IN THE BAD LANDS
"What's the next thing on the program?" asked Connie Morgan, as he
seated himself on the top rail of the horse corral beside Tex, the
day after the fight in the bunk house. In the corral three cowboys
were trying to saddle a three-year-old that had been retained with
half dozen others out of a bunch of twenty odd head of horses that
had been picked up off the range.
"Well," answered the foreman of the Round Seven, "There's quite a
heft of chores that's got to be 'tended to. I want to start the beef
round-up week after next, an' in the meantime there's a little
overhaulin' to be done on the outfit. The front ax on the grub
wagon's sprung, an' that cayuse we had to break in on the bed wagon
jest naturally busted every strap on his harness except the collar
an' tugs. He won't never make no harness horse no how an' he ain't
big enough if he would, so we got to break in a colt, or else take a
work team off 'n the ranch fer bed-wagon leaders."
Tombstone paused abruptly in the act of bolting extra clamps onto a
hay-rack, and regarded the speaker with jaundiced eye. "Oh, sure,
take a team off'n the ranch. We ain't only got five, six hundred ton
of hay to put up yet, an' we kin haul that on a wheel-borrow. We
ain't got nary team too many the way it is, an' here you go, takin'
one of 'em to do a job which they's any jack-rabbit you ketch up
off'n the range could do it."
Tex laughed: "You're plumb doleful-minded ain't you, Tombstone? If
the world didn't look no better to me than what it looks to you, I'd
of jumped in the river 'fore I'd got my growth."
"An' if you had, we'd of, mebbe, had a range foreman that didn't want
to skin all the horses off'n the ranch right in the middle of hayin'.
That's the trouble with you wagon-bosses. I never seen one yet that
ever give a doggone how the ranch got along. They can't see nothin'
but the cattle end of it--an' they won't never will, neither."
"Where does the money come from, if it ain't from the cattle,"
grinned Tex. "This here ain't no hay ranch, it's a cow-outfit."
"Yes, an' if us ranch hands didn't git up enough hay, how'd yer weak
stuff winter through? Here's the whole outfit goin' plumb straight
to the dickens, an' no one worryin' none about it but me."
"Oh, I guess things ain't so bad as all that," smiled Connie. "Why
it seems to me things are coming along fine. Here we've got rid of
Harmon, an' his gang of rustlers. An' got rid of Wadell, or Curry,
or whatever his name is, that'll give us one more team--an' we
straightened out the trouble with the hay crew. Why, I think things
are looking fine."
Tombstone spat precisely and accurately upon the head of the king
bolt, and lugubriously shook his head: "That's jest the trouble," he
foreboded, "Things is lookin' good. An' when things is lookin' good,
that-a-way, then somethin' allus happens. As long as things is jest
as bad as they kin git, they can't git no worser. But when they look
good, then you got to look out. Where'd we be at right now if the
eppyzootic hit the horses? Tell me that?"
Tex laughed outright: "Good gosh! Tombstone, they ain't never be'n
no eppyzootic in this country that I ever heard tell of."
"That don't make no difference. They has in other countries. An'
next time it'll prob'ly be here. An' besides that, s'pose they come
on a wet spell. Where'd the rest of the hay be? Next winter'll
prob'ly be a awful hard one."
"I never seen a wet spell in hayin' time yet, that was more'n jest a
shower an' didn't hurt no hay. What makes you think next winter's
goin' to be a bad one?"
"I know it is. Didn't I kick out a mice's nest in under the aidge of
the old haystack? An' it was thicker than what the general run of
'em is. You can't fool me. Mouses knows. An' besides, I've saw a
wet spell in hayin', if you ain't. It was in the summer of nineteen
an' seven, an' I was workin' fer the Two-Bar."
"How much hay did they lose?"
"They didn't lose none, but they was lucky. If the wet spell had
lasted longer, an' they hadn't be'n so fer along with the hayin',
they might of lost a thousan' ton. An' then where'd they be'n?"
