THE WAGONS ROLL
It was quite an imposing calvacade that pulled out of the Round Seven
home ranch a week later, and struck westward, skirting the bad lands.
Breakfast had been eaten by lamplight, and in the first grey of dawn
the boys had harnessed the work horses to the wagons, roped out their
saddle horses and mounted amid yells of encouragement and banter for
those whose horses "sunk their heads."
Harmon had designated the fork of a certain creek some ten miles away
as the location of the first camp of the round-up. Kid Owens acting
as "pilot" pulled out ahead, closely followed by the remuda,
consisting of one hundred and fifteen saddle horses, and twelve extra
wagon horses, in charge of Milk River Bill and a full blooded Gros
Ventre Indian, named Roy Longknife, who had been hired as day
wrangler. Behind the remuda rode Harmon and Connie and ten cowboys.
And following them came the grub wagon, with Walt Jones, the cook, on
the seat, handling the six restive horses with the air of a circus
band-wagon driver. The bed wagon brought up the rear. This, also,
was a six-horse wagon, which contained the tents and was piled high
with the ponderous bed rolls of the cowboys. The "night hawk," as
the night remuda herder is called, drove this wagon. He was a Brule
Sioux breed named Sam Shanto and he handled his plunging six-team
with an air of bored indifference, a limp cigarette hanging from the
corner of his mouth.
On the rim of Eagle Creek valley Harmon pulled up and the riders
gathered about him. "All right, boys," he cried, "we're off! Gather
all cows an' calves, an' everything you run onto that ain't branded.
You all know where the wagons will be camped at the fork of Dry Box
Elder. Alex, you take five of 'em with you an' circle along the edge
of the mountains, drop off a couple of riders every three or four
miles, an' I'll take the rest an' circle south along the bad lands.
Try to get in by ten-thirty, so we kin work herd, an' make a good
sized circle this afternoon."
"How about nester stuff?" asked a new man.
"Shove everything that wears a nester's brand on ahead of you,"
ordered Harmon. "This outfit scatters nester stock as wide as it
kin."
Connie wanted to countermand the order, but fearing that any
interference with the foreman at this time would upset the plans of
Tex, who true to his prediction had been left at the ranch, he
remained silent.
The boy rode beside Harmon, who swung toward the bad lands with his
half of the riders. And as they rode the foreman explained the
working of the round-up. "We drop off a couple of riders every few
miles, an' they work the range between them an' the wagons, gatherin'
all the cows an' calves. We don't bother the beef stuff on the
spring round-up. When they git in with their stuff some of 'em holds
herd--ridin' around 'em to keep 'em bunched, an' some rides through
the bunch ropin' out the calves by the hind legs an' draggin' 'em to
the fire where they're branded. When the herd is all worked, they're
turned loose an' the afternoon circle starts. There's two circles a
day, an' two herds to work, then next mornin' the outfit moves on ten
or twelve miles an' the same thing all over again. They's more work
to the calf round-up than there is to the beef round-up, but there
ain't no night guard to stand because we don't hold nothin' over
night."
After the last two men had been dropped off, Harmon and Connie
continued on for three miles or more and then swung northward.
"You see," explained Harmon, "We're right now just about due south of
where the wagons is camped. We head north, with what we gather.
Alex, he'll be just about due north of the wagons, an' he'll head
south with his stuff. The other boys will gather everything between,
so you see the range east of the wagons has all be'n worked."
"I see," said the boy. "But, why don't you drop the boys off one at
a time? I should think you could cover more ground that way."
"We could cover more ground, all right. But cow-hands always work in
pairs on circle. One man can't handle stuff to do any good.
Sometimes a cow gits on the prod an' one man can't do nothin' with
her, an' then when he'd git quite a bunch gathered an' they'd start
breakin' back, he couldn't handle 'em. It takes two men, an' even
then sometimes they've got their hands full."
Connie and Harmon were the last ones in, and as they shoved their
thirty cows, each followed by a young calf into the herd, the cook
called dinner. Leaving four men on herd, the boys all raced their
horses for the wagon, where they unsaddled in an incredibly short
time and turned their horses into the rope corral where the wrangler
was holding the remuda. Selecting tin plates, cups, knives, forks,
and spoons, from a huge dish-pan, the boys formed in line and passed
by the huge sheet iron stove where Walt Jones, roll-sleeved, and
bedecked in a flour-sack apron, filled each plate to overflowing with
fresh beef, potatoes, and canned corn. Each man filled his own cup
from the huge coffee pot that was boiling on the back of the stove,
and then seating himself on the ground, proceeded to put the
well-cooked dinner where it would do the most good. A huge section
of dried apple pie completed the meal, and depositing the dirty
dishes in another huge dish-pan the boys walked to their saddles,
procured their ropes, and stepping over the single rope supported on
stakes, that formed the "fence" of the corral, proceeded to rope out
their horses. A half dozen caught up "cut horses," trained
cow-ponies wise in the tricks of herd working, while the remainder
selected any horse from their string that their fancy dictated.
