LEARNING THE ROPES
"What's doing on the ranch this time of year?" asked the boy, when
the last of the hands had departed.
"Nothin', to speak of, right now," answered Harmon. "We run in a
wild bunch about a week ago an' Tex an' Milk River are breakin' about
a dozen head for the remuda. Kid Owens an' McLaurie are ridin' the
range throwin' weak stuff into the hospital bunch, an' Tombstone an'
Canary are pitchin' hay to 'em. Tombstone an' Canary ain't riders,
they're ranch hands."
Connie laughed: "I suppose it will all be perfectly clear to me in a
day or two, but the fact is I don't know much more than I did before
you told me. What is a 'wild bunch' and how do you 'run them in',
and what is a 'remuda?'"
"Why, a wild bunch is a bunch of horses that's runnin' the range an'
ain't be'n broke yet--mares, an' young saddle stock. We run a bunch
of 'em into the corral an' cut out the three-year-olds an' turn the
rest loose. Then we go ahead an' break 'em. The remuda is the
outfit of saddle horses we carry along on the round-up. We use about
a dozen riders on the round-up, an' each one has from eight to a
dozen horses in his string. Some horses gets old, an' some gets
stove up every year, so we have to break new ones every spring to
take their place."
"That's a lot of horses," exclaimed the boy. "The barn don't look
big enough to hold them."
Harmon laughed: "They ain't nothin' kep' in the barn but a few work
horses, an' a drivin' team, an' three or four winter horses apiece.
The rest of 'em's out on the range. We'll start the horse round-up
mebbe to-morrow an' run 'em into the big field an' hay 'em till it's
time for the calf round-up. We aim to pull the wagons about the
tenth of May, soon as the new grass gets strong enough to keep the
horses goin'."
"What do you mean by pulling the wagons? You see, I'm green as
anyone can be."
"The wagons is the round-up. There's the cook wagon, an' the bed
wagon, an' wherever they set up, there's where the round-up camps.
You'll get onto it all pretty quick. I s'pose I'd be the same way if
I was to horn into a gold camp up in Alasky. They's tricks in all
trades, as the feller says, but onct you get onto 'em they're easy as
slidin' off a haystack.
"D'you ever ride any!" asked Harmon, as he pushed back his chair, and
fumbled in his pocket for a toothpick.
"Never was on a horse in my life,"[1] answered the boy, "but I can
learn."
[1] In the northern division of the Mounted in which Connie served
there are no horses--only dogs.
"Sure, you can learn, an' if you'd like to tackle it this afternoon
we can kind of look the place over. I want to ride through the
hospital bunch anyhow an' see how they're comin'."
"I can't learn any younger," smiled the boy. "I'd like to go. My
boots are in my bed-roll, I'll step out and get them."
"They're in yer room," interrupted the cook. "I had Canary carry yer
stuff in."
"While you're gettin' 'em on, I'll rustle you an outfit out of that
bunch of junk in the other room," said Harmon, and when Connie,
teetering unsteadily in his new high heeled boots stepped from his
room he found Harmon in the living room engaged in coiling a rope
which he fastened by a strap to the right side of a big stock saddle.
Picking up a pair of black angora chaparajos, he handed them to
Connie, "Get into these chaps an' here's your spurs."
The boy drew on the chaps, fastened the buckles of his spurs, and
followed Harmon who had picked up the saddle, hung a bridle on the
horn, and with a blanket in his other hand led the way to the stable.
As Connie walked along behind he realized the reason for the
peculiar, shuffling gait he had noticed in the men of the cow
country. It was the high heeled boots that threw them far out of
balance. "I sure would hate to trail very far in these boots," said
the boy as Harmon threw open the stable door.
The foreman laughed: "They ain't meant fer walkin'. A cowhand don't
do no walkin' that he kin git out of. It's plumb redic'lus
sometimes. Why, I've saw a cow puncher chase a cayuse half a mile
around a field a-foot an' ketch him up an' saddle him just to ride
forty rod to where he was goin'."
"But wouldn't it be just as easy to wear something on your feet that
you could walk in, too?"
"'Twouldn't be safe," explained Harmon. "You see, if it wasn't fer
them high heels, if yer horse got to ra'rin', an' pitchin', yer foot
might slip on through yer stirrup, an' then if you got throw'd, er
yer horse went down with you, you'd be hung up an' drug to death,
less'n you was quick enough, an' lucky enough to draw yer gun an'
kill him first. Them high heels stickin' down like they do ketches
on the stirrup an' holds yer foot from slippin' through, an' then
agin, they're handy if yer rope-handlin' stock. You kin sink them
heels into the ground an' hold 'em, instead of bein' drug all around
the corral."
"The more a fellow knocks around," replied the boy, "the sooner he
learns that there's generally a good reason for doing things the way
they are done in different parts of the country. And the quicker he
learns to do them that way the easier he gets along."
