[Frontispiece: The whole remuda swept on up the bench and into the
Valley]
CONNIE MORGAN
IN THE
CATTLE COUNTRY
By
JAMES B. HENDRYX
AUTHOR OF "CONNIE MORGAN IN ALASKA," ETC.
[Illustration: title page vignette]
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PAINTINGS
BY
FRANK E. SCHOONOVER
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1923
Copyright, 1923
by
James B. Hendryx
Made in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.--WASECHE BILL TELLS A STORY
II.--KOBUK JACK
III.--TWO DOT TOWNSEND
IV.--BOB HARMON
V.--AT THE ROUND SEVEN
VI.--LEARNING THE ROPES
VII.--CONNIE MEETS A NEIGHBOR
VIII.--TEX
IX.--HARMON TALKS
X.--LEFT HANDED BRANDING IRONS
XI.--THE WAGONS ROLL
XII.--HARMON SHOWS HIS HAND
XIII.--THE SAGE BRUSH CORRAL
XIV.--THE "GREENNESS" OF CONNIE MORGAN
XV.--I. W. W.
XVI.--FIRE
XVII.--IN THE BAD LANDS
XVIII.--THE OUTLAW
XIX.--AT THE AGENCY
XX.--CONNIE CALLS A BLUFF
XXI.--THE COWBOYS HELP OUT
XXII.--A RIDING JOB
XXIII.--CONNIE LISTENS TO A PROPOSITION
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE WHOLE REMUDA SWEPT ON UP THE BENCH AND INTO THE VALLEY ...
_Frontispiece_
"AN' I KEPT A-GOIN' TILL IT PETERED OUT, AN' I WAS LOST"
AS THEY PASSED ALONG THE STREET CONNIE TOOK IN THE DETAILS OF THE
LITTLE COW TOWN
CONNIE FOUND HIMSELF HOLDING ON FOR DEAR LIFE AS THE WHEELS WOULD
DROP SUDDENLY INTO A BOTTOMLESS CHUCK HOLE AND EMERGE, DROPPING HUGE
CHUNKS OF GRAY ALKALI MUD
THE SHEEPMAN EYED HIM WITH A HOSTILE GLARE. "WHY DIDN'T YOU RIDE
RIGHT THROUGH 'EM?" HE ASKED
A MOMENT LATER THE MUZZLES OF FOUR RIFLES WERE THRUST THROUGH FOUR
APERTURES IN THE SAGEBRUSH THAT WAS LOOSELY WOVEN BETWEEN THE WIRES
OF THE FENCE
HARMON'S FACE WAS GHASTLY PALE AS HE ELEVATED BOTH HANDS HIGH ABOVE
HIS HEAD
... THEN FROZE IN HIS TRACKS AS HE FOUND HIMSELF STARING INTO THE
MUZZLE OF THE BOY'S SERVICE REVOLVER
Connie Morgan in the Cattle Country
CHAPTER I
WASECHE BILL TELLS A STORY
"This little cabin sure looks good to me," smiled Connie Morgan on
the evening of his hasty return from the Mackenzie River country, as
he and Waseche Bill settled themselves comfortably in front of the
little stove. "No matter where I am, or what I'm doing, I always
think of this little cabin on Ten Bow. It makes a fellow feel good
just to know it's here, and you're here, and I can come back any time
I want to." The boy paused and glanced affectionately at his big
partner, who was smiling behind the bowl of his black pipe. "It
isn't that I don't like the trail," he added quickly, "because I
do--and the longer the trail, the better I like it. And I like to
have something to do that takes me into places I never have been
before--and I like to tackle jobs I have never tackled before--just
to see if I can do them. But, all the same, I always want to know
that this cabin is right here just as it was when we built it. I'll
tell you what it is--it's _home_. A fellow likes to know he's got a
home, no matter where the trail takes him--and this is home for us.
And, say, Waseche, you won't ever tear it down while I'm away
somewhere, will you? I'd rather have it just the way it is than have
the biggest house in the world."
"Sho', now, son," the voice of Waseche Bill rumbled from behind a
cloud of blue tobacco smoke, "sho', now. That's plumb foolishness."
"Oh, it is, is it?" flashed the boy. "Well then, you tell me why
that big flume runs along the other bank of the creek instead of this
bank?"
"The big flume? Why it runs down the crick to carry water to the
sluices, of co'se."
"But," persisted the boy, "why does it run along the other side of
the creek instead of this side?"
"Cain's the engineer of this here outfit." grinned the man. "I
reckon it's on the other side 'cause Cain built it there."
Connie laughed: "You're a big bluffer, Waseche! Don't you suppose I
know you love this cabin just as much as I do? Anyone with any sense
could see that that flume could have been built along this bank with
half the work it took to build it there. I asked Cain when I came
back from the lumber woods, and he told me all about it. He said
that when you looked at the blue print, and found out that this cabin
would have to be torn down to make way for the flume, you told him to
put it on the other side, no matter how much it cost--so there!"
