"Then there was a star danc'd, and under that was I born."
--_Much Ado About Nothing._
Cole Ralston rose up in a red windy dawn; he cupped his hands to his
mouth and called out lustily: "Beds!"
All around, men roused up in the half darkness and took up the word,
laughing, as they dressed: "Beds! Beds!"
The call meant that the wagon was to be moved to-day; that each man
was to roll bedding and tarp to a hard and tight-roped cylinder, and
was then to carry it to a stack by the bed wagon.
The cook bent over pots and pans, an active demon by a wind-blown
fire; here already the bobtail ate their private breakfast, that they
might depart in haste to relieve the last guard--now slowly moving the
herd from the bed ground, half a mile away.
Cole moved over where Johnny Dines was making up his bed roll.
"Needn't hurry with that bed, Johnny," he said in an undertone. "You
move the wagon to Preisser Lake this mornin'. Besides, you may want to
hold something out of your bed. You're to slip away after dinner and
edge over towards Hillsboro. Help Hiram bring his cattle back when he
gets ready. Tell him we'll be round Aleman all this week, so he might
better come back through MacCleod's Pass. I don't know within fifty
mile where the John Cross wagon is."
Johnny nodded, abandoning his bed making. "_Bueno, senor!_" He took a
pair of leather chaparejos from the bed, regarded them doubtfully and
threw them back.
"Guess I won't take the chaps. Don't need them much except on the
river work, in the mesquite; and they're so cussed, all-fired hot."
"Say, John, you won't need your mount, I reckon. Just take one horse.
Lot of our runaway horses in the John Cross pasture. You can ride
them--and take your pick for your mount when you come back. That's
all. Road from Upham goes straight west through the mountains. Once
you pass the summit you see your own country."
"Got you," said Johnny.
He went hotfoot to the wagon, grabbed a tin washbasin, held it under
the water-barrel faucet and made a spluttering toilet--first man,
since he had not rolled his bed.
The bobtail rode off at a laughing gallop. Daylight grew. The horse
herd drew near with a soft drumming of trotting feet in the sand.
Johnny rustled tools from the stacked tin plates and cups; he stabbed
a mighty beefsteak with his iron fork; he added hot sour-dough
biscuit, a big spoonful of hot canned corn; he poured himself a cup of
hot black coffee, sat down on one of his own feet in the sand, and
became a busy man.
Others joined that business. The last guard came in; the chattering
circle round the fire grew with surprising swiftness. Each, as he
finished, carried cup, plate and iron cutlery to the huge dishpan by
the chuck box, turned his night horse loose, and strode off to the
horse herd, making a noose in his rope. They made a circle round the
big horse herd, a rope from each to each by way of a corral on three
sides of it; night wrangler and day wrangler, mounted, holding down
the fourth side. Grumbling dayherders caught their horses, saddled
with miraculous swiftness and departed to take over the herd. The
bobtail was back before the roping out of horses was completed. While
the bobtail roped out their horses, Johnny and the two wranglers lured
out the four big brown mules for the chuck wagon and the two small
brown mules for the bed wagon, tied them to convenient soapweeds and
hung a nose bag full of corn on each willing brown head. Last of all
the horse wrangler caught his horse. The night wrangler was to ride
the bed wagon, so he needed no horse.
The circle of men melted away from about the horse herd; there was a
swift saddling, with occasional tumult of a bucking rebel; the horse
herd grazed quietly away; the wranglers went to breakfast; even as
they squatted cross-legged by the fire the last horse was saddled,
the Bar Cross outfit was off to eastward to begin the day's drive,
half a dozen horses pitching enthusiastically, cheered by ironical
encouragement and advice bestowed on their riders. The sun would not
be up for half an hour yet. Forty men had dressed, rolled their beds,
eaten, roped out their day's horses in the half light from a dodging
mob of four hundred head, saddled and started. Fifty minutes had
passed since the first call of beds. The day herd was a mile away,
grazing down the long road to Preisser Lake; at the chuck box the cook
made a prodigious clatter of dish washing.
The Bar Cross had shipped the north drive of steers from Engle; the
wagon had then wandered southward for sixty miles to Fort Selden,
there to begin the south work in a series of long zigzags across the
broad plain. This was the morrow after that day on which Charlie See
had ridden to Garfield.
The wagon was halfway home to Engle now; camped on the central
run-off of the desert drainage system, at the northmost of the
chain of shallow wet-weather lakes--known as Red Lakes--lying east
and south from Point of Rocks Hills. Elsewhere these had been
considerable hills; ten or fifteen miles square of steepish sugar
loaves, semi-independent, with wide straits of grassy plain winding
between; but here, dumped down in the center of the plain, they seemed
pathetically insignificant and paltry against the background of mighty
hill, Timber Mountain black in the west, San Andreas gleaming
monstrous against the rising sun.