"I expect that's right," admitted Harmon. "I ain't never be'n around
none to speak of outside of the cow country. Be'n to Chicago quite a
lot with beef, but I didn't learn nothin' of no account, except that
it's Gosh Almighty lonesome, an' a long ways back to the open range."
Harmon led the way into the barn where a long row of horses stood
munching hay in their stalls. "These is the winter saddle horses,"
he explained. "The work horses an' drivin' team is in that other
alley. The rest of the horses is out on the range. We keep four
apiece of our top horses up an' grain 'em in winter. They's quite a
lot of winter ridin', what with ridin' fences, an' throwin' stock
onto water, an' keepin' 'em from pilin' up agin' the fences in a
blizzard, an' throwin' the weak stuff in on hay." He paused behind a
coal black horse, and blanket in hand, entered the stall. "Whoa,
Nigger!" he soothed, as the horse, stepped about restlessly. Connie
watched with interest as the man, talking all the time, and avoiding
any quick motions placed the blanket upon the horse's back and
smoothed it into place.
"You've got to take it easy with these here cayuses," he explained.
"Nigger, here, he's plumb gentle, an' so is most all of these winter
horses, but they git excited easy unless they're handled right."
Picking up the saddle he threw a stirrup and the cinch back over the
seat, swung it to the horse's back, and fitting it upon the blanket,
pushed the seat clear, and reaching beneath the horse's belly caught
the cinch ring and drew it into place, explaining to the boy the use
of the patent buckle that has superceded the old fashioned
four-in-hand cinch knot which passed into the discards along with the
double rig saddle.
After bridling the horse, the foreman backed him out of the stall and
led him out the door where he dropped the reins and entering the
barn, reappeared a moment later with a bay horse which he led by the
halter to a point near the corral fence where his own outfit lay.
"Won't Nigger get away?" asked Connie, as the man proceeded to saddle
his own mount.
"No, they're broke to stand when the reins is dropped. 'Tyin' 'em to
the ground,' we call it, an' they'll stand that way when they'd bust
a pair of reins if they was tied to a fence or post." Placing his
knee against the bay horse's side, the man pulled on the latigo strap
with all his might: "Quit that, you old son-of-a-gun!" he cried, and
a moment later turned to Connie with a grin: "You got to watch out
fer that trick," he warned, "about half the cayuses git wise to it.
They swell up on you when yer cinchin' 'em, then when you git on yer
cinch is loose, an' yer blanket works back, an' first thing you know
you've got a galded horse. It's loose-cinches, not tight ones that
hurts horses, an' men, too. 'Cause sometimes it's loose enough so
the saddle turns." The man led his horse over beside the black.
"These horses is gentle so you could climb up onto 'em anyway," he
said, "but they's plenty of 'em in the remuda that ain't, so you
might's well learn how to git on an' off. Watch me." The man swung
lightly into the saddle and back to the ground. "See how it works.
It's the easiest way with gentle horses--an' the only way with bad
ones. Always go to a horse's head an' git on from in front, and
always on the left side. Take yer bridle reins in yer left hand, an'
ketch 'em up short agin the horse's mane. With a real bad horse you
grab the cheek strap along with the reins to keep him from rar'in
away from you. Turn yer stirrup around with yer right hand an' stick
yer left foot in it. Grab the horn with yer right hand, an' swing
on. When you git a little practice, the worse a horse jerks back,
an' rar's, the quicker he lands you in the saddle. Gittin' off, you
swing right back the way you got on. Don't never try to git on or
off on the right hand side. The horses ain't broke for it, an' you
might git hurt." Connie followed the directions and was surprised
with the ease with which he swung into the saddle. Harmon nodded
approval, and mounting, led the way down the creek. "You'll soon git
on to the ridin' part," he said. "The main thing is to save yer
horse all you kin. Ride on yer stirrups, an' you won't pound his
back to pieces. An' ride with a loose rein, onless you've got a
pitchin' horse. Then you got to keep him from sinkin' his head.
[Illustration: 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]
"These is the hay fields," explained the foreman, as he fastened a
wire gate behind him, "they's four of 'em on the crick under ditches
that's in alfalfa, an' then we cut wild hay in the coulees. We aim
to put up around five or six hundred ton a year, that winters the
work horses an' the winter saddle stock an' feeds the hospital stuff.
This here is what we call the 'big pasture.' That's where we run the
weak stuff in to feed 'em. There's the boys now pitchin' hay to
'em." They rode up to where Canary and Tombstone were pitching hay
from a wagon that was kept constantly in motion so that the cattle
feeding behind the wagon were strung out in a long line. "Feed 'em
that way so they clean it all up," explained the foreman. "If yer
throw'd it in piles they'd git to crowdin', an' tromp a lot of it
into the ground, an' the weak ones wouldn't git none. This is what
we call the hospital bunch, old cows, an' some yearlin's that didn't
winter through good on the range, an' some cows that's near to the
calvin'. We generally got three or four hundred head in here along
to'ards spring. The boys ride the range an' throws in the weak
stuff, an' rides the pasture an' throws out them that's picked up on
the hay. We'll swing out the west gate here an' up onto the bench.
