Johnny knew I had a notebook crammed with the stories his friends had
told me; but Johnny, being a wise youth, also knew that there was always
room for one more. Perhaps that explains his sarcasm, for, as he calmly
turned his back on his fuming friend, he winked at me and sauntered off,
whistling cheerfully.
Red spread his feet apart, jammed his fists against his thighs and
stared after the youngster. His expression was a study and his open
mouth struggled for a retort, but in vain. After a moment he shook his
head and slowly turned to me. "Hear th' fool? He 's from _Idyho_, he
is. It never gets cold nowhere else on earth. Ain't it terrible to be
so ignorant?" He glanced at the bunkhouse, into which Johnny had gone
for dry clothing. "So I ain't never seen no cold weather?" he mused
thoughtfully. Snapping his fingers irritably, he wheeled toward the
corral. "I 'm goin' down to look at th' dam--there 's been lots of
water leanin' ag'in it th' last week. Throw th' leather on Saint, if
you wants, an' come along. I 'll tell you about some cold weather that
had th' _Idyho_ brand faded. _Cold_ weather! Huh!"
As he swung past the bunkhouse we saw Johnny and Billy Jordan leaning in
the doorway ragging each other, as cubs will. Johnny grinned at Red and
executed a one-hand phrase of the sign language that is universally
known, which Red returned with a chuckle. "Wish he 'd been here th'
time God took a hand in a big game on this ranch," he said. "I 'm minus
two toes on each foot in consequence thereof. They can't scare me none
by preachin' a red-hot hell. No, sir; not any."
He was silent a moment. "Mebby it ain't so bad when a feller is used to
it; but we ain't. An' it frequent hits us goin' over th' fence, with
both feet off th' ground. Anyhow, that Norther was n't no storm--it was
th' attendant agitation caused by th' North Pole visitin' th' Gulf.
"Cowan had just put Buckskin on th' map by buildin' th' first shack.
John Bartlett an' Shorty Jones, d--n him, was startin' th' Double Arrow
with two hundred head. When th' aforementioned agitation was over they
had less 'n one hundred. We lost a lot of cows, too; but our range is
sheltered good, an' that rock wall down past Meeker's bunkhouse stopped
our drifts, though lots of th' cows died there.
"We 'd had a mild winter for two weeks, an' a lot of rain. We was
chirpin' like li'l fool birds about winter bein' over. Ever notice how
many times winter is over before it is? But Buck did n't think so; an'
he shore can smell weather. We was also discussin' a certain campin'
party Jimmy had discovered across th' river. Jimmy was at th' bunkhouse
that shift an' he was a great hand for snoopin' around kickin' up
trouble. He reports there's twelve in th' party an' they 're camped back
of Split Hill. Now, Split Hill is no place for a camp, even in th'
summer; an' what got us was th' idea of campin' at all in th' winter.
It riled Buck till he forgot to cross off three days on th' calendar,
which we later discovered by help of th' almanac an' th' moon. Buck
sends Hoppy over to scout around Split Hill. You know Hoppy. He
scouted for two days without bein' seen, an' without discoverin' any
lawful an' sane reason why twelve hard-lookin' fellers should be campin'
back of Split Hill in th' winter time. He also found they had come from
th' south, an' he swore there was n't no cow tracks leadin' toward them
from our range. But there was lots of hoss tracks back and forth. An'
when he reports that th' campers had left an' gone on north we all feel
better. Then he adds they turned east below th' Double Arrow an' went
back south again. That's different. It's plain to some of us they was
lookin' us over for future use; learnin' our ways an' th' lay of th'
land. There was seven of us at th' time, but we could 'a' licked 'em in
a fair fight.
"In them days we only had two line houses. Number One was near Big
Coulee, with Cowan's at th' far end of its fifteen miles of north line;
th' west line was a twenty-five-mile ride south to Lookout Peak. Number
Two was where th' Jumpin' Bear empties into th' river, now part of
Meeker's range. From it th' riders went west twenty-five miles to th'
Peak an' north from it twenty-five miles along th' east line. There was
a hundred thousan' acres in Conroy Valley an' thirty thousan' in th'
Meeker triangle, which made up Section Two. At that time mebby ten
thousan' cows was on this section--two-thirds of all of 'em. When we
built Number Three on th' Peak this section was cut down to a reasonable
size. Th' third headquarters then was th' bunkhouse, with only th' east
line to ride. One part, th' shortest, ran north to Cowan's; th' other
run about seventeen miles south to Li'l Timber, where th' line went on
as part of Number Two's. We paired off an' had two weeks in each of 'em
in them days.
