FIGHTS FOR RIGHTS
The fine, cool, and sunshiny days of fall was making a last
stand,--rains begin to come, and as time was a crawling towards early
winter, them rains got colder and then turned to a wet snow. Mud was
where dust had been, the hard-twist throw ropes had turned stiff as
steel cables, saddles and saddle blankets was wet, heavy, and cold, and
the shivering ponies met the feel of them with a hump and a buck.
The cowboys, all a packing long, yellow slickers, was beginning to
tally up on how much wages would be due 'em. As the end of the fall
round up drawed near, and as they waded thru slush and mud from the
chuck wagon to the rope corral, not many was caring. Wet socks, damp
beds, two hours of shivering on night guard, saddling ornery ponies in
daytime and when a feller can't even get a footing, and then riding
'em a wondering if them ponies will stand up as they beller and buck
on the slick and muddy ground, all left a hankering only for a warm
dugout somewheres, where there's a stove, a bunk to set on, and a few
magazines to read as mother nature does her best to make the outside
miserable.
The last of the beef herd had been turned over to another "wagon" of
the Rocking R and shipped, and Jeff's main herd was from then on made
up of cows with big weaner calves, and all stock that'd need feeding
thru the winter.
"A couple of weeks more now and we'll be seeing the gates of the home
ranch," says Jeff one day, but it was a long three weeks before the
stock was tended to and when camp was made for the last time. The wet
snow had got flaky and dry by then and six inches of it was covering
the ground.
"Now hold on a minute, Smoky, and give a feller a chance, wont you?"
It was Clint a talking, and trying to hold Smoky down till he got his
foot in the stirrup. The cowboy being all bundled up couldn't handle
himself as he'd like to, the little horse was cold, crusted snow had
to be rubbed off his back before the saddle could be put on and he was
aching to put his head down and go to bucking so he could warm up.
Clint was only half ways in the saddle when that pony lit into it, but
the cowboy didn't mind that, his blood was also a long ways from the
boiling point and any excuse to get circulating good was welcome.
Around and around him and Smoky went and all in one spot, all the fancy
twists of a bucking pony was gone over and the rider met him all the
way, and as Clint rode and fanned and laughed, he'd get fast glimpses
of other riders and other horses a tearing up the white landscape and
getting down to the earth underneath.
It was the last day of the round up, all the work was done, the cook
climbed on his seat, grabbed the lines the boys handed him, and
letting out a war whoop scared his already spooky team into a long lope
towards the home ranch.
* * * * *
The sight of the big gates was a mighty fine one to all as the outfit
clattered in, specially with the sky a threatening the way it was, the
old cow horses had their ears pointed towards the big pole corrals.
They knowed what the sight of them meant at that time of the year and
none tried to break away as the wrangler run 'em in. They was turned
out in a big pasture that night, and the next day a couple of riders
came, bunched 'em up, and took 'em thru another gate leading out of the
ranch.
Clint had took it onto hisself to be one of them riders,--he wanted to
get another look at Smoky before letting him go to the winter range
and find out for sure just what condition that range would be in. The
outskirts of it was reached that noon and as Clint rode along back of
the remuda he was more than satisfied to notice the tall feed that the
six inches of snow couldn't hide, he noticed the breaks and the shelter
they would give, then the thick growth of willows along the creek
bottom and which meant more shelter.
Clint stopped his horse and the two hundred ponies was left to scatter.
His eyes run over the well known backs for a last time, he wouldn't
be seeing them again till spring round up started and he watched 'em
slowly graze away. Many was in that bunch that he'd broke and named,
and starting from the meanest fighting bronc of the rough string,
and taking all the ponies on up to the best cowhorse of the foreman's
string there wasn't one that Clint didn't know and know mighty well as
to tricks and good or bad points.
A big old sorrel with a kinked neck and by the name of Boar Hound
caught his eye, and Clint remembered how that pony tried to commit
suicide rather than be rode and how he'd now changed to wanting to
commit murder instead and kill a few cowboys. Then a smile spread
over his face as he spotted a tall roman nosed gruller who'd never
made a jump till a rope got under his tail. He'd took a sudden liking
to bucking from then on and made hisself a reputation at that which
scattered over four counties.