We kin pull over onto the shoulder of that there butte an' git a good
look over the country. I kin show you from there just what yer up
against. I s'pose you know that the Round Seven is a losin' game?"
"Yes," answered Connie, as the horses travelled side by side up a
coulee that led to the bench. "That's what I came down here for--to
find out what's the matter. Kobuk Jack said it ought to pay, and pay
big."
"Who?"
"Why, Kobuk Jack--Jack Wilson, you called him down here--the man we
bought out."
"Oh, he did, eh? Well, _he_ didn't make it pay!" The man was
looking straight ahead, and glancing side wise, Connie saw that his
eyes had narrowed in evident anger. The next moment, however he was
smiling as he turned toward the boy. "This Wilson, he didn't savvy
the cattle business. But, at that, he's right about the outfit ort
to pay. Only it's goin' to cost an all-fired lot of money to make it
pay."
"What's the matter with it?"
"Well, they's quite a lot the matter. First off, there's the nesters
that's come in an' fenced off the water. Birch Crick an' Eagle,
below the Round Seven, an' Beaver is gittin' pretty well fenced.
These here nesters would all have to be bought out, an' they're all
holdin' high. Then, we generally finish off our beef stuff on the
Injun Reservation, an' the Injuns kills a lot of 'em."
"Don't the Round Seven pay for pasturing on the Reservation?'
"Sure. Fifty cents a head."
"Why don't you collect damages, then, for the cattle the Indians
kill?"
"You can't collect no damages agin' the Government," answered Harmon.
"You can't, eh?" answered the boy, "guess I'll just look over that
contract this evening."
Harmon squirmed uneasily in his saddle: "We never had no contract
wrote out," he said. "We jest paid over the money an' turned in the
beef."
"Who did you pay it to?"
"Major Hogan, the Injun Agent."
"Did you get a receipt?"
"No. They ain't no use of a receipt. Hogan, he ain't a-goin' to
claim we didn't pay him. An' that's all there is to it."
"How about the calves?" asked the boy, changing the subject abruptly.
"I understand the Round Seven isn't branding the number of calves it
ought to."
"Who says so?" asked Harmon, his eyes once more narrowing.
"Kobuk Jack did."
[Illustration: 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]
[Illustration: ... Then froze in his tracks as he found himself
staring into the muzzle of the boy's service revolver]
"Look a-here, boss. I told you Wilson didn't know nothin' about
cattle. If he says we ain't brandin' enough calves he's off. He
didn't pay no attention to the ranch, nohow. He'd ruther be off in
the bad lands peckin' away at the rocks than stick around the outfit.
I done all the runnin' of the ranch, an' I know the cow business, an'
I'm tellin' you we brand all the calves that we git, except mebbe a
few that the sage brushers git."
"Who are the sage brushers?"
"Oh, a few rustlers that slips around through the sage brush an' dobs
their rope on a calf now an' then. They git away with some stuff,
all right, but you can't ketch 'em at it. They're pretty slick when
it comes to calf stealin'."
They had reached the high elevation that gave a view of Eagle Creek
and its feeders for miles. Harmon pointed out half a dozen small
outfits: "There's what's on Eagle," he said, "part cattle, an' part
sheep. An' there's more on the other cricks. Do you think you've
got the money to buy 'em out?"
The boy thought that he detected just a note of eagerness in the
man's words, and that the eyes that regarded him hinted at suppressed
anxiety. He thought rapidly and after some moments' delay during
which he pretended to be studying the various outfits, he answered.
"Yes I've got the money to buy out a hundred such outfits. By this
time next year you won't see any of them there."
There was no mistaking the genuine exultation in the other's reply:
"Well then, the Round Seven had ort to pick up considerable. It's
them nesters that's be'n crampin' it down. But, you better let me do
yer dickerin' fer you. If they know'd you've got the money to buy
'em out, they'll shove up the price on you. They know they can't put
over no monkey business on me, an' they know better'n to try it.
I'll stay along till fall so's to see you git all straightened out.
I aimed to quit this spring. Facts is, I've got me a little outfit
together over on Shonkin an' it's gittin' to where they's a livin' in
it without me workin' fer wages no more. But I got a man over there
that kin look after it all right till fall, and then you kin git
along without me, 'cause I'll kind of break in Kid Owens fer to take
my place."
"Thanks," answered Connie, "I hope you will stay, and I think we'll
locate the trouble with the Round Seven long before fall."
During the homeward ride Connie was aware that more than once the
foreman's eyes were fixed upon him in a keen, sidewise glance.