"Say, Tombstone," said Tex, soberly. "They's one worry you
overlooked. See them mountains? Well, back a couple thousan' years
or so ago, a mountain blow'd up an' buried a whole town--two of
'em--folks an' all. Now, where'd we be if one of them Bear Paws
would take a notion to let go?"
"That's jest it," agreed Tombstone, "Where would we be? If this here
other mountain blow'd up it ain't no cinch these here ones won't. If
them folks would of thought the mountain was agoin' to blow up they
wouldn't of built the town there. That's jest what I be'n tellin'
you. I don't s'pose none of them folks had the sense to be worryin'
about it. Or if they did, the rest of 'em prob'ly laughed at 'em."
"Worryin' about it wouldn't of done no good," grinned Tex. "They'd
of got buried up jest the same."
"No, they wouldn't. If enough of 'em had of worried about it, they'd
of moved their towns somewheres else, wouldn't they?"
Tex winked at Connie, and pulled a long face: "They might of, but the
chances is they'd of located 'em along side of some river that would
of rose sudden, an' drounded 'em all."
Tombstone nodded: "Yeh, prob 'ly would," he agreed, "That's jest what
I be'n sayin'--when things looks good, that's the time somethin' most
genelly allus happens."
Tombstone went off to the shop for more bolts, and Tex grinned;
"Reckon we better break in a colt, an' save the whole outfit from
goin' under. We got to run in some more wild horses anyway. I want
the boys to break about a dozen saddle horses before the beef
round-up. I only held over six hands from the calf round-up, so I'll
put two of them breakin' horses, an' one to work on the wagon an'
harness, an' let Tombstone have the rest to help with the hay. Me
an' you will ride after the horses an' run 'em in."
Before Connie could reply things were happening in the corral. A
cowboy had swung into the saddle, the two others cast loose the
snubbing rope, and clambered up the pole fence as the broncho sunk
his head.
"Stay with him!"
"Ride him, cowboy!"
"Fan him!"
"Stay a long time!"
Such were the words of advice and encouragement that sounded above
the thud of hoofs and the labored grunts of the horse as he leaped
again and again into the air to hit the ground stiff-legged, with his
back humped like the back of an angry cat. In the saddle the rider
yelled shrill yells and plied his quirt. Round and round the small
enclosure went the horse, bucking, sun-fishing, swapping ends without
once loosening the seat of the rider who leaned far back against the
cantle, left arm extended to the limit with the pull of the taut
reins, right arm rising and falling, as with quirt and spurs he stung
the frantic animal to bring out the worst that was in him and so
conquer him in one ride. For full five minutes, with lathered
flanks, the broncho fought to unseat the cowboy, but it was no use,
and giving up, the horse sulked, and for another five minutes no
amount of punishment with quirt or spur could get so much as a move
out of him. With head drawn half way around, he stood the picture of
sullen stubbornness.
"Open the gate!" cried the rider, and instantly the two cowboys who
had sought refuge on the fence slid to the ground on the outside and
mounting their horses held themselves in readiness to "haze" the
broncho from plunging into obstructions that might injure both
himself and his rider. For your unbroken horse cares nothing for the
bit. Blinded by fear and rage he seeks only to rid himself of the
thing that clings to his back, and pitching and bucking in his blind
fury will crash into wagons, machinery, fences, buildings, anything
in fact that happens to lie in his path unless there are horsemen at
hand to crowd in and force him to hold to the open. Tex leaped to
the ground and threw the pole gate wide. The rider slackened his
reins for a moment, and seeing the opening, the broncho made a wild
dash for liberty, his first rush taking him in a series of leaps and
bucks, and clumsy lunges straight through the creek bed and out into
a wide hay meadow upon the other side, the two hazers keeping pace to
prevent the crazed animal from plunging into the barbed wire fences.