"H-u-m-m," grinned Waseche Bill, "Cain's plumb gabby, ain't he? But,
son, you don't need to worry about this here cabin. It's the onliest
home I ever had since befo' I kin remember. An' Cain's got his
orders about leavin' it where it's at. I told him if the sills was
restin' on a solid chunk of gold, the gold could lay there till the
last log rotted an' the roof caved in. It's all foolishness,
that-a-way, but--shucks! Gold ain't everything!"
"Well, now I'm here," said the boy, "tell me about that scrap we're
going to have with that outfit from the States."
"We ain't goin' to have none," answered Waseche Bill, laconically.
"You don't mean you're figuring on selling out?" cried the boy.
"No--only jest, we stay where we're at--an' so do they."
Connie laughed: "How did you work it, Waseche?"
"Who, me? Why, I didn't do nothin', except tell 'em they'd have to
wait till my pardner come back. They was five of 'em in the outfit
an' they stayed at the hotel. The boys kind of got to inquirin'
around what they were doin' here, an' I told 'em they was aimin' fer
to drive me an' you out of the country. The next night Black Jack
Demeree, an' MacDougal, an' Dutch Henry, an' a lot more of the
sourdoughs called a miner's meetin'. I didn't go to it. But, next
day the outfit pulled out. Seems like the boys sent out an' brung
these here fellows in on a snowshoe warrant, an' they was speeches
made by some considerable of the boys. I don't know jest what they
said, but after they'd got through, the head man of the outfit gets
up an' he says how they'd decided not to locate on Ten Bow--that the
formation wasn't just right to suit 'em, or the water, or
somethin'--anyways, they pulled out--an' from what I heard, I ain't
lookin' for 'em back." Waseche paused to fill his pipe, and Connie
smiled to himself as he pictured the scene in the miner's meeting. A
lump rose in his throat as he wondered what the sourdoughs had
said--those big men of the North, who were his friends, and the
friends of Waseche Bill.
Waseche tossed a burnt match into the wood box and his brow puckered
as he puffed at his pipe. "They's another matter that's pesterin' me
now," he said. "Seems like I'm, somehow, always a-gettin' into
somethin' that I ain't got no business into, like that there timber
deal down in Minnesota."
"We made good money out of it," reminded the boy.
"Yes, but we wouldn't if it hadn't be'n fer you goin' down there an'
runnin' the thing. An' besides, we ain't got to make money, nohow.
We got more comin' in right now out of the gravel here on Ten Bow
than we know what to do with--an' that's where the trouble comes in."
"Sure we have," agreed the boy, quickly. "But, there's no fun in
that. It was a game--and a big one, while we were getting a start.
But, now we've got things going, there isn't any fun in just sitting
down and weighing the dust. Do you know, in a way, I'm kind of sorry
those fellows quit. It would have been fun fighting them. But,
what's this new thing that's bothering you?"
Waseche Bill ran his fingers through his hair, and regarded the boy
gravely. "Well, it's this-a-way: Me an' you is in the cattle
business."
"The cattle business!" cried Connie, in surprise. "The cattle
business up here! Why there isn't grass enough on Ten Bow to keep a
caribou in the summer time--and what'll they do in winter?"
"This here cattle business ain't on Ten Bow. It ain't even in
Alaska. It's in Montana."
Connie grinned. "Another job for me. When do I start?"
Waseche shook his head: "No, son, I don't reckon this here is any job
fer you. You don't savvy the cattle business no more than Kobuk Jack
did, an' it would git you."
"Maybe it would, and maybe it wouldn't," retorted the boy. "Anyway,
I'm going to give it a chance to get me. I didn't know anything
about the timber business either, when I tackled that Minnesota job,
but it didn't take me long to learn----"
"That was sort of different," interposed Waseche Bill. "These here
cowboys--I've heard tell about 'em--is plumb riotorous an' lawless to
the extent which they ain't none regardful of human life whatever.
They all pack guns, an' when they meet up they begin shootin' at one
another, same like in this country we say _klahowya six_, or good
mornin'."
Connie laughed: "I guess they're not as bad as all that. Dan
McKeever has had a lot of experience with 'em down on the border, and
he likes 'em. Of course there's good ones and bad ones among them
the same as anyone else--and as for packing guns--I've got a Service
revolver there that's just as good as any man's gun--and a little
better than most. But loosen up and tell me something about this
cattle deal. How did we get mixed up in it? And who is Kobuk Jack?'
"Well, it's this-a-way," began Waseche tilting his chair against the
log wall, and stretching his long legs straight out before him. "One
time, a good many years before the big stampede, when I was nothin'
but a _chechako_, I outfitted at Nulato an' headed North, not havin'
no more idea what I was goin' up against, than a baby. Well, I kep'
to the Koyukuk till I hit Hog River an' then headed up that, an' I
kep' a-goin' till it petered out, an' I was lost. It was gittin'
right into the shank of the winter. The days was gittin' shorter an'
the nights longer, till the time come when I got sunrise an' sunset
in one eyeful, an' the next day, an' for many a day after, they
wasn't neither one. The snow was so deep an' soft that I couldn't
make no time trailin' an' then my grub got to runnin' low. I was up
against it--good an' strong. But I kep' pluggin'. If I made four or
five miles a day I done well. The strong cold was on--forty an'
fifty, an' even sixty below, an' when the cold would let up it snowed
some more. Then I done it, the only time I ever done it--I killed a
dog, an' for three days I lived off him an' fed the rest of the dogs.