"When we shifted at th' end of that week Jimmy Price an' Ace Fisher got
Number One; Skinny an' Lanky was in Number Two; an' me an' Buck an'
Hoppy took life easy in th' bunkhouse, with th' cook to feed us. Buck,
he scouted all over th' ranch between th' lines an' worked harder than
any of us, spendin' his nights in th' nearest house.
"One mornin', about a week after th' campers left, Buck looked out of
th' bunkhouse door an' cautions me an' Hoppy to ride prepared for cold
weather. I can see he 's worried, an' to please him we straps a blanket
an' a buffalo robe behind our saddles, cussin' th' size of 'em under our
breath. I 've got th' short ride that day, an' Buck says he 'll wait
for me to come back, after which we 'll scout around Medicine Bend. He
's still worried about them campers. In th' Valley th' cows are thicker
'n th' other parts of th' range, an' it would n't take no time to get a
big herd together. He 's got a few things to mend, so he says he 'll do
th' work before I get back.
"Down on Section Two things is happenin' fast, like they mostly do out
here. Twelve rustlers can do a lot if they have things planned, an'
'most any fair plan will work once. They only wanted one day--after
that it would be a runnin' fight, with eight or nine of 'em layin' back
to hold us off while th' others drove th' cows hard. Why, Slippery
Trendley an' Tamale Jose was th' only ones that ever slid across our
lines with that many men.
"Three rustlers slipped up to Number Two at night an' waited. When
Skinny opened th' door in th' mornin' he was drove back with a hole in
his shoulder. Then there was h--l a-poppin' in that li'l mud shack.
But it did n't do no good, for neither of 'em could get out alive until
after dark. They learned that with sorrow, an' pain. An' they shore was
het up about it. Ace Fisher, ridin' along th' west line from Number
One, was dropped from ambush. Two more rustlers lay back of Medicine
Bend lookin' for any of us that might ride down from the bunkhouse. An'
they sent two more over to Li'l Timber to lay under that ledge of rock
that sticks out of th' south side of th' bluff like a porch roof.
Either me or Hoppy would be ridin' that way. They stacked th' deck
clever; but Providence cut it square.
"Th' first miss-cue comes when a pert gray wolf lopes past ahead of
Hoppy when he 's quite some distance above Li'l Timber. This gray wolf
was a whopper, an' Hoppy was all set to get him. He wanted that sassy
devil more 'n he wanted money just then, so he starts after it. Mr. Gray
Wolf leads him a long chase over th' middle of th' range an' then
suddenly disappears. Hoppy hunts around quite a spell, an' then heads
back for th' line. While he's huntin' for th' wolf it gets cold, an' it
keeps on gettin' colder fast.
"Me, I leaves later 'n usual that mornin'. An' I don't get to Cowan's
until late. I 'm there when I notices how cussed cold it's got all of a
sudden. Cowan looks at his thermometer, which Jimmy later busts, an'
says she has gone down thirty degrees since daylight. He gives me a
bottle of liquor Buck wanted, an' I ride west along th' north line,
hopin' to meet Jimmy or Ace for a short talk.
"All at once I notice somebody 's pullin' a slate-covered blanket over
th' north sky, an' I drag _my_ blanket out an' wrap it around me. I 'm
gettin' blamed cold, an' also a li'l worried. Shall I go back to Cowan's
or head straight for th' bunkhouse? Cowan's the nearest by three miles,
but what's three miles out here? It's got a lot colder than it was when
I was at Cowan's, an' while I 'm debatin' about it th' wind dies out. I
look up an' see that th' slate-covered blanket has traveled fast. It's
'most over my head, an' th' light is gettin' poor. When I look down
again I notice my cayuses's ears movin' back an' forth, an' he starts
pawin' an' actin' restless. That settles it. I 'm backin' instinct just
then, an' I head for home. I ain't cussin' that blanket none now, an' I
'm glad I got th' robe handy; an' that quart of liquor ain't bulky no
more.