Every horse Clint looked at brought to memory some kind of a story, and
there was a variety of expressions which changed with every horse that
came under his eye. A big shaggy black looked his way and snorted and
with the sight of him Clint remembered how that horse had reached ahead
one time and kicked to pieces a cowboy that'd been unsaddling him.
His expression was mighty solemn at the thought of that, but it didn't
last long. Like a ray of sunshine, something shot out and scattered
that dark cloud of memories four ways,--Smoky had showed himself from
behind other horses and not over fifty feet from where Clint was
setting on his horse.
The cowboy's face lit up with a smile at the sight of the pony, and
getting down off his saddle he made tracks his way, but he didn't have
to go all the way, for soon as Smoky spotted him he left Pecos, his
running pardner behind, and nickering came to meet Clint.
"A feller would think to see you act that you're a sure enough sugar
eater," Clint remarked as the little horse came up to him and stopped.
He rubbed a hand on the pony's head and went on.
"Well, anyway, Smoky, I'm glad to see that you've got a mighty fine
winter range to run on; with all the feed I see here and the shelter
that's with it you hadn't ought to lose an ounce of fat," Clint felt
for the pony's ribs and grinning resumed, "and if you ever get any
fatter than you are now you'll be plum worthless."
Smoky followed Clint as he turned and went to where he'd left his
horse, "I wonder," says that cowboy, "if you've got the hunch that you
wont be seeing me no more till next spring?--that's a long time aint
it? but never mind old horse, I'm the first cowboy you're going to see
when spring does break up."
Clint was about to get on his horse and ride away, but he stopped, and
felt of Smoky's hide once more.
[Illustration: Clint was about to get on his horse and ride away, but
he stopped, and felt of Smoky's hide once more.]
"Well, so long, Smoky, take care of yourself and don't let anything
drag you down."
Smoky watched him ride away and nickered once as the cowboy went over
the point of a ridge and disappeared. He watched a long time even after
that and till he was sure Clint was gone, and finally turning went to
grazing back till he was by the side of Pecos again.
* * * * *
The winter came and hit the range with the average amount of snow,
freeze ups, and cold winds. The cayotes howled the hunger they felt,
for there was no weak stock to speak of for them to feed off of, and
outside of small varmints they could get once in a while, pickings was
mighty poor. Horses and cattle was and stayed in fine shape and the
stockman could hit his bed after the long day's ride knowing that he
could go to sleep right off and not lay awake a wondering what he could
do to pull his stock thru.
Smoky met all what the weather had to hand him, with a good layer of
fat, a thick skin, and a long coat of hair. He lost a few ounces but
he could of spared many pounds and felt as good, feed was aplenty and
the little pawing that had to be done to reach it was like so much
exercise and only kept his blood in good circulating order.
[Illustration: Feed was aplenty and the little pawing that had to be
done to reach it was like so much exercise and only kept his blood in
good circulating order.]
The winter months wore on, the ponies drifted from ridge to ridge, from
shelter to shelter and nothing much came to disturb the quiet of the
land, nothing much excepting when a big shaggy black tried to throw
in with Pecos, the same black that'd kicked the cowboy over the Great
Divide. But his interfering and butting in was welcome tho in a way,
Smoky and Pecos had so much good energy going to waste that they'd been
just aching for some excuse to use some of it for some good.
It came about that the big black had took a liking to Pecos, and at
the same time a dislike for Smoky. Pecos was neutral for a while and
wondered what the black was up to when he tried to chase Smoky away
from him. Smoky wouldn't chase worth a nickel but he was getting
skinned up considerable a trying to hold his ground. Things went on
that way for a day or so and every once in a while the black made a
dive for Smoky like he was going to tear him to pieces,--his intentions
was good, but Smoky sure was no invalid. When the snow settled again
where he'd held his ground the little horse hadn't give away one inch.