Milk River Bill, who rode the "rough string," which was made up of
the new horses just broken by himself and Tex, furnished much
entertainment, by roping out and saddling a particularly vicious
broncho which as soon as the rider was in the saddle cut loose and
bucked high, wide, and handsome, to the huge delight of all hands.
Milk River was a real "broncho twister," and Connie found himself
yelling approbation with the others as the man, with the ease of long
practice, maintained his seat while the maddened horses "sunfished,"
"swapped ends," and bucked and pitched with every trick in the box.
Calmly the cowboy sat his saddle and each time the horse's feet hit
the ground with the nasty stiff-legged jolt, the quirt descended
about his ears, first on one side, then on the other, while the spurs
raked and scratched him from shoulder to flank. Not once during the
performance did Milk River reach for the horn, and finally,
exhausted, and steaming with sweat the broncho gave up, and trotting
clumsily under the strange weight on his back, he followed the other
horses to the herd.
It was not a large herd, and by noon the branding was finished and
the cattle turned loose, a milling, roaring, horde of bellowing cows
hunting for their calves from which they had become separated in the
mix-up, and of bawling calves searching for their mothers.
Again the wrangler corraled the remuda, and once more the cowboys
changed horses for the afternoon circle. At half-past four the new
herd was in, consisting of all stock picked up from the range within
five or six miles to the westward of the wagons. Supper was eaten at
quarter to five, and the herd worked afterward. It was during the
working of this afternoon herd that Connie witnessed an incident, by
no means uncommon on the round-up, that showed the absolute necessity
for alertness and quick action in the handling of range stock. In
making a pivot turn, a cow pony went down among the feet of the
milling, frenzied herd of cows. The moment man and horse
disappeared, two riders dashed at top speed for the spot, slashing
right and left with their quirts, and forcing their horses through
the mass of cattle. A moment later one of the horses whirled and
dashed out of the herd, and Connie saw that the cowboy whose horse
had gone down was running beside the horse, with a hand gripping the
stirrup leather. So fast was the rider urging his horse, that the
man running beside him had all he could do to keep his feet. The
next instant a roar of laughter went up from a dozen throats, as the
rider, well clear of the herd, suddenly swerved his horse, and the
unfortunate runner, not letting go in time, rolled heels over head
across the buffalo grass to the accompaniment of the jeers and jibes
of his fellows. Connie laughed with the rest, but wondered at the
spirit of fun that would prompt a man to risk life and limb to rescue
a comrade from the hoofs and horns of the maddened cattle, and then
seek to break the rescued one's neck by sending him rolling end over
end across the bench. But the man got up laughing as hard as the
rest, and brushing the grass from his hair chaps, he mounted his
horse that had been led from the herd by the second of the two riders
who had rushed to his aid, and mounting, resumed his work as though
nothing had happened.
At eight o'clock in the evening, another meal was served, called
"cocktail lunch" for want of another name, and after that the remuda
was turned over to the "night hawk," and the outfit went to bed.
Four o'clock in the morning found them at breakfast, and a half hour
later, while it was yet too dark for Connie to distinguish one horse
from another, the cowboys were in the corral, roping out their saddle
horses with unfailing accuracy.
"I don't see how they can pick out their own horses in the dark," he
said, as he stood beside the boss who, rope in hand, was waiting his
turn in the corral.
"They save the markers for mornin' circle," explained the boss. "You
notice they ain't none of 'em leadin' out solid color horses. They
save the bays, an' blacks, an' sorrels, an' greys for afternoon
circle, an' herd holdin'. See that horse comin' out? He's got two
white legs, an' the one Kid is saddlin' yonder, is a blaze-face, an'
Milk River has caught him up a pinto with a big spot on his side, an'
Alex is saddlin' a roach mane cayuse, an' that's the way it goes,
each one pickin' him out a horse that's marked plain enough to tell
in the dark. I'll rope you out one, now--there's one of yourn." The
boss slipped under the rope and flipped his lariat loop over the neck
of a bay. "See, he's got three white feet--that's how I know'd him,
he's a marker."
Connie rode with the foreman that day, and for several days
following, and as he rode he took pains to absorb every possible
detail of the cattle business as it presented itself. He learned the
nester brands, and the brands of the other big outfits--no small task
when some of these outfits like the Bear Paw Pool, and the PU ran
from fifty to one hundred brands each.
"What in thunder do they want so many brands for?" he asked Harmon
one day when they ran across a freshly branded PU calf following a
Block-Dot cow.