Theoretically, the Jornada was fifty miles wide here; in reality it
was much wider; in seeming it was twice as wide. From Red Lakes as
a center you looked up an interminable dazzle of slope to the San
Andreas, up and up over a broken bench country to Timber Mountain, the
black base of it high above the level of Point o' Rocks at its highest
summit; and toward the north looked up and up and up again along a
smoother and gentler slope ending in a blank nothingness, against
which the eye strained vainly.
Johnny sipped another cup of coffee with the wranglers; he smoked a
cigarette; he put on fresh clothing from his bed; he took his gun from
his bed and buckled the belt loosely at his waist. His toilet
completed, he rolled his bed. By this time the wranglers had
breakfasted.
They piled the bed rolls high on the bed wagon and roped them tight
for safe riding; they harnessed and hitched the two small mules. The
night wrangler tied the reins to the dashboard and climbed to the top
of the stacked bedding.
"You see that these mules get started, will you, Pat? I'm going to
sleep. They'll tag along after the chuck wagon if you'll start 'em
once," said the night wrangler. Discipline did not allow the night
wrangler a name. He stretched out luxuriously, his broad hat over his
face.
Johnny and Pat--Pat was the horse wrangler--hitched the four mules to
the chuck wagon, after which Pat rounded up his scattered charges and
drove them down to the lake for water.
All this time the red-head cook had been stowing away his
housekeeping, exactly three times as fast as you would expect three
men to do it. A good cook, a clean cook, swiftest of all cooks,
Enriquez--also despot and holy terror as a side line. Henry was the
human hangnail. It is a curious thing that all round-up cooks are
cranks; a fact which favors reflection. If it be found that cooking
and ferocity stand in the relation of cause to effect, a new light is
thrown on an old question.
The last Dutch oven was stowed away, the lid of the chuck box snapped
shut and locked. Johnny tossed the few remaining beds up to the cook.
"Do we fill the barrel here, Henry?"
"No. Dees water muddy. Preisser Lake she am deep and clean. De company
ees buil' a dam dere, yes. Han' me dees lines. You Mag! Jake! Rattle
yo' hocks!"
With creaking of harness and groaning of axle, the chuck wagon led off
on a grass-grown road winding away to the northwest, a faint track
used only by the round-up; travel kept to the old Santa Fe trail, to
the west, beyond the railroad. Johnny started the other team.
Unguided, the bed wagon jounced and bumped over grassy hummocks until
it reached the old road and turned in contentedly at the tail of the
chuck wagon. The sleeping wrangler mumbled, rolled precariously on his
high lurching bed, and settled back to sleep.
Johnny laughed and rode ahead to help Pat. They drove the horses in a
wide detour round the slow-grazing day herd. But the chuck wagon held
the right of way over everything; when it came to pass the herd an
hour or two later, it would be for the herd to swerve aside.
The sun was high and hot now; Preisser Hill, a thin long shadow, rose
dim above the plain; Upham tower and tank loomed high and spectral,
ahead and at the left.
"How do I get from Upham to the river, Pat? I'm new to this country."
"Wagon road due west to MacCleod's Pass."
"Can't see any pass from here."
"Naw. You slip into fold between the hills, and twist round like a
figure three. Then you come to a big open park and MacCleod's Tank.
Three draws run down from the park to the river. 'Pache canyon, the
biggest, runs north to nowhere; Redgate, on the left, twists round to
Garfield. Wagon road goes down Redgate. And Deadman Draw, in between,
bears due west and heap down, short and sweet. Riding?"
"Yep. Hillsboro. The middle draw will be the one for me, then."
By ten o'clock they watered the horse herd at Preisser Lake; the
wagons toiled far behind. Half a mile away they picked the camp site,
with a little ridge for wind-break, soapweeds to tie night horses to,
wood handy, and a nearby valley to be a bed ground for the herd; a
valley wide, open, free from brush, gully or dog holes.
They dragged up a great pile of mesquite roots and built a fire; Pat
went to watch his horses and Johnny returned to the lake. Henry drove
the wagon into the lake, hub deep; Johnny stood on the hub and dipped
buckets of water, which he handed up for the cook to pour into the
barrel.