But the black was twice as old as Smoky, more up to the game of
fighting, and heavier by a hundred pounds. All that begin to tell on
the mouse colored hide, and there might of come a time when Smoky would
of had to high-tail it, only, as the scraps was repeated off and on,
Pecos begin to notice and realize that that black was taking too much
territory, and he didn't like him nohow.
So, that's how come, that when the black put down his ears and made
another grand tearing rush for Smoky that something struck him from
the off side and upset him and his plans of attack all to pieces,--he
found hisself jerked off his feet and rolled plum over the top of Smoky
and he lit head first on the other side. When he picked himself up out
of the snow his Spirits was dampened some in wonder, and more so when
he shook his head and was able to see and noticed that there was _two_
mighty vicious looking ponies a waiting for him to come again. He shook
his head once more at that, and as Smoky and Pecos bowed their necks
and came his way the black turned tail and started a looking for other
company and which would appreciate him more.
[Illustration: The black was jerked off his feet, rolled plum over, and
he lit head first on the other side.]
But whether it was orneriness or just plain thick headedness the black
tried to butt in again the next day, maybe he just wasn't convinced,
anyway, Pecos noticed him first and before the black could even get
to Smoky. War was started right there, but Pecos was no match for the
black and even tho he wasn't for quitting, the worst of the battle
was on his side. It was about when the crusted snow was flying the
thickest that Smoky, who'd been off a ways, noticed the commotion. He
seen his pardner down on his knees and the black a chewing away on him,
and right about then the standing Smoky was transformed into a eleven
hundred pound bombshell. The explosion came as he connected with the
black and then black fur begin to fly and soar up above.--Somehow or
other the black managed to gather enough of his scattered senses to
know what had happened; them senses told him to act, and act quick,
and he did. He tore himself away from the pressing, tearing mixture
of flying hoofs and sharp teeth and split the breeze making far apart
tracks to where horseflesh wasn't so thick.
The next day he was seen with Boar Hound, the kinked necked sorrel,
the roman-nosed gruller, and a few more ornery ponies of the "rough
string." A company bunch more fitting to his kind.
* * * * *
The days was getting longer and warmer, the snow begin packing and
melting some, and pretty soon bare patches of ground showed in plain
sight. Smoky and Pecos' hides begin a itching and the two was often
busy a scratching one another and starting from the neck went to the
withers along the backbone to the rump and back again. Big bunches of
long winter hair begin a slipping and falling to the ground as they
scratched, and came a time when as they rolled, more of that hair was
left till finally patches of short slick satin like hair begin to show.
[Illustration: Smoky and Pecos' hides begin a itching and the two was
often busy scratching one another.]
Then green and tender grass begin to loom up and plentiful, and that
finished the work of ridding the ponies' hides of all the long hair
that was left. Creeks was swelling from the waters of the fast melting
snows, spring had come and the sunshine and warm winds that came with
it was doing its work.
The round up cook was once again scrubbing on the chuck box that
was on the end of the long wagon, and the cowboys, one by one begin
a drifting in from parts near and far anxious to be starting on the
spring works again. Some came from the different cow camps of the
Rocking R range, a few of the riders that'd been let go when work was
done the fall before never showed up, but others rode in and after a
few words with Jeff took the places of them that was missing.
Clint had wintered at one of the outfit's camps and drawed his wages
regular, and when the range land begin to get bare of snow and the
watching out for weak stock was no more necessary he put his bed on one
horse, his saddle on another and headed for the home ranch. He was one
of the first riders to reach that place, and when the horse round up
started he was one of the first to have his horse saddled, topped off,
and lined out to sashay in all of the ponies that could be found on the
horse range.
Smoky had been feeding on the sunny side of a butte, and for no reason
other than to be looking around he raised his head, only his ears and
eyes showed as he looked over the top of that butte; but that was
enough for him to see a rider coming his direction, and see him before
that rider ever had a hunch any horses was around anywheres near.
