CUTTING OUT THE HERD
"Getting ready for rain," announced the foreman, glancing up at the
gathering clouds. "That will mean water for the stock, anyway."
Already the great herd was up and grazing when the cowboys reached them.
But there was no time now for the animals to satisfy their appetites.
They were supposed to have eaten amply since daylight.
The trail was to be taken up again and by the time the steers were
bedded down at night, they should be all of fifteen miles nearer the
Diamond D. Ranch for which they were headed.
The start was a matter of keen interest to the Pony Riders. To set the
herd in motion, cowboys galloped along the sides of the line giving vent
to their shrill, wolf-keyed yell, while others pressed forward directly
in the rear.
As soon as the cattle had gotten under way six men were detailed on each
side, and in a short time the herd was strung out over more than a mile
of the trail.
Two riders known as "point men" rode well back from the leaders, and by
riding forward and closing in occasionally, were able to direct the
course of the drive.
Others, known as "swing men," rode well out from the herd, their duty
being to see that none of the cattle dropped out or strayed away. Once
started, the animals required no driving.
This was a matter of considerable interest to the Pony Riders.
"Don't they ever stop to eat?" asked Tad of the foreman.
"Occasionally. When they do, we have to start them along without their
knowing we are doing so. It's a good rule to go by that you never should
let your herd know they are under restraint. Yet always keep them going
in the proper direction."
The trail wagon, carrying the cooking outfit and supplies, was not
forgotten. Drawn by a team of four mules, the party seldom allowed it to
get far away from them, and never, under ordinary circumstances, out of
their sight. The driver walked beside the mules, while the grinning face
of Pong was always to be seen in the front end of the wagon.
He was the only member of the outfit who never seemed to mind the
broiling mid-day heat. He was riding there on this hot forenoon, never
leaving his seat until the foreman, by a gesture, indicated that the
herd was soon to be halted for its noonday meal. While the cattle were
grazing, the cowboys would fall to and satisfy their own appetites.
After the cattle had finally been halted, three men were left on guard
while the others rode back to the rear of the line. In the meantime Pong
had been preparing the dinner, which was ready almost as soon as the men
had cast aside their hats.
"When it comes to cooking for an outfit like this, a Chinaman beats
anything in the world," laughed Stallings. "At least, this Chinaman
does."
Pong was too busy to do more than grin at the compliment, even if he
fully grasped the meaning of it.
The meal was nearly half-finished when the cowpunchers were startled by
a volley of revolver shots accompanied by a chorus of shrill yells.
"What's up now?" demanded Ned Rector and Tad in one breath.
Every member of the outfit had sprung to his feet.
"Sounds like a stampede," flung back the foreman, making a flying leap
for his pony.
The other cowboys were up like a flash and into their saddles, uttering
sharp "ki-yis" and driving in the spurs while they laid their quirts
mercilessly over the rumps of the ponies.
Tad Butler, Ned Rector and Walter Perkins were not far behind the cowmen
in reaching their own ponies and leaping into their saddles.
Not so with Chunky. He only paused in his eating long enough to look his
surprise and to direct an inquiring look at the Chinaman, while the
others went dashing across the plain toward the herd.
"Allee same likee this," announced Pong, making a succession of violent
gestures that Stacy did not understand.
But the boy nodded his head wisely and went on with his eating.
Out where the grazing herd had been peacefully eating its noonday meal
all was now excitement and action.
Revolvers were popping, cowboys were yelling and the herd was surging
back and forth, bellowing and dashing in and out, a shifting, confused
mass of color and noise.
The boys did not know what to make of it.
"Yes; they are stampeding," decided Ned, riding alongside of Tad Butler.
"I don't believe it," answered Tad. "It looks to me as if something else
were the trouble."
"What?"
"I don't know. It's an awful mix-up, whatever they may call it."
"Yes; see! They are fighting."
Surely enough, large numbers of the cattle seemed to be arrayed against
each other, sending up great clouds of dust as they ran toward each
other, locked horns and engaged in desperate conflict. It was noticed,
however, that the muleys kept well out of harm's way, standing aloof
from the herd and looking on ready to run at the shake of a horn in
their direction.