"All at once th' bottom falls out of that lead sky, an' flakes as big as
quarters sift down so fast they hurts my eyes, an' so thick I can't see
twenty feet. In ten minutes everythin' is white, an' in ten more I 'm
in a strange country. My hands an' feet ache with cold, an' I 'm
drawin' th' blanket closer, when there 's a puff of wind so cold it cuts
into my back like a knife. It passes quick, but it don't fool me. I
know what's behind it. I reach for th' robe an' has it 'most unfastened
when there 's a roar an' I 'm 'most unseated by th' wind before I can
get set. I did n't know then that it's goin' to blow that hard for three
days, an' it's just as well. It's full of ice--li'l slivers that are
sharp as needles an' cut an' sting till they make th' skin raw. I let
loose of th' robe an' tie my bandanna around my face, so my nose an'
mouth is covered. My throat burns already almost to my lungs. Good
Lord, but it _is_ cold! My hands are stiff when I go back for th' robe,
an' it's all I can do to keep it from blowin' away from me. It takes me
a long time to get it over th' blanket, an' my hands are 'most froze
when it's fastened. That was a good robe, but it did n't make much
difference that day. Th' cold cuts through it an' into my back as if it
was n't there. My feet are gettin' worse all th' time, an' it ain't
long before I ain't got none, for th' achin' stops at th' ankles. Purty
soon only my knees ache, an' I know it won't be long till they won't
ache no more.
"I 'm squirmin' in my clothes tryin' to rub myself warm when I remember
that flask of liquor. Th' cork was out far enough for my teeth to get
at it, an' I drink a quarter of it quick. It's an awful load--any other
time it would 'a' knocked me cold, for Cowan sold a lot worse stuff then
than he does now. But it don't phase me, except for takin' most of th'
linin' out of my mouth an' throat. It warms me a li'l, an' it makes my
knees ache a li'l harder. But it don't last long--th' cold eats through
me just as hard as ever a li'l later, an' then I begin to see things an'
get sleepy. Cows an' cayuses float around in th' air, an' I 'm countin'
money, piles of it. I get warm an' drowsy an' find myself noddin'. That
scares me a li'l, an' I fight hard ag'in it. If I go to sleep it's all
over. It keeps gettin' worse, an' I finds my eyes shuttin' more an'
more frequent, an' more an' more frequent thinkin' I don't care, anyhow.
An' so I drifts along pullin' at th' bottle till it's empty. That
should 'a' killed me, then an' there--but it don't even make me real
drunk. Mebby I spilled some of it, my hands bein' nothin' but sticks.
I can't see more 'n five feet now, an' my eyes water, which freezes on
'em. I 've given up all hope of hearin' any shootin'. So I close th'
peekhole in th' blanket an' robe, drawin' 'em tight to keep out some of
th' cold. I am sittin' up stiff in th' saddle, like a soldier, just
from force of habit, and after a li'l while I don't know nothin' more.
Pete says I was a corpse, froze stiff as a ramrod, an' he calls me ghost
for a long time in fun. But Pete was n't none too clear in his head
about that time.
"Down at Li'l Timber, Hoppy managed to get under th' shelter of that
projectin' ledge of rock on th' south side of th' bluff. Th' snow an'
ice is whirlin' under it because of a sort of back draft, but th' wind
don't hit so hard. He 's fightin' that cayuse every foot, tryin' to get
to th' cave at th' west end, an' disputin' th' right of way with th'
cows that are packed under it.
There 's firewood under that ledge an' there 's food on th' hoof, an'
snow water for drink; so if he can make th' cave he 's safe. He 's more
worried about his supply of smokin' tobacco than anythin' else, so far
as he 's concerned.