Smoky snorted and hightailed it down the side of the butte to where
Pecos and a few other ponies had also been feeding, and the way he
acted left no doubt in their minds but what they should be on the move.
They all was at full speed the minute he landed amongst 'em, and when
the rider topped the butte where they'd been a few minutes before,
they had the lead on him by near a mile.
But the ponies wasn't wanting to get away near as much as might of
been thought. It was only that Smoky had got spooked up at the sudden
sight of the rider, and him and all the others feeling good as they
did wasn't needing much excuse. The cowboy fogged down on 'em and a
little to one side so as to turn 'em, they turned easy enough even tho
the rider was a long ways behind, and making a big circle that rider
finally had 'em headed towards the big corrals of the home ranch.
A big grin spread over the cowboy's features as the sun shined on the
slick back of the mouse colored horse at the lead of the bunch, and
even tho there was a half a mile between him and that horse, _that
cowboy_ knowed daggone well it was _him_, for the sun never reflected
on no other horse's hide as well as it did on Smoky's, and besides,
there was no mistaking the good feeling action of that pony's.
"Told you I'd be the first to see you when spring broke up," says the
cowboy as he held his horse down to a lope.
The twenty-five mile run from the time Smoky had been spotted kinda
filled the bill far as running was concerned, and when the long wings
of the pole corrals at the home ranch was reached the rider was right
on the ponies' tails and on the job to keep 'em going straight ahead
into the corral;--then the big gate closed in on 'em.
"Guess you don't know me no more," says Clint to Smoky as he stood
afoot in the corral and watched the pony tear around;--then to hisself:
"Maybe he don't know it's _me_ that's watching him."
Clint was right, the long winter months of freedom without seeing one
human had kind of let him get back to his natural wild instinct, and
the first sight of Clint had been of just a human, and it'd spooked him
up till he'd have to calm down some before it'd come to him just _who_
that human was.
The cowboy spoke to him as Smoky, wild eyed, snorted and hunted for a
hole, but Clint kept a speaking, and as the pony tore around and heard
the voice, something gradually came to him that seemed far away and
near forgot. He stopped a couple of times to look at the cowboy, and
each time his getting away was less rushing, till, as the voice kept a
being heard, things got clearer and clearer in that pony's brain.
Smoky had stopped once more, and neck bowed, ears straight ahead, and
eyes a sparkling, faced acrost the corral to where the cowboy, still
and standing, was talking to him.
"Daggone your little hide," says Clint, "are we going to have to get
acquainted all over again?--come on over here and let me run my hand
over that knowledge bump of yours, and maybe I can get your think tank
to functioning right again."
Smoky didn't come, but he held his ground and listened to the talk.
Clint talked on and watched him till the horse lost some of his wild
look and then slow and easy started walking his way. Something and away
in the past seemed to hold Smoky as the cowboy slowly came nearer and
nearer. His instinct was all for him a leaving the spot he was holding,
but that something which stuck in his memory was the stronger and sort
of kept him there.
Clint came on a few steps at the time, and then stopped, and talking
the while, took his time till he was within a few feet of Smoky. A
little flaw of any kind right then in that human's actions could of
spoilt things easy and sent the pony a skeedaddling away from there in
a hurry, but Clint knowed horses and specially Smoky too well to do
anything of the kind. He knowed just what was going on between that
pony's ears, and how to agree with all that mixed in there.
Finally, Clint got to where by reaching out he could near of touched
Smoky. Slow and easy the cowboy raised a hand and held it to within
a few inches of the pony's nose, Smoky looked at it and snorted, but
pretty soon he stretched his neck and mighty careful took a sniff of
the human paw. He snorted again and jerked his head away from it, but
it wasn't long when he took another sniff, then another and another,
and each time the snort growed less to be heard, till at last, Smoky
even allowed that paw to touch his nostrils, the fingers rubbed there
easy for a spell and gradually went on a rubbing along his nose
along on up to between his eyes and pretty soon between his ears to
that knowledge bump. Five minutes afterwards Smoky was following the
grinning cowboy all around the corral.