"Now, look there! What are they doing?" asked Walter.
"They seem to be cutting out a bunch of steers," answered Tad. "That's
funny. I can't imagine what it is all about." Neither could Professor
Zepplin, who had ridden up at a more leisurely pace, explain to the boys
the meaning of the scene they were viewing.
"If we knew, we might turn in and help," suggested Walter.
"That's right," replied Tad. "Suppose we ride up there where the men
are at work. We may find something to do. Anyway, we'll find out what
the trouble is."
Starting up their ponies, the boys galloped up the line, keeping a safe
distance from the herd as they did so, and halting only when they had
reached the trail leaders, as the cattle at the head of the line are
called.
"What's the trouble?" shouted Ned as they came within hailing distance
of the perspiring foreman.
"Mixed herd," he called back, curtly, driving his pony into the thick of
the fight and yelling out his orders to the men.
"I know almost as much about it as I did before," announced Ned,
disgustedly. "Got any idea, Tad?"
"Yes; I have."
"For goodness sake, let's have it, then. If I don't find out what's
going on here, pretty soon, I shall jump into the fight in sheer
desperation."
"Mr. Stagings said it was a mixed herd. Don't you think that must mean
that a lot of cattle who don't belong there have mixed up with ours?"
asked the freckle-faced boy.
"I guess that's the answer, Tad. But, if so, how can they tell one from
the other?" wondered Walter.
"From the brands. I have learned that much about the business. Every one
of our herd is branded with a capital D in the center of a diamond. That
is the brand of Mr. Miller's ranch--the Diamond D Ranch. Evidently they
are cutting out all that haven't that brand on."
"Hello! There's Chunky. Now, what do you suppose he is up to!" exclaimed
Ned.
Stacy Brown had finished his meal, mounted his pony and was now riding
toward the herd at what was for him a reckless speed.
All at once they saw him pull his mount sharply to the left and drive
straight at a bunch of cattle that the cowboys had separated from the
herd a few moments before.
The boy was too far away, the racket too loud, for their voices to reach
him in a warning shout.
Stacy, having observed the cattle straying away, and having in mind Tad
Butler's achievement in driving back a bunch of stray steers, thought he
would do something on his own account.
"I'll show them I can drive steers as well as anybody," he told himself,
bringing down the quirt about the pony's legs.
The strong-limbed little beast sprang to his work with a will. He
understood perfectly what was wanted of him. A few moments more, and he
had headed off the rapidly moving bunch, effectually turning the
leaders, sending them on a gallop back toward the vast herd fighting and
bellowing in the cloud of dust they had stirred up.
The cowboys were so fully occupied with their task that they had failed
to observe Stacy Brown's action, nor would they have known anything
about it had not Tad, yelling himself hoarse, managed to attract the
attention of the foreman.
Tad pointed off to where Chunky was jumping his pony at the fleeing
cattle, forcing them on with horse and quirt.
They had almost reached the main herd before Tad succeeded in informing
the foreman.
One look was enough for Stallings.
Before he could act, however, the stray herd had once more mingled and
merged with his own. The work of the cowboys had gone for naught.
Stallings fired three shots into the air as a signal to his men to stop
their cutting out.
"Will you young men do me a favor?" he asked.
"Certainly, Mr. Stallings," answered Tad.
"Then ride around the herd and tell the boys not to try any more cutting
out until the herd has quieted down. The dust is so thick that we can't
do anything with the cows, anyway. You have some sense, but that's more
than I can say for your friend, Brown. Of all the idiotic--oh, what's
the use? Tell him to mind his own business and keep half a mile away
from this herd for the rest of the afternoon."
"All right, sir. Where did those cattle come from?"
"I don't know, Tad. They have broken away from some nearby ranch.
Probably somebody has cut a wire fence and let them out. That's the
worst of the wire fence in the modern cow business. They can get through
wire without being seen. But they can't get by a cowpuncher without his
seeing them."
"How many cattle do you think have got mixed with ours?"
"I should imagine there were all of five hundred of them," answered the
foreman.