"Them big outfits is built up out of a lot of smaller ones,"
explained the boss. "They buy up some little outfit, an' then
instead of going to the trouble of ventin' the brands an' brandin'
'em over, they buy brand an' all an' let the old stuff run with the
little outfit's brand, but they brand all the calves with their own
brand. After a few years the old brands naturally peter out--the
beef gets shipped, an' the old cows dies, an' the young stuff all
wears PU brands. But in the meantime it sure gives their riders
somethin' to do keeping all them brands in their head."
Some days Connie would not ride circle, but saddling a horse would
take a long ride alone. And it was on one of these rides that he
made the acquaintance of another of his neighbors.
In a dry coulee he had run across a dozen or more K-2 cattle. The
K-2 brand belonged to Mike Campbell, and the Round Seven boys, under
Harmon's orders, had been pushing them farther and farther from home
as they encountered them on the range. Campbell was one of the
nesters of which Grey, the sheep-man, had told him, and the boy
headed them back and shoved them four or five miles toward home. As
he rounded a bend in a creek-bed he was following he came face to
face with a rider. The man pulled up, eyed the cattle indifferently,
as they passed him, and as Connie halted his horse beside him,
returned the boy's greeting with a nod, threw an overall-clad leg
over the horn of his saddle, and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
"Sort of shovin' them critters the wrong way, ain't you?" he asked
blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.
Connie grinned: "What makes you think so?" he countered.
"Well, you're forkin' a Round Seven horse--an' Round Seven shoves K-2
stuff _out_, not _in_. Or, mebbe you got turned around. Sort of
figgerin' west fer east?'
"No--I don't get turned around," answered the boy. "But, what do you
care which way the Round Seven shoves K-2 cattle?"
"It sort of makes a little difference in the ridin' I've got to do,"
answered the man dryly. "My name's Campbell--Mike Campbell, over on
Beaver, an' the K-2 belongs to me."
"And mine's Morgan--Connie Morgan, over on Eagle, and the Round Seven
belongs to me."
"I mistrusted that's who you was," replied the man, gravely. "Grey
told me about you buyin' the outfit. Then, it's true--what Grey
said?"
"Depends on what he said," laughed the boy.
"He said that you was jest a kid, but when you got strung out, he
reckoned you'd kind of change things over to the Round Seven. He
said you was goin' after certain parties that has be'n playin' the
game both ways from the middle, an' that when the smoke blow'd away
us little fellows would git a square deal from the Round Seven."
"Grey told it to you straight," answered the boy. "For a little
while yet your cattle keep on getting shoved _out_. Those are the
foreman's orders, and I've got good reason for not interfering with
him till the proper time comes. After that, the order will be
reversed, and the Round Seven will throw nester cattle in--and
anything else the Round Seven can do to help you, it will be glad to
do. There's plenty of room here for all of us, and life's too short
to be fighting over nothing."
"You said a mouthful, Morgan," the man replied, "I didn't hardly dast
to believe Grey when he told me. It'll make a lot of difference to
us little fellows to be good friends with the Round Seven. An'
they's ways we kin kind of show we 'preciate it." The man glanced
about him, his eyes sweeping the rim of the valley. "If your good
reason you was speakin' about a while back has got somethin' to do
with a sage brush corral, down clost to the Mizoo, mebbe I kin start
in doin' you a good turn previous to the smoke blowin' away. Facts
is, I might git in an' help make some of the smoke, if you say so."
"You bet I say so!" exclaimed the boy. "But, what do you know about
the sage brush corral?"
"I know where it's at--that's all. Me an' Samuels found it two year
ago, an' we've watched Harmon slap his own brand on Round Seven
calves down there. 'Count of it's bein' dog eat dog, far as we was
concerned, we never said nothin', but sometime we aimed to turn what
we knew to account."
"And now's the time!" cried the boy. "We'll be down there with the
wagons in a few days, and Harmon will start to work his game--then we
will get busy." He paused, and then asked abruptly: "Do you know
Tex?"
"What Tex? You mean the one that rides fer the Round Seven?'
"Yes."
"Sure, I know him."
"Well, he's at the ranch looking after the hospital bunch. You slip
over there and tell him what you've told me, and when the time comes
we'll gather in the Harmon gang with the goods on 'em."
"This here Tex," said the man. "You sure he's on the level? You
sure he won't go to Harmon an' spill what he knows?'
"Dead sure," answered the boy. "He's going to be the new foreman of
the Round Seven. He's absolutely on the square, and you can save us
a lot of time in rounding up the cattle thieves, because we figured
we'd have to hunt for the corral. You see, Tex was onto their game,
but he didn't know the location of the corral."
"All right, Morgan--you can count me in--me an' Samuels, an' Grey.
It'll sure feel good to be livin' onct more amongst white men!"