"Guess we might's well throw the shells on our own cayuses an' make a
little ride today, boss. There's a bunch of horses runs between the
lower end of Saw Tooth Butte an' the bad lands that we might run in.
Last time I seen 'em there was four or five likely lookin'
three-year-olds runnin' with 'em."
"Fine," answered Connie, "Let's go!" and led the way to the stable
from which they emerged a few minutes later with their horses, and
mounting swung off down the creek.
At the lower end of the hay field they met the three riders coming
back. The broncho bathed in sweat, white foam dropping from his lips
as he ceaselessly mouthed and fretted at the bit, was walking quietly
enough between the horses of the other two riders.
"Takin' to it natural!" called the rider, as the two passed. "I'll
be ridin' circle on this gent inside of a week."
"It doesn't take long to break them, does it?" commented Connie as,
without dismounting Tex unfastened the wire gate and held it aside.
"Well, that's accordin' to the horse. Some breaks easy, an' some
hard, an' some you never can break."
"What do you do with 'em when you can't break 'em?" asked the boy.
"Turn 'em out on the range?"
"Not by a blame sight!" laughed Tex. "The outlaws are the ones that
brings the most money. Wild West shows takes part of 'em, if they
ain't bad. What they want mostly is easy straight backers an'
crow-hoppers. Somethin' that's good an' safe to ride, but that looks
to the pilgrims back east like they was raisin' the deuce. The bad
outlaws goes to the real show--Cheyenne, Pendleton, Denver, Prescott
an' Calgary. There's real riders in them annual rodeos. They ain't
faked up like these here road shows, where some mail-order-catalogue
cow puncher with buckin' rolls on his saddle big as a loaf of bread
rides a crow-hopper acrost a base ball lot to the resoundin' plaudits
of the multitude that thinks they're seein' the real thing."
An hour's ride brought them near the base of Saw Tooth Butte, a
mountain which, together with its foot hills, forms one of the
south-most reaches of the Bear Paws. "You better take the flat an'
let me ride the high ground," advised Tex. "There's a lot of deep
coulees an' draws, an' some of 'em's pretty well grow'd up to brush.
It'll be harder ridin' up there an' a lot more chance of missin' the
bunch. There's about thirty head altogether an' the leader's an' old
gray mare that you got to watch every minute. She's a wise old
crow-bate an' if you don't look out she'll slip the bunch back past
you up some coulee or behind some ridge. I'll keep my eyes open, an'
if I see you start 'em I'll swing down an' help you."
It was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when Connie came upon
the horses feeding in a shallow basin about halfway down a long,
broad tongue of bench land that stretched straight into the bad
lands. As the boy topped the rim of the basin, the horses ceased
feeding and stood for a moment watching him with upraised heads and
pricked ears. Connie swung wide to get behind them, but the old grey
mare divining his intention, led off at a brisk trot, straight down
the ridge. Slowing to a walk the boy tried to outwit them by riding
slowly out of the basin at a right angle to their course. Once out
of sight over the rim, he put spurs to his horse, and taking a
parallel course, rode for half a mile at headlong speed. Then
cautiously he drew up to the edge of the rim. The wild bunch was
nowhere in sight. For a full minute he sat sweeping the plateau. A
lone coyote loped along the farther rim of the basin. Two or three
small bunches of cattle grazed undisturbed, but not the sign of a
horse did he see. Then a blur of motion caught his eye, and he saw
the horses a good half mile ahead, just swinging up the far side of a
coulee. His ruse had been too simple. The old mare had out-guessed
him, and as soon as he had disappeared over the rim of the basin, she
had changed her gait from a trot to a furious gallop, the herd
following, and by the time the boy had maneuvered again to the rim,
they were far in the lead.
Connie grinned: "Well, here goes!" he cried, and digging his spurs
into his horse's flanks he started after the herd that had drawn to a
halt on the open bench to study his next move. "I'll get around you
some way!"