Tad uttered a long-drawn whistle of astonishment.
"Will--will you ever be able to separate them?" asked Ned.
"We sure will. But it means a hot afternoon's work."
"May we help you, Mr. Stallings?" spoke up Walter.
"Yes; I shall be able to use you boys, some, I guess. It's a wonder to
me that those cows didn't stampede our whole herd. Had it been night,
our stock would have been spread over a dozen miles of territory by this
time. Being day, however, our herd preferred to stay and fight the
newcomers. I hope they clean up the bunch for keeps."
Pleased that they had been given a task to perform, the boys rode away,
Tad and Walter going in one direction, while Ned Rector galloped off in
another, that they might reach the cowmen in the shortest possible time.
The men they found sitting on their horses awaiting orders, though they
understood what was in the mind of the foreman almost as well as if he
had told them by word of mouth.
They found Big-foot and Lumpy Bates expressing their opinion of the
mix-up in voices loud with anger. But, upon discovering the boys, the
cowmen quickly checked their flow of language.
"Did you see what that--that----" bellowed Lumpy as Tad rode up to him.
"Yes; I saw it," laughed Tad.
"You think this is some kind of a joke, eh?" roared Lumpy, starting his
pony toward Tad.
The boy's smile left his face and clucking to his pony he rode slowly
forward toward the angry cowpuncher, meeting the fellow's menacing eyes
unflinchingly.
"Is there anything you wish to say to me, Mr. Bates?" asked the lad
calmly.
Lumpy's emotions were almost too great for speech. He controlled himself
with an effort.
"No--only this. I--I'll forget myself some day, and clean up one of you
idiotic tenderfeet."
"Perhaps you would like to begin on me, sir," said Tad steadily. "If you
feel that way I should prefer to have you do that rather than to try it
on any of my companions. Stacy Brown may be indiscreet, but I'd have you
understand he is no idiot."
"What--what----"
"You have determined to get square with us ever since we joined out with
you last night, and I knew that you and I would have to have an
understanding before long. We might as well have it now, though there's
nothing of enough consequence to have a quarrel about----"
"You threaten me?"
"Nothing of the kind, Mr. Bates. I only wish to tell you that my
companions are the guests of this outfit, and we propose to act like
gentlemen. Every other member of the outfit, not excepting the Chinaman,
has given us fine treatment. You have hung back, hoping you would have a
chance to get us run off the trail."
The cowpuncher's fingers were opening and closing convulsively.
"You--you run into me. The whole bunch had the laugh on me and----"
"If I remember correctly, it was you who ran me down. But we'll drop
that. Will you shake hands and forget your bad temper?" asked the lad,
reaching over and offering a hand to the cowboy.
For an instant the fellow glared at him, then with a snarl he jerked his
pony about and drove in the rowels of the spurs.
"Lumpy's got on the grouch that won't come off," grinned Big-foot.
"Better keep a weather eye on the cayuse. If he gets obstreperous, just
you let me know."
"Thank you," smiled Tad. "I thought I had better say something to him
before it went too far. I knew he meant mischief to us ever since he ran
into me yesterday at San Diego."
Tad then delivered his message and rode on to the next cowpuncher.
For fully an hour the cattle surged and fought, some being killed and
trampled under foot, while others were so seriously wounded that they
had to be shot later in the day.
After a time the battle dwindled down to individual skirmishes, with two
or three animals engaged at a time, until finally the entire herd moved
off to the fresher ground that had not been trodden upon, and began
grazing together as contentedly as if nothing had occurred to disturb
them.
All immediate danger of a stampede having passed, Stallings fired a shot
as a signal for the cowmen to join him. This they did on the gallop.
After a conference, during which each man gave his opinion as to whom
the stray herd belonged to, none recognizing the brand, Stallings made
up his mind what to do.
"You will begin at the lower end and cut out as you go through the herd.
Cut the newcomers to the west, which will be starting them back toward
where they came from, wherever that may be. At the same time while we
cut, we will be moving our cows north, which is the direction in which
we want them to go."
