmatically. When the nooses fell, they turned and walked toward

the fire as a matter of course. Rarely did the cast fail. Men ran to

and fro busy and intent. Sometimes three or four calves were on the

ground at once. Cries arose in a confusion: "Marker" "Hot iron!"

"Tally one!" Dust eddied and dissipated. Behind all were clear

sunlight and the organ roll of the cattle bellowing.

Toward the middle of the morning the bull-doggers began to get a little

tired.

"No more necked calves," they announced. "Catch 'em by the hind legs,

or bull-dog 'em yourself."

And that went. Once in a while the rider, lazy, or careless, or

bothered by the press of numbers, dragged up a victim caught by the

neck. The bull-doggers flatly refused to have anything to do with it.

An obvious way out would have been to flip off the loop and try again;

but of course that would have amounted to a confession of wrong.

"You fellows drive me plumb weary," remarked the rider, slowly

dismounting. "A little bit of a calf like that! What you all need is

a nigger to cut up your food for you!"

Then he would spit on his hands and go at it alone. If luck attended

his first effort, his sarcasm was profound.

"There's yore little calf," said he. "Would you like to have me tote

it to you, or do you reckon you could toddle this far with yore little

old iron?"

But if the calf gave much trouble, then all work ceased while the

unfortunate puncher wrestled it down.

Toward noon the work slacked. Unbranded calves were scarce. Sometimes

the men rode here and there for a minute or so before their eyes fell

on a pair of uncropped ears. Finally Homer rode over to the Cattleman

and reported the branding finished. The latter counted the marks in

his tally-book.

"One hundred and seventy-six," he announced.

The markers, squatted on their heels, told over the bits of ears they

had saved. The total amounted to but an hundred and seventy-five.

Everybody went to searching for the missing bit. It was not

forth-coming. Finally Wooden discovered it in his hip pocket.

"Felt her thar all the time," said he, "but thought it must shorely be

a chaw of tobacco."

This matter satisfactorily adjusted, the men all ran for their ponies.

They had been doing a wrestler's heavy work all the morning, but did

not seem to be tired. I saw once in some crank physical culture

periodical that a cowboy's life was physically ill-balanced, like an

oarsman's, in that it exercised only certain muscles of the body. The

writer should be turned loose in a branding corral.

Through the wide gates the cattle were urged out to the open plain.

There they were held for over an hour while the cows wandered about

looking for their lost progeny. A cow knows her calf by scent and

sound, not by sight. Therefore the noise was deafening, and the motion

incessant.

Finally the last and most foolish cow found the last and most foolish

calf. We turned the herd loose to hunt water and grass at its own

pleasure, and went slowly back to chuck.

[3] For the benefit of the squeamish it might be well to note that the

fragments of the ears were cartilaginous, and therefore not bloody.

CHAPTER NINE

THE OLD TIMER

About a week later, in the course of the round-up, we reached the

valley of the Box Springs, where we camped for some days at the

dilapidated and abandoned adobe structure that had once been a ranch

house of some importance.

Just at dusk one afternoon we finished cutting the herd which our

morning's drive had collected. The stray-herd, with its new additions

from the day's work, we pushed rapidly into one big stock corral. The

cows and unbranded calves we urged into another. Fifty head of beef

steers found asylum from dust, heat, and racing to and fro, in the mile

square wire enclosure called the pasture. All the remainder, for which

we had no further use we drove out of the flat into the brush and

toward the distant mountains. Then we let them go as best pleased them.

By now the desert bad turned slate-coloured, and the brush was olive

green with evening. The hard, uncompromising ranges, twenty miles to

eastward, had softened behind a wonderful veil of purple and pink,

vivid as the chiffon of a girl's gown. To the south and southwest the

Chiricahuas and Dragoons were lost in thunderclouds which flashed and

rumbled.

We jogged homewards, our cutting ponies, tired with the quick, sharp

work, shuffling knee deep in a dusk that seemed to disengage itself and

rise upwards from the surface of the desert. Everybody was hungry and

tired. At the chuck wagon we threw off our saddles and turned the

mounts into the remuda. Some of the wisest of us, remembering the

thunderclouds, stacked our gear under the veranda roof of the old ranch

house.