"All at once he runs onto four men huddled half-froze in a bunch right
ahead of him. He knows in a flash who they are, an' he draws
fumblingly, an' holds th' gun in his two hands, they are so cold. One
clean hit an' five clean misses in twenty feet! They're gropin' for
their guns when a sudden gust of wind whirls down from th' top of th'
hill, pilin' snow an' ice on 'em till they can't see nor breathe. An' a
couple of old trees come down to make things nicer. Hoppy is blinded,
an' when he gets so he can see again there's one rustler's arm stickin'
up out of th' snow, but no signs of th' other three. They blundered out
into th' open tryin' to get away from th' stuff comin' down on 'em, an'
that means they won't be back no more.
"Hoppy manages to get to th' cave, tie his cayuse to a fallen tree, an'
gather enough firewood for a good blaze, which he puts in front of th'
cave. It takes him a long time to use up his matches one by one, an'
then he pulls th' lead out of a cartridge with his teeth, shakes th'
powder loose in it an' along th' barrel. Usin' his cigarette papers for
tinder he gets th' fire started an' goin' good an' is feelin' some
cheerful when he remembers th' three rustlers driftin' south. They was
bound to hit a big arroyo that would lead 'em almost ag'in' Number Two's
door. With th' wind drivin' 'em straight for it, Hoppy thinks it might
mean trouble for Lanky or Skinny. He did n't think about 'em only
havin' wool-lined slickers on, or he 'd 'a' knowed they couldn't live
till they got halfway. They left their blankets in camp so they could
work fast.
"People have called us clannish, an' said we was a lovin' bunch' because
we stick together so tight. We 've faced so much together that us of
th' old bunch has got th' same blood in our veins. We ain't eight
men--we 're one man in eight different kinds of bodies. G--d help
anybody that tries to make us less! It's one thing to stand up an' swap
shots with a gunman; but it's another to turn yore back on a cave an' a
fire like that an' go out into what is purty nigh shore death on a long
chance of helpin' a couple of friends that was able to take care of
themselves. That's one of th' things that explains why we made Shorty
Jones an' his eleven men pay with their lives for takin' Jimmy's life.
Twelve for one! That fight at Buckskin ain't generally understood, even
by our friends. An' Hoppy crowns his courage twice in that one storm.
Ain't he an old son-of-a-gun?
"He leaves that fire an' forces his cayuse to take him out in th' storm
again, finds that th' arroyo is level full of snow, but has both banks
swept bare. He passes them three rustlers in th' next ten minutes--they
won't do no more cow-liftin'. Then he tries to turn back, but that's
foolish. So he drifts on, gettin' a li'l loco by now. He 's purty near
asleep when he thinks he hears a shot. He fights his cayuse again, but
can't stop it, so he falls off an' lets it drift, an' crawls an' fights
his way back to where that shot was fired from. G--d only knows how he
does it, but he falls over a cow an' sees Lanky huggin' its belly for
th' li'l warmth in th' carcass. An' he ought to 'a' found him, after
leavin' his cayuse an' turnin' back on foot in that h--l storm! Th'
drifts was beginnin' to make then--when th' storm was over I saw drifts
thirty feet high in th' open; an' in th' valley there was some that run
'most to th' top of th' bluffs, an' they're near sixty feet high.
"Well, Lanky is as crazy as him, an' won't let go of that cow, an' they
have a fight, which is good for both of 'em. Finally Lanky gets some
sense in his head an' realizes what Hoppy is tryin' to do for him, an'
they go staggerin' down wind, first one fallin' an' then th' other. But
they keep fightin' like th' game boys they are, neither givin' a cuss
for himself, but shore obstinate that he 's goin' to get th' other out
of it. That's _our_ spirit; an' we 're proud of it, by G--d! Hoppy
wraps th' robe around Lanky, an' so they stagger on, neither one knowin'
very much by that time. Th' Lord must 'a' pitied that pair, an' admired
th' stuff He 'd put in 'em, for they bump into th' line house kerslam,
an' drop, all done an' exhausted.