[Illustration: Slow and easy Clint raised a hand and held it to within
a few inches of his nose. Smoky stretched his neck, sniffed at it, and
snorted.]
* * * * *
The round up wagons, all cleaned and loaded, was ready to pull out,
the remuda was all accounted for and each string pointed out to each
rider, and Jeff giving the whole outfit another look over waved a hand,
the pilot reined his horse into a bucking start, all took up his lead
and thru the big gates of the home ranch, wagons, riders, remuda, and
all lined out. The spring round up had started.
Smoky broke the record for learning that year, and when the fall round
up was over and the saddle was pulled off him for the last time before
being turned out on the winter range, there was two little white spots
of white hair showed on each side of his withers and about the size of
a dollar,--saddle marks they was, and like medals for the good work
he'd done. There was a knowing spark in his eyes for the critter too,
for the little horse had got to savvy the cow near as well as the old
cowhorses that'd been in the same remuda that year.
There was only one thing that could of been held against the good
record of that pony, and that was his bucking;--he just had to have
his little buck out every morning, and sometimes he bucked harder than
other times--that all depended on how cold the weather was--but Clint
didn't seem to mind that at all. If anything he tried to preserve that
bucking streak in the pony, and he was often heard to remark:
"A horse aint worth much unless that shows up some."
But Clint had other reasons for keeping the "buck" in Smoky's
backbone.--Old Tom Jarvis, superintendent and part owner of the Rocking
R had joined the wagon for a few days that summer and wanted to see
his cowboys work his cattle for a spell. Him being an old cowman and
from away back before cattle wore short horns made all the working of
a herd all the more interesting and to be criticized one way or the
other. He was present steady on the cutting grounds, and so was Smoky
one day.
Clint felt that the eyes of Old Tom was on Smoky the minute he rode him
to the edge of the herd, and an uneasy feeling crawled up his backbone
as he noticed that that Old Grizzly seemed to've lost his eyesight for
anything else but his Smoky horse. Clint knowed Old Tom's failing for
a good horse, and he'd heard of how many a time that same failing had
come near putting the cowman in jail for appropriating some horse he
couldn't buy;--of course them times was past, but the failing was still
in the old man's chest, and _Smoky belonged to him_.
The cowboy had started Smoky to cutting out, a work where all the good
points of a cowhorse have a chance to show up, and Smoky sure wasn't
hiding any. Old Tom's eyes was near popping out of his head as he
watched the mouse colored gelding work, and finally, as Clint noticed
all the interest, he figgered it a good idea to get out of the herd and
hide Smoky somewheres before the old cowman came to him and suggested
swapping horses; the cowboy was afraid he'd already showed too much of
that horse, and as he come out of the herd he made a circle and took
his stand away on the opposite side from where Old Tom was holding.
But Old Tom was controlling owner of that outfit and he could be any
place he wanted to on that range any time. A steer broke out, Old
Tom took after him, circled him around the herd, and when he put him
back in and brought his horse to a standstill, there was only a short
distance between him and the horse he'd had his eye on.
Clint was scared and he cussed a little. He tried to keep Smoky down
whenever a critter broke out that needed turning, and even tried to let
a couple of 'em get away, but he couldn't do it without making it too
plain to see, and besides, Smoky had ideas of his own about handling
them critters.
The cowboy was worried all the rest of the day and lost some sleep that
night a wondering how he was going to dodge Old Tom. He knowed the old
cowman would be around with some proposition to swap him out of Smoky,
and that was one of the last things the cowboy would do. There wasn't a
horse in the outfit or anywheres else he'd trade Smoky for.
It's took for granted on any real cow outfit that whenever a horse is
swapped or borrowed out of a cowboy's string and handed to somebody
else, that that cowboy is requested to quit or be fired, in other words
it's an insult that makes any real cowboy want to scrap and then ask
for his wages.
Clint was a valuable man to the outfit, but with Old Tom one cowboy
more or less didn't matter, that is if that cowboy stood between him
and a horse he wanted. He walked up to Clint the next day and not
hesitating any he says:
"I'm going to try that mouse colored horse you was riding yesterday;"
and thinking it'd please Clint to hear, he went on, "and if I like him
I'll trade you my brown horse Chico for him; he's the best horse I got
at the home ranch."
But all that only made Clint get red in the face, and fire showed in
his eyes as he spoke.
"Huh! you can't ride Smoky."
"Why in samhill cant I?" asks Old Tom, also getting red in the face.
"Cause you can't," answers Clint, "why you couldn't even put a saddle
on him."
Clint was for quitting the outfit right there and hit for some other
country, but the thought of leaving Smoky behind kinda put him to
figgering another way out;--if he could get Old Tom sort of peeved and
let him handle Smoky while he was feeling that way, most likely that
pony would do the rest.
"I'll show you whether I can saddle that horse or not," says Old Tom,
frothing at the mouth; "why I've handled and rode broncs that you
couldn't get in the same corral with, and before you even was born."
"Yep," says Clint, grinning sarcastic, "that was too long ago, and
you're too daggoned old now for that kind of a horse."
Old Tom glared at Clint for a second, and not finding no ready come
back done the next best thing and got busy. He went to his saddle,
jerked his rope off it, and spitting fire, shook out a loop that could
be heard a whistling plum to the other side of the corral.
Smoky was surprised into a dozen catfits as that same wicked loop
settled over his head and drawed tight and sudden around his neck. He
bellered and bucked thru the remuda a dragging Old Tom with him. The
old cowman made a motion and two grinning cowboys went and helped him.
Clint stood on the outside and watched the performance. He rolled
cigarette after cigarette and tore 'em up fast as they was made, not
a one was lit. He seen Smoky brought to a choking standstill and
that cowboy felt like committing murder as he noticed the fear in
that pony's eyes as he faced the strangers; but there Clint noticed
something else and which he gradually recognized as _fight_,--there was
more fight than fear, and at the sight of that the cowboy took hope.
"Since when does a cowboy get help to rope and saddle his horse," he
hollered as Old Tom was sizing up Smoky. "Pretty soon you'll be wanting
one of us to top him off for you."
It worked just right, and Old Tom's answer was only a jerk on the rope
that held Smoky. The old cowman knowed better than to handle a horse
that way and as a rule was always easy with 'em, but he was mad, mad
clear thru, and rather than shoot a cowboy he was taking it out on the
horse.
And Smoky by that time was fast catching up with the spirit of all that
went on. He was like a raw bronc that'd never seen a human or a saddle,
and when he was finally brought up alongside the saddle, there was all
about him to show he wasn't safe for anybody coming near. But Old Tom,
even tho it was a long time ago, had handled many mean horses;--he
knowed he was past handling 'em any more, but this time was different
and he'd do his best to carry it thru.
The two riders that'd been helping him was waved away; he'd show Clint
and the rest of the young fellers that he could still do it. He then
spread a loop and caught both of Smoky's threatening front feet; Smoky
knowed better than to fight a rope and he stood still knowing he'd soon
have another chance. Rawhide hobbles was fastened on his front legs, a
bridle put on his head, and then the saddle was reached for and put on
his back and cinched to stay.
"Better say your prayers before you climb up," says Clint, still
prodding Old Tom, at the same time hoping that he would stop before he
went too far. But there was no stopping him, he pulled up his chap'
belt, set his hat down tight, and still mad enough to bite a nail
in two, loosened the hobbles, grabbed a short holt on the reins and
climbed on.
Smoky looked back at the stranger that was a setting on him, and soon
as a touch of the rein on his neck told him that all was set, things
started a happening from there. He bowed his head, made two jumps, and
was just getting started good when he felt the saddle was empty;--he
made a few more jumps just for good measure, and then stopped.
[Illustration: Old Tom didn't even get well set that time, Smoky bowed
his head and went out from under him leaving him come down on the other
side.]
Clint was grinning from ear to ear as he walked up to Smoky and put his
hand on his neck.
"Good work, old boy," he says,--and then turning to Old Tom, who was
picking himself up: "Want to try him again?"
"You bet your doggone life I do," says that old cowboy.
"All right," answers Clint, getting peeved some more. "Go ahead and
break your fool neck, there's plenty of buffalo wallows around here we
can bury you in."
Old Tom walked over and jerked the reins out of Clint's hands and
started to get in the saddle again, but he didn't even get well in it
that time,--Smoky bowed his head and went out from under him leaving
Old Tom come down on the other side.
It was as the old man was about to try Smoky once more when Jeff Nicks
interfered, and told his boss how he'd rather not have him try that
horse any more.
"That horse bucks every time he's rode," says Jeff.
Old Tom knowed he'd come to the end of his string but that didn't ease
his feelings any, and he was looking for some way of letting some
of them feelings out before they choked him. When he spots Clint a
standing to one side and by Smoky.
"You're fired," he hollered, pointing a finger at him, "I'll get
somebody to take the buck out of that horse, and the sooner you're off
this range the better I'll like it."
Clint just grinned at Old Tom, which made him all the madder, and about
then Jeff spoke:
"I'm doing the hiring and firing on this outfit, Tom, and as long as
I'm working for you I'll keep on a doing it."
Old Tom turned on him like a wild cat. "Fine!" he hollered, "you can go
too."
The old cowman had went as far as he could, and as he walked away to
catch himself another saddle horse, he had a hunch that he'd also went
further than he should; that hunch got stronger as he went on saddling,
and as he gave the latigo a last yank, it all developed into plain
common sense that he'd sure enough went too far.
But Old Tom wasn't for giving in, not right then anyway. He got on his
horse and riding close enough so Jeff could hear, says:
"You and Clint can come to the ranch and I'll have your time ready for
you," and then to another rider,--"you handle the outfit till I send
out another foreman."
A lot of orneriness was scattered to the winds as Old Tom covered the
long fifty miles back to the ranch, and as he opened the big gate
leading in, a brand new feeling had come over him,--he was for catching
a fresh horse the next morning early and high-tail it back to the wagon
to sort of smooth things over best as he could.
He unsaddled and turned his horse loose, and was mighty surprised as
he came up to the big ranch house to find both Jeff and Clint already
there and waiting for him. Not a hint of the good resolutions he'd made
showed as he walked up to 'em, and after some kind of a "howdy," Old
Tom heard Jeff say:
"All the boys sent word in by me, that as long as you're making out my
check you'd just as well make theirs out too. I'm sorry for that," went
on Jeff, "and I tried to talk 'em out of it, but it's no use, they're
all for quitting if I go."
The old cowman never said a word as he led Jeff and Clint in the big
house. He walked to a big table in the center of the living room and
there he turned on his two riders. A smile was on his face and he says:
"Daggone it, Jeff, I'm glad to hear that." Then Old Tom, still
pleasant, but serious, went on, "for no man does his best work unless
he's doing it with somebody he likes and has confidence in. Yes," he
repeated, "I'm glad to hear that, but the question is now, you're fired
and free to go, aint you?" he asks.
"Yes," says Jeff, "soon as I get paid off."
"Well, how's chances of hiring you over again? I can't afford to let a
foreman like you go, Jeff."
Jeff seemed to figger a while and then looked at Clint, and Old Tom
guessing what was on his foreman's mind, went on "and of course, being
that I have no say in the hiring and firing of your riders, Clint
wasn't fired at all, and he can keep on riding for you."
Finally hands was shook all around, and as Jeff and Clint started back
for the wagon the next morning Old Tom was on hand to see 'em go.
"And don't worry about that daggone mouse colored horse of yours,
Clint," he says as him and Jeff rode away, "I'll never want him."
The riders reached the big gate leading out of the ranch, and there
Jeff remarked as he got off his horse to open it:
"I guess Old Tom didn't have to say that he was sorry."
And Clint more than agreed.