The tongue of bench on which the boy found himself was cut and scored
by numerous deep coulees some of which reached clear across, while
others shallowed and lost themselves in a maze of branches. It was
not long before Connie realized that Tex had not over-estimated the
sagacity of the old grey mare. When he emerged from the first of
these transverse coulees, the horses had again disappeared, and it
was only after a considerable search that he located their trail
where the mare had led them into a deep ravine that led straight into
the bad lands. Soon the boy found that he had lost the trail
completely. It had not been easy to follow along the sun-baked,
grass-covered floor of the coulee where it traversed the bench, but
after plunging into the bad lands, the grass-covered soil gave place
to a bed of hard, disintegrated rock upon which the unshod feet of
the horses made no impression whatever--at least none that Connie
could follow. Side coulees joined the main stem at intervals, and
the boy dismounted to examine the mouths of these in vain for some
slight mark or track that would indicate the direction of the horses.
On and on he rode, assuming that they were still ahead of him.
Deeper and deeper he penetrated into the bad lands, the sides of the
coulee getting steeper and higher as he followed its winding course.
He pushed on for several miles, giving no heed to time, his attention
fixed solely upon following the band of horses. Suddenly, he pulled
up, and glanced about him. It was getting late. The wall of the
coulee, which had by this time become a veritable canyon, cast a deep
shadow, and glancing upward, Connie saw that the edge of the shadow
reached high on the opposite side. "I'll just look around this next
bend," he said, "an' then I'll turn back. Tex will laugh at me for
losing the horses after I'd found 'em once, but I never did get a
chance to head 'em."
Around the next bend he came upon a pool of stagnant water--the first
water he had seen since noon. He realized that he was very thirsty.
The horses would have been thirsty, too. He would surely find tracks
about the edge of the pool. Dismounting he led his horse near to the
water and searched the ground for sign. About the edge of the pool
was a thick mud that would have plainly recorded the action of any
animal that had come down to drink. But the mud was smooth and
untrampled. The horses had not come that way. Some place they had
turned into a side coulee, had doubled back, and were probably at
that very moment grazing unconcernedly upon the bench.
The boy led his horse to the lower edge of the pool. The animal
advanced, sniffing cautiously. He plunged his nose into the water
and threw it about with a shake of his head. But he did not drink.
Again and again he repeated the performance, pawing at the mud with
his forefoot. "Drink, if you're goin' to," laughed the boy, "and
quit your foolin'. And quit messing that puddle all up. We've got
to be hitting the back trail, but first I want about a barrel of
that, myself." Dropping the reins, he picked his way to the upper
end of the pool where a flat stone projected out into the water.
Removing his hat, he threw himself down on his belly. With his lips
almost upon the surface of the water he raised his head and listened.
For several seconds he remained thus, but the only sounds that came
to his ears were the sounds made by the rattling bit chains of his
horse, and the soft scraping of the pawing hoof. "Thought I heard
someone yell, a long ways off," he muttered, and again put his lips
to the water.
"Spat!" Within two feet of his head, a bullet struck the pool,
throwing a spray of muddy water all over him. Instantly the boy was
on his feet, revolver in hand, while his eyes vainly sought the
coulee for a sheltering rock. With a snort of fright at the wicked
spat of the bullet, Connie's horse leaped back from the water and
turning, plunged headlong down the canyon, bridle reins flying. A
slight movement caught the boy's eye. He looked upward to see, on
the rim of the canyon, and some distance below, the form of a man who
seemed to be waving his hat and frantically gesticulating. The next
moment the man turned abruptly, swung himself to the back of a horse
that had stood close beside him, and disappeared. Almost at the same
instant the boy spied a niche in the rock wall on the opposite side
and it was but the work of a moment to slip into the aperture which
gave him a view of the lower reach of the canyon, the direction from
which the bullet had come, and toward which his horse had bolted.