"Meanwhile Skinny's hoppin' around inside, prayin' an' cussin' by
streaks, every five minutes openin' th' door an' firm' off his Colt. He
has tied th' two ropes together, an' frequent he ties one end to th'
door, th' other to hisself, an' goes out pokin' around in th' snow,
hopin' to stumble over his pardner. He 's plumb forgot his bad shoulder
long ago. Purty soon he opens th' door again to shoot off th' gun, an'
in streaks somethin' between his laigs. He slams th' door as he jumps
aside, an' then looks scared at Lanky's sombrero! Mebby he's slow
hoppin' outside an' diggin' them out of th' drift that's near covered
'em! Now, don't think bad of Skinny. He dass n't leave th' house to
search any distance, even if he could 'a' seen anythin'. His best play
is to stick there an' shoot off his gun--Lanky might drift past if he
was not there to signal. Skinny thought more of Lanky any time than he
did of hisself, th' emaciated match!
"It don't take long to kick in a lot of snow with that wind blowin' an'
he rubs them two till he 's got tears in his eyes. Then he fills 'em
with hot stew an' whisky, rolls 'em up together an' heaves 'em in th'
same bunk. It ain't warm enough in that house, even with th' fire
goin', to make 'em lose no arms or laigs.
"It seems that Lanky, watchin' his chance as soon as th' snow fell heavy
enough to cover his movements, slipped out of th' house an' started to
circle out around them festive rustlers that held him an' his friend
prisoners. He made Skinny stay behind to hold th' house an' keep a gun
poppin'. Lanky has worked up behind where th' rustlers was layin' when
th' Norther strikes full force. It near blows him over, an', not havin'
on nothin' but an old army overcoat that was wore out, th' cold gets him
quick. He can't see, an' he can't hear Skinny's shots no more! He does
th' best he can an' tries to fight back along his trail, but in no time
there ain't no tracks to follow. Then he loses his head an' starts
wanderin' until a cow blunders down on him. He shoots th' cow an' hugs
its belly to keep warm an' then he don't really remember nothin' 'till
he wakes up in th' bunk alongside of Hoppy, both gettin' over an awful
drunk. Skinny kept feedin' liquor to 'em till it was gone, an' he had a
plenty when he began.
"Jimmy Price was at Number One when th' blow started, an' Buck was in
th' bunkhouse, an' it was three weeks before they could get out an'
around, on account of th' snow fallin' so steady an' hard they could n't
see nothin'.
"Well, getting back to me explains how Pete Wilson came to th' Bar-20.
He is migratin' south, just havin' had th' pleasure of learnin' that his
wife sloped with a better-lookin' man. He was scared she might get tired
of th' other feller an' sift back, so he sells out his li'l store, loads
a waggin with blankets, grub, an' firewood, an' starts south, winter or
no winter. He moves fast for a new range, where he can make a new
beginnin' an' start life fresh, with five years of burnin' matrimonial
experience as his valuablest asset. Pete says he reckoned mebby he
would n't have so many harness sores if he run single th' rest of his
life; heretofore he 'd been so busy applyin' salve that he did n't have
time to find out just what was th' trouble with th' double harness.
Lots of men feel that way, but they ain't got Pete's unlovely outspoken
habit of thought. We used to reckon mebby he was n't as smart as th'
rest of us, him bein' slow an' blunderin' in his retorts. We 've played
that with coppers lots of times since, though. While he ain't what you
'd call quick at retortin', his retorts usually is heard by th' whole
county. It ain't every collar-galled husband that's got th' gumption or
smartness to jump th' minute th' hat is lifted. Pete had.
"He's drivin' across our range, an' when th' wind dies out sudden an'
th' snow sifts down, he 's just smart enough to get out his beddin' an'
wrap it around him till he looks like a bale of cotton. An' even at
that he 's near froze an' lookin' for a place to make a stand when he
feels a bump. It's me, fallin' off my cayuse, against his front wheel.
He emerges from his beddin', lifts me into th' waggin, puts most of his
blankets around me, an' stops. Knowin' he can't save th' cayuses, he
shoots 'em. That means grub for us, anyhow, if we run short of th' good
stuff. Nobody but Pete could 'a' got th' canvas off that waggin in such
a gale, but he did it. He busts th' arches an' slats off th' top of th'
waggin an' uses 'em for firewood. Th' canvas he drapes over th' box,
lettin' it hang down on both sides to th' ground. An' in about five
minutes th' whole thing was covered over with snow. Pete 's the
strongest man we ever saw, an' we 've seen some good ones. Wrastlin'
that canvas with stiff hands was a whole lot more than what he done to
Big Sandy up there on Thunder Mesa.
