Wells Brothers: The Young Cattle Kings Page 18

  CHAPTER XVIII

  AN OPEN WINTER

  An ideal Indian summer was enjoyed. Between the early and late fallfrosts, the range matured into perfect winter pasturage. Light rains inSeptember freshened the buffalo grass until it greened on the sunnyslopes, cured into hay as the fall advanced, thus assuring abundantforage to the cattle.

  Manly was the only one of the quartette not inured to a northernclimate. A winter in Montana had made Sargent proof against any cold,while the brothers were native to that latitude if not to the plains.After building the line-camp and long before occupying it, the quartettepaired off, Sargent and Dell claiming the new dug-out, while the othertwo were perfectly content with the old shack at headquarters. A healthyspirit of rivalry sprang up, extending from a division of the horsesdown to a fair assignment of the blankets.

  Preparations for and a constant reference to the coming winter aroused adread in Manly. "You remind me of our darky cook," said Sargent, "up onthe Yellowstone a few years ago. Half the trail outfit were detaileduntil frost, to avoid fever and to locate the cattle, and of course thecook had to stay. A squall of snow caught us in camp, and that poordarky just pined away. 'Boss,' he used to say to the foreman, shiveringover the fire, 'ah's got to go home. Ah's subjec' to de rheumatics. Mahfambly's a-gwine to be pow'ful uneasy 'bout me. Dis-a-yere country am noplace fo' a po' ol' niggah.'"

  Two teams were employed in freighting in the corn, four round tripsbeing required, Joel and Manly assuming the work. Supplies for thewinter were brought in at the same time, among the first of which werefour sacks of salt; and the curing of two barrels of corned beef fell apleasant task to Dell and his partner. There was nothing new in picklingthe meat, and with the exception of felling the beeves, the incidentpassed as part of the day's work. Dell claimed the privilege of makingthe shots, which Sargent granted, but exercised sufficient caution tocorral the beeves. Both fell in their tracks, and the novice gainedconfidence in his skill in the use of a rifle.

  The first of December was agreed on to begin the riding of lines. Thatdate found all the new cattle drifted above headquarters, and as it wassome ten miles to the upper line-camp, an extremely liberal range wasallowed the herd. Eight of the best wintered horses were stabled, and atfirst the line was maintained on the south bank of the Beaver. An outerline was agreed upon, five miles to the south; but until the seasonforced the cattle to the shelter of the valley, the inner one was keptunder patrol. The outer was a purely imaginary line, extending in animmense half-circle, from headquarters to the new line-camp above. Itfollowed the highest ground, and marked the utmost limit on the winterrange on the south. Any sign or trace of cattle crossing it, driftingbefore a storm or grazing at leisure, must be turned back ortrailed down.

  The first and second weeks passed, the weather continuing fine. Many ofthe cattle ranged two and three miles north of the creek, not evencoming in to water oftener than every other day. Several times thehorsemen circled to the north; but as ranging wide was an advantage, thecattle were never disturbed. A light fall of soft snow even failed tobring the cattle into the valley.

  Christmas week was ushered in with a display of animal instinct. Thethrough and wintered cattle had mixed and mingled, the latter fat andfurred, forging to the front in ranging northward, and instinctivelyleading their brethren to shelter in advance of the first storm. Betweenthe morning and evening patrol of a perfect day, the herd, of its ownaccord, drifted into the valley, the leaders rioting in a wild frolic.Their appearance hastened the patrol of the inner line by an hour, everynook and shelter, including the old corral, being filled with frolicsomecattle. The calves were engaging each other in mimic fights, while theolder cattle were scarring every exposed bank, or matting theirforeheads in clay and soft dirt.

  "What does it mean?" inquired Joel, hailing Sargent, when theline-riders met.

  "It means that we'll ride the outside line in the morning," came thereply. "There's a storm coming within twelve hours. At least, theherd say so."

  "What can we do?"

  "Leave that to the cattle. They'll not quit the valley unless driven outby a storm. The instinct that teaches them of the coming storm alsoteaches them how to meet it. They'll bed in the blue-stem to-night, orhunt a cosy nook under some cut-bank."

  A meeting point on the outer line, for the next morning, was agreedupon, when the horsemen separated for the evening. "Get out early, andkeep your eyes open for any trace of cattle crossing the line," Sargentcalled back, as he reined homeward. "Dell and I will leave The Wagon atdaybreak."

  The storm struck between midnight and morning. Dawn revealed an angryhorizon, accompanied by a raw, blue-cold, cutting wind from the north.On leaving their quarters, both patrols caught the storm on an angle,edging in to follow the circle, their mounts snorting defiance andwarming to the work in resisting the bitter morning. The light advancedslowly, a sifting frost filled the air, obscuring the valley, and notuntil the slope to the south was reached was the situation known.

  No cattle were in sight or adrift. Within an hour after leaving theline-camp, the experienced eye of Sargent detected a scattering tracewhere an unknown number of cattle had crossed the line. Both he and Delldismounted, and after studying the trail, its approach and departure,the range-bred man was able to give a perