ANTONIO MEETS FRIENDS
Before daylight the next morning Antonio left the ranch and rode
south, bearing slightly to the west, so as not to leave his trail in
Curley's path. He was to meet some of Shaw's men who would come for
more cattle. When a dozen miles southwest of the ranch house he espied
them at work on the edge of an arroyo. They had a fire going and were
re-branding a calf. Far out on the plain was a dead cow, the calf's
mother, shot because they had become angered by its belligerency when
it had gone "on th' prod." They had driven cow and calf hard and when
they tried to separate the two the mother had charged viciously,
narrowly missing one of them, to die by a shot from the man most
concerned. Meanwhile the calf had run back over its trail and they had
roped it as it was about to plunge over the bank of the arroyo.
"You fools!" yelled Antonio, galloping towards them. "Don't you know
better'n to blot on this range! How many times have I told you that
Curley rides south!"
"He never gets this far west--we've watched him," retorted Clausen,
angrily.
"Is that any reason why he can't!" demanded the Mexican. "How do we
know what he'll do?"
"Yes!" rejoined Clausen. "An' I reckon he can find that steep-bank
hollow with th' rope gate, can't he? Suppose he finds th' herds you
holds in it for us--what then?"
"It's a whole lot farther west than here!" retorted Antonio, hotly.
"They never go to Little Muddy, an' if they do, that's a chance we've
got to take. But you can wait till you get to th' mesa before you
change brands, can't you!"
"Aw, close yore pie-sump!" cried Frisco. "Who th' devil is doing this,
anyhow? You make more noise than Cheyenne on th' Fourth of July!"
"What right have you fellers got to take chances an' hobble _me_ with
trouble?"
"Who's been doing all th' sleepering, hey?" sarcastically demanded
Dick Archer. "Let Meeker's gang see the God-forsaken bunch of sleepers
running on their range an' you'll be hobbled with trouble, all right."
Through laziness, carelessness, or haste calves might not be branded
when found with branded cows. Feeling was strong against the use of
the "running iron," a straight iron rod about eighteen inches long
which was heated and used as a pencil on the calf's hide, and a man
caught with one in his possession could expect to be dealt with
harshly; it was a very easy task to light a fire and "run" a brand,
and the running iron was easily concealed under the saddle flap. But
it was not often that a puncher would carry a stamping iron, for it
was cumbersome. With a running iron a brand could be changed, or the
wrong mark put on unbranded cattle; but the stamping iron would give
only one pattern.
When a puncher came across an unbranded calf with its branded mother,
and the number which escaped the roundup was often large, he branded
it, if he had an iron; if he did not have the iron he might cut the
calf's ears to conform to the notch in its mother's ears. When the
calf was again seen it might have attained its full growth. In that
case there was no branded mother to show to whom it belonged; but its
cut ears would tell.
These unbranded, ear-cut calves were known as "sleepers" and, in
localities where cattle stealing was being or had been carried on to
any extent, such sleepering was regarded with strong suspicion, and
more than one man had paid a dear price for doing the work.
The ear mark of the H2 was a V, while the Bar-20 depended entirely on
the brand, and part of its punchers' saddle equipment was a stamping
iron.
Cowmen held sleepering in strong disfavor because it was an easy
matter for a maverick hunter or a rustler to drive off these sleepers
and, after altering the ear cut, to brand them with his own or some
strange brand; and it was easy to make sleepers.
In the case of rustling the separation of branded calves and mothers
was imperative, for should any one see a cow of one brand with a calf
of another, it was very probable that a committee of discretionary
powers would look into the matter. Hobbling and laming mothers and
then driving away the calves were not the only ways of separating them
and of weaning the calves, for a shot was often as good a way as any;
but as dead cows, if found, were certain to tell the true story, this
was not generally employed.
"Yes," laughed Frisco. "What about th' sleepers?"
They were discreetly silent about the cow they had killed, for they
were ashamed of having left such a sign; but they would not stand
Antonio's scorn and anger, and that of the other members of the band,
and so said nothing about it.
"Where's th' mother of this calf?" demanded the Mexican, not heeding
the remarks about sleepers.
"Hanged if I know," replied Clausen, easily; "an' hanged if I care--we
can leave _one_ cow, I reckon."
"Got many for us this time?" asked Archer as they rode west, driving
before them the newly branded calf.
"Not many," replied Antonio. "It's risky, with Curley loose. We won't
be able to do much till th' fighting starts."
When they reached their destination they came to a deep, steep-walled
depression, exit from which was had at only one end where a narrow
trail wound up to the plain. Across this trail at its narrowest point
was stretched a lariat.
The depression itself was some ten acres in extent and was well
covered with grass, while near the southwest corner was a muddy pool
providing water for the herd which was now held captive.
Clausen rode down and removed the rope, riding into the basin to
hasten the egress of the herd. When the last cow had scrambled out and
joined its fellows, Archer and Frisco drove them west, leaving Clausen
to say a few final words with Antonio before joining them.
"How's th' range war coming on?"
"Fine!" laughed Antonio. "Meeker's going to attack th' line house on
th' Peak, though what good it'll do him is more than I can figure out.
I put it in his head because it'll start th' fight. I had to grin when
I heard Meeker and Doc planning it last night--they're easy."
"Gee!" laughed Clausen. "It's a stiff play. Who's going to win?
Meeker?"
"Meeker's going to get th' licking of his life. I know that Bar-20
gang, every one. I've lived down here for some time, an' I know what
they've done. Don't never get in a six-shooter argument with that
feller Cassidy; an' if his friend Connors tells you to stop under
eight hundred yards, you do it, an' trust to yore tongue, or Colt.
He's th' devil hisself with a Winchester."
"Much obliged--but I ain't so bad that way myself. Well, I'm going to
ooze west. Got any word for Shaw?"
"I'll send word by Benito--I'll know more about it to-morrow."
"All right," and Clausen was being jerked over the scenery by his
impatient mount.
Antonio wheeled and rode at a gallop, anxious to be found on northern
range, and eager to learn the result of his foreman's attack.
* * * * *
"Salem," once a harpooner on a whaling vessel, now cook for the H2,
drove home from Eagle in the chuck wagon, which contained food
supplies for his ranch. He was in that state hovering between tears
and song, which accounts for the winding trail his wagon wheels left,
and also for him being late. He had tarried in Eagle longer than he
should have, for he was reluctant to quit the society of his several
newly made friends, who so pleasantly allowed him to "buy" for them.
When he realized how the time had flown and that his outfit would be
clamoring for the noonday meal, such clamoring being spicy and
personal in its expression, he left the river trail before he should
and essayed a shorter way home, chanting a sea song.
A pirate bold, on th' Spanish Main--
Set sail, yo-ho, an' away we go--
"Starboard yore helm, you lubbers!" he shouted when the horses headed
towards Mexico. Then he saw a large bulk lying on the sand a short
distance ahead and he sat bolt upright.
"There she blows! No, blast me, it's a dead cow!"
He drove closer to it and, stopping the team, staggered over to see
what had killed it.
"D--n me, if it ain't shot in th' port eye!" he ejaculated. "If I find
the lubber what's sinkin' our cows, I'll send him to Davy Jones'
locker!"
He returned to the wagon and steered nor' by nor' east, once more
certain of his bearings, for he knew the locality now, and sometime
later he saw Curley riding towards him.
"Ahoy!" he yelled. "Ahoy, you wind-jammer!"
"What's eating you? Why are you so late?" demanded Curley,
approaching. "You needn't say--I know."
"Foller my wake an' you'll see a dead cow," cried Salem. "Deader'n
dead, too! Shot in th' starboard--no, was it starboard? Now, d----d if
I know--reckon it was in th' port eye, though I didn't see no port
light; aye, 'twas in th' port--"
"What in h--l do I care what eye it was!" shouted Curley. "Where is
it?"
"Eight knots astern. Shot in th' port eye, an', as I said, deader'n
dead. Flew our flag, too."
Curley, believing that the cook had seen what he claimed, wheeled
abruptly and galloped away to report it to Meeker.
"Hey! Ain't you going to _see_ it?" yelled Salem, and as he received
no reply, turned to his team. "Come on, weigh anchor! Think I want to
lay out here all night? 'A-sailing out of Salem town,--'" he began,
and then stopped short and thought. "I _knowed_ it!--it _was_ th' port
eye! Same side th' flag was on!" he exclaimed, triumphantly.