In the meantime Stacy Brown had ridden up. He was sitting disconsolately
on his pony near where the conference was being held, having been
roundly scored by every cowboy in the outfit.
The foreman motioned him to ride over to him.
"Young man, can you carry a message back to camp and get it straight!"
Stacy thought he could.
"Then go back and tell the heathen to pack up his belongings and come
on. There will be no more eating done in this outfit till we have cut
out that new bunch. Tell the driver to be ready to move when he sees us
start. We'll get in a few miles before dark, yet, if we have good luck."
Stacy rode away full of importance to deliver the foreman's order.
Then the cutting out began. Cowboy after cowboy dashed into the herd
coming out usually with his pony pressing against the side of an
unwilling steer and pushing him along in the right direction by main
force.
And here was where the Pony Riders made themselves useful. As an animal
was cut out, the boys would ride in behind it and worry the steer along
until they had gotten it a safe distance to the west of the main herd.
"There's a Diamond D steer in that bunch," Tad informed one of the
cowpunchers as he rushed a big, white steer out.
"Never mind; we'll trim the mixed outfit after we get more of the bunch
out," answered the cowboy, riding back into the herd.
While doing the cutting out the men also drove out the few cattle that
had strayed into the herd earlier in the journey.
For three hours this grilling work had kept up, the perspiring cowboys
yelling, their ponies squealing under the terrific punishment they were
getting from both riders and steers.
But in the excitement of their own work, the Pony Riders had had little
time in which to observe what the cowmen were doing.
Tad thought of a plan by which he might assist them further. So he
galloped his pony over to the edge of the main herd and waited until the
foreman dashed out with two red, fighting steers, which he gave a lively
start on their way to join the mixed herd.
"Mr. Stallings, may I cut back some of the Diamond D animals in the
mixed herd?" he asked.
"Think you can do it, kid?"
"I can try."
"All right. Go ahead. Be careful that you don't turn back any of the
other brands, though. Above all, look out for yourself."
Tad galloped back to his companions, his face flushed, the dust standing
out on his blue shirt, turning it almost gray.
"Keep this herd up, fellows," he shouted. "I'm going to try my hand at
cutting out."
Fortunately, the pony understood what was wanted of it, and, the moment
it had located an animal which it was desired to cut out, the pony went
at the work with a will. Tad, triumphant and warm, rode out driving a
Diamond D steer ahead of him, applying his quirt vigorously to the
animal's rump until he had landed it safely in the ranks of the main
herd.
Again and again had the boy ridden in among the cattle, seemingly taking
no account of the narrow escapes both rider and pony were having from
the sharp horns of the long-legged Mexican cattle.
One big, white fellow gave the lad more trouble than all the rest that
he had cut out, and when once Tad had run him out into the open the
perspiration was dripping from his face.
But his battle was not yet won. The steer, for some reason best known to
itself, did not wish to return to its own herd. It fought every inch of
the way, wearing down pony and rider until they were almost exhausted.
Tad Butler's blood was up, however. He set his jaw stubbornly and
plunged into the work before him.
Bob Stallings, shooting a glance in the boy's direction understood what
he had in hand, for the foreman had made the acquaintance of this same
steer himself, earlier on the drive.
The lad had worried the animal nearly to its own herd, after half an
hour's struggle, when, despite all his efforts, it broke away and dashed
back toward the mixed bunch.
"I'll get him if it's the last thing I ever do," vowed the boy.
A rawhide lariat hung from his saddle bow, and though he had practised
with the rope on other occasions, he did not consider himself an expert
with it. He had watched the cowboys in their use of it and knew how they
threw a cow with the rope.
On the spur of the moment Tad decided to use the lariat.
Lifting it in his right hand and swinging the great loop high above his
head, he dashed up to the running steer, and when near enough to take a
cast, let go of the loop.
It fell over the horns of the white animal as neatly as a cowboy could
have placed it there.
The coil ran out in a flash; yet quick as the boy was, he found himself
unable to take a hitch around the pommel of his saddle with the free
end.
The running steer straightened the rope and Tad shot from his saddle
still clinging desperately to the line.