"Pete says I was dead when he grabbed me, an' smellin' disgraceful of
liquor. But th' first thing I know is lookin' up in th' gloom at a
ceilin' that's right close to my head, an' at a sorta rafter. That
rafter gives me a shock. It don't even touch th' ceilin', but runs
along 'most a foot below it. I close my eyes an' do a lot of thinkin'.
I remember freezin' to death, but that's all. An' just then I hears a
faint voice say: 'He shore was dead.' I don't know Pete then, or that
he talked to hisself sometimes. An' I reckon I was a li'l off in my
head, at that. I begin to wonder if he means me, an' purty soon I 'm
shore of it. An' don't I sympathize with myself? I 'm dead an' gone
somewhere; but no preacher I ever heard ever described no place like
this. Then I smell smoke an' burnin' meat--which gives me a clew to th'
range I 'm on. Mebby I 'm shelved in th' ice box, waitin' my turn, or
somethin'. I knew I 'd led a sinful life. But there wasn't no use of
rubbin' it in--it's awful to be dead an' know it.
"Th' next time I opens my eyes I can't see nothin'; but I can feel
somethin' layin' alongside of me. It's breathin' slow an' regular, an
it bothers me till I get th' idea all of a sudden. It's another dead
one, cut out of th' herd an' shoved in my corral to wait for subsequent
events. I felt sorry for him, an' lay there tryin' to figger it out,
an' I 'm still figgerin' when it starts to get light. Th' other feller
grunts an' sits up, bumpin' his head solid against that fool rafter. No
dead man that was shoved in a herd consigned to heaven ever used such
language, which makes me all the shorer of where I am. But if hell's hot
we 've still got a long way to go.
"He sits there rubbin' his head an' cussin' steadily, an' I 'm so moved
by it that I compliments him. He jumps an' bumps his head again, an'
looks at me close. 'D--d if you ain't a husky corpse,' he says. That
settles it. I ain't crazy, like I was hopin', but I 'in dead. 'You an'
me is on th' ragged edge of h--l,' he adds.
"'But who tipped _you_ off?' I asks. 'They just shoved me in here an'
did n't tell me nothin' at all.'
"'Crazy as th' devil,' he grunts, lookin' at me harder.
"'Yo 're a liar,' I replies. 'I may be dead, but d--d if I 'm crazy!'
"'An' I don't blame you, either,' he mused, sorrowful. 'Now you keep
quiet till I gets somethin' to eat,' an' he crawls into a li'l round
hole at th' other end of th' room.
"Purty soon I smell smoke again, an' after a long time he comes back
with some hot coffee an' burned meat. I grab for th' grub, an' while I
'm eatin' I demands to know where I am.
"He laughs, real cheerful, an' tells me. I 'm under his waggin,
surrounded by canvas an' any G--d's quantity of snow. Th' drift over us
is fifteen foot high, th' wind has died down, an' it's still snowin' so
hard he can't see twenty feet. It is also away down below freezin'.
"We stayed under that drift 'most three weeks, livin' on raw meat after
our firewood gave out. We didn't suffer none from th' cold, though,
under all that snow an' with all th' blankets we had. When it stopped
snowin' we discovered a drift shamefully high about a mile northeast of
us, an' from th' smoke comin' out of it I knew it was th' bunkhouse.
"Well, to cut it short, it was. An' mebby Buck wasn't glad to see me!
He was worried 'most sick an' as soon as we could, we got cayuses and
started out to look for th' others, scared stiff at what we expected to
find."
He paused and was silent a moment. "But only Ace was missin'," he
added. "We found him an' th' rustlers later, when th' snow went off."
He paused again and shook his head. "It shore was a miracle that we did
n't go with 'em, all of us, except Buck. Pete was so plumb disgusted
with travelin' in th' winter, an' had lost his cayuses, that when Buck
offers him Ace's bunk he stays. An' he ain't never left us since. Huh!
Cold? That cub don't know nothin'--mebby he will when he grows up, but
I dunno, at that. _Idyho_!"