While these two filled the barrel the grumbling night wrangler drove
on to the fire; when the slow chuck wagon trundled up, the night-hawk
had unharnessed his span of mules, spread his roll in the cool shade
under the bed wagon, and was already asleep. The cook tossed down the
odd beds, handed down to Johnny certain pots, pans, ovens; he jumped
down--slap, snap, clatter, flash!--the ovens were on the fire, the
chuck box open, flour in the bread pan; Henry was at his profession,
mixing bread on the table made by the open lid of the chuck box,
upheld by a hinged leg which fell into place as the lid tilted down.
Johnny unharnessed; he unrolled a tarp which wrapped a quarter of
beef, and hung the beef on the big brake; he filled the ten-gallon
coffee kettle and took it to the fire.
"Henry," he said cautiously, "can you let me have some cold bread and
meat--enough for night and morning? I'm for Hillsboro. Goin' to make a
dry camp beyond the river somewhere. Hillsboro's too far and Garfield
not far enough. So I don't want to stay at the settlements to-night.
I'll lay out and stake my horse, I reckon. Got to find the John Cross
wagon to-morrow, and it'll take me all my time--so I don't want to
wait for dinner."
"Humph!" With a single motion Henry flirted a shovelful of glowing
coals from the fire; a second motion twisted a small meat oven into
place over those coals. A big spoonful of lard followed. "Rustle a can
and boil you some coffee. Open can tomatoes; pour 'em in a plate. Use
can. Ground coffee in box--top shelf. I'll have bread done for you
when coffee boils!"
While he spoke his hands were busy. He dragged from the chuck box a
dishpan full of steaks, cut the night before. With a brisk slap he
spread a mighty steak on the chuck box lid, sprinkled it with salt,
swept it through the flour in his bread pan with precisely the
wrist-twisting motion of a man stropping a razor, and spread the
steak in the hissing lard.
"Cook you another bimeby for night," he grunted, and emptied his
sour-dough sponge into the bread pan. A snappy cook, Henry; on
occasion he had built dinner for thirty men in thirty minutes, by the
watch, from the time the wagon stopped--bread, coffee, steak and fried
potatoes--steak and potatoes made ready for cooking the night before,
of course. Henry had not known he was being timed, either; he was
that kind of a cook.
Johnny gave thanks and ate; he rolled a substantial lunch in a clean
flour sack and tied it in his slicker behind the saddle. He rode to
the horse herd; Pat rounded up the horses and Johnny snared his
Twilight horse for the trip. Twilight was a _grullo_; that is to
say, he was precisely the color of a Maltese cat--a sleek velvet
slaty-blue; a graceful, half-wild creature, dainty muzzled, clean
legged as a deer. Pat held Twilight by bit and bridle and made
soothing statements to him while Johnny saddled. Johnny slid into
the saddle, there was a brief hair-stirring session of bucking; then
Twilight sneezed cheerfully and set off on a businesslike trot. Johnny
waved good-by, and turned across the gray plain toward Upham. Looking
back, he saw the van of the day herd just showing up, a blur in the
southeast.
Six miles brought him to Upham--side track, section house, low
station, windmill tower and tank; there was a deep well here. He
crossed the old white scar of the Santa Fe trail, broad, deep worn,
little used and half forgotten. A new and narrow road turned here at
right angles to the old trail and led ruler-straight to the west.
Johnny followed this climbing road, riding softly; bands of cattle
stirred uneasily and made off to left or right in frantic run or
shuffling trot. The road curved once only, close to the hills, to
round the head of a rock-walled, deep, narrow gash, square and
straight and sheer, reaching away toward Rincon, paralleling the
course of the mountains. No soft water-washed curves marked that grim
gash; here the earth crust had cracked and fallen apart; for twenty
miles that gray crack made an impassable barrier; between here and the
bare low hills was a No Man's Land.
Midway of the twisting pass Johnny came to a gate in a drift fence
strung from bluff to bluff; here was a frontier of the Bar Cross
country. He passed the outpost hills and came out to a rolling open
park, a big square corral of cedar pickets, an earthen dam, a deep
five-acre tank of water. About this tank two or three hundred head of
cattle basked comfortably in the warm sun, most of them lying down.
They were gentle cattle; Johnny rode slowly among them without
stirring up excitement. "River cattle--nester cattle," said Johnny.
There were many brands, few of which he had seen before, though he had
heard of most of them.
A fresh bunch of cattle topped a riverward ridge; the leaders raised
their heads, snorted, turned and fled; Twilight leaped in pursuit.