I had built a kind of a Siwash camp out of brush an' spruce saplin's
'cause I was too weak to trail through that snow. An' anyway, bein'
as I didn't know where I was headin', one place was as good as
another--an' that means that all places was the worst they could be.
"Me an' the dogs finished the one I'd killed an' I was about to kill
another, when sudden like, a voice speaks out hearty an' plain right
behind me. 'Hold on, brother,' it said. 'Dogs pull better with the
hide on!'
"I whirled around quick, not expectin' really to see no one. I
thought it was--the end--that the voice was in my own brain. But,
sure enough, there he stood, rearin' up as big as two men in the
gloom--Kobuk Jack! Course I didn't know who he was--an' I didn't
care. He was a human man, an' his outfit bulged on top of his
toboggan. I couldn't say nothin'. Jest stood there an' gawped.
"Kobuk, he looked me over thorough, an' my empty sled, an' the skull
of the dog that had be'n boiled fer soup till there wasn't a bite fer
a no-see-em left on it, an' then he grinned. 'I'm Kobuk Jack,' he
announced, abrupt, 'an' you're the doggondest fool of a _chechako_
that's be'n invented. Where you headin'? An' what business you got
up here in a man's country? Why ain't you back on the Yukon where
you kin set comfortable an' spit on the stove of nights?'
"'I guess you've got me right, Kobuk,' I managin' to return his grin,
although my eyes wouldn't stay off that bulgin' load on his toboggan.
'By way of handier designation, though,' I says, 'folks call me
Waseche Bill. I headed up here after gold. I got lost an' my grub
run out, an' I'd give a pretty to be back on the Yukon spittin' on a
stove.'
"Kobuk, he laughed, an' the next minute he was unharnessin' his dogs,
an' in no time he had a meal of vittles cooked which was far an' away
the best meal I ever et, or ever will. When it was finished Kobuk
an' me smoked up, an' Kobuk he further orates, 'I run onto yer trail
back yonder,' he says, 'an' I know'd you was a _chechako_ 'cause you
had a sled instead of a toboggan in this here soft snow country. An'
I seen by the signs how you was about all in. So I swung in behind,
knowin' I wouldn't have far to go. I passed over more than a week of
your trail in four hours--that's the difference between knowin'
how--an' not knowin'. You was a fool to head North. So was I four
years ago--but I did. I come about as near cashin' in as you did.
An Injun found me. But, I ain't afraid of the country now. I've
learned it--an' I hate it. I've got a camp up on the Kobuk, about a
hundred miles from here, an' I'm takin' out considerable better than
wages. Spite of you bein' a fool _chechako_, I like you. It's just
such fools as you an' me that gits what they're after in the long
run--pervided the snow an' the strong cold don't git us first.
You're goin' along with me, an' we'll go pardners in my outfit on the
Kobuk, an' if we stay with it, sometime we're goin' to make a strike.'
"He wouldn't have it no other way, an' so I throw'd in with Kobuk
Jack, an' he was some man. We gouged the gravel together for a year,
Kobuk always claimin' we'd strike it big--always hatin' the country,
an' declarin' when he struck it he was a-goin' down to Montana an'
buy him a cattle outfit an' live like a king where they have daylight
the year around, an' twenty below zero was called a cold spell.
"When the year was out, I'd had enough of the Kobuk country. I
couldn't see it like Kobuk Jack that there was a big strike ahead, so
I pulled out an' drifted back to the Yukon camps an' fer a couple of
years I worked fer wages, an' prospected, an' just about come out
even.
"I was at Nulato when Kobuk came out with his stake. It wouldn't
stack up big along with the Klondike or the Nome strikes. But she
was big fer them days, couple hundred thousan' or so, an' Kobuk
wanted me to go with him to Montana an' go into the cattle business.
But I wouldn't an' then he wanted me to take a bunch of his dust, but
I wouldn't do that, neither.
"A stampede started fer the Kobuk, but I didn't go--I'd had enough.
After Kobuk had be'n gone a week, the storekeeper sends fer me one
day an' hands me a buckskin sack that's heavy with dust. 'Kobuk Jack
told me to give you this, fer a grub stake,' he says, 'An' he says
he's gone fer good, an' you can't refuse it, 'cause he made me
promise if you wouldn't take it, I'm to throw it in the river where
no one kin find it.' I took it, bein' as it wasn't no use havin' it
throw'd in the river, an' that's the last I ever seen or heerd of
Kobuk Jack till a month ago, when all at once, he stepped through the
door of the office, yonder. He'd aged some, but I know'd him the
minute I clapped eyes on him, an' he was the same Kobuk as ever,
rough talkin', but hearty an' pure gold clean through. I could see,
though, he seemed kind of worried about somethin' er other, so I
called it a day an' shut up the office, an' we come on over here, an'
Kobuk, he cooked dinner, same as he used to, an' after we done the
dishes an' hung up the rag, we smoked up."