"River cattle--_bosque_ cattle--outlaws!" said Johnny. From the tail
of his eye, as Twilight thundered across the valley, Johnny was aware
of a deep gashed canyon heading in the north, of a notch in the western
rim of the saucer-shaped basin, and a dark pass at the left. The
cattle turned to the left. Johnny closed in on them, taking down his
rope from the saddle horn. Twenty head--among them one Bar Cross cow
with an unbranded calf some eight or ten months old. Johnny's noose
whirled open, he drove the spurs home and plunged into a whistling
wind. He drew close, he made his cast and missed it; Twilight swerved
aside at the very instant of the throw, the rope dragged at his legs,
he fell to frantic pitching. Johnny gathered up the rope, massaged his
refractory mount with it, brought him to reason; in time to see a dust
cloud of cattle drop into the leftward pass. Twilight flashed after.
As they dived into the pass they came to the wagon road again.
"This is Redgate," thought Johnny.
They careened down the steep curves, the cattle were just ahead;
Twilight swooped upon them, scattered the tailenders, drove ahead for
the Bar Cross cow and her long-ear. A low saddleback pass appeared at
the right, a winding trail led up to an overhanging promontory under
the pass; below, the wagon road made a deep cut by the base of the
hill. Distrusting the cut road as the work of man, the leaders took to
the trail. Twilight was at their heels; at the crown of the little
promontory Johnny threw again, and his rope circled the long-ear's
neck. Johnny flipped the slack, the yearling crossed it and fell
crashing; Johnny leaped off and ran down the rope, loosing the hogging
string at his waist as he ran; he gathered the yearling's struggling
feet and hog-tied them. Twilight looked on, panting but complacent.
"Look proud, now do, you ridiculous old fool!" said Johnny. "Ain't you
never goin' to learn no sense a-tall? You old skeezicks! You've lost a
shoe, too."
He coiled his rope and tied it to the saddle horn; from under the horn
on the other side he took a running iron, held there by a slitted
leather--an iron rod three-eighths of an inch in diameter, a foot long
and shaped like a shepherd's crook. He gathered up dead branches of
mahogany bush and made a small fire, cunningly built for a quick
draft, close beside the yearling; he thrust the hook part of the
branding iron into the hottest fire; and while it was heating he
returned to give grave reprimand and instruction to Twilight. That
culprit listened attentively, bright-eyed and watchful; managing in
some way to bear himself so as to suggest a man who looks over the top
of his spectacles while rubbing his chin with a thoughtful thumb. When
the iron was hot Johnny proceeded to put the Bar Cross brand on the
protesting yearling. Looking up, he became aware of a man riding
soberly down the canyon toward him. Johnny waved his hand and shoved
his iron into the fire for a second heating.
The newcomer rode up the trail and halted; a big red-headed man with a
big square face and twinkling eyes. He fished for tobacco and rolled a
cigarette.
"Thought I knew all the Bar Cross waddies. You haven't been wearin'
the crop and split very long, have you?"
"They just heard of me lately," explained Johnny.
"I know that Twilight horse of yours. Saw him last spring at the
round-up. Purty as a picture, ain't he?"
"Humph! Pretty is as pretty does." Johnny returned to his branding.
"He made me miss my throw, and now I'm in the wrong canyon. I aimed to
take the draw north of here, for Hillsboro."
The newcomer leaned on his saddle horn.
"Deadman? Well, you could cross over through this pass if you was
right set on it. But it's a mean place on the far side--slick, smooth
rock. You might as well go on by way of Garfield now. You won't lose
but a mile or two, and you'll have fine company--me. Or--say, if
you're going that way, why can't you mail a letter for me? Then I
won't have to go at all. I'd be much obliged to you if you would. That
was all I was going for, to mail some location notices."
"Sure I will. I kind of want to see Garfield anyhow. Never been there.
Crop and split the right. So that's done. I'll keep this piece of ear
for tally."
The other took a large envelope from his saddle pockets and handed it
over. Dines stuck it in the bosom of his flannel shirt.
"I ain't got no stamps. This letter'll need two, I guess. Here's the
nickel. Will you please kindly stick 'em on for me?"
"Sure," said Dines again. He undid the yearling's legs. "Now, young
fellow, go find your mammy. Go a-snuffin'!"
The yearling scrambled to his feet, bellowing. Johnny jerked him round
by the tail so that his nose pointed down the canyon; the newcomer
jumped his horse and shook a stirrup and slapped his thigh with his
hat; the yearling departed.
"Well, I'll be getting on back to camp," said the newcomer. "So long!
Much obliged to you."
"So long!" said Johnny.
He waved his hand. The other waved answer as he took the trail. He
jogged in leisurely fashion up the canyon. Dines paused to tread out
the remaining fire, took up his branding iron by the cool end, and
rode whistling down the canyon, swinging the iron to cool it before he
slipped it to its appointed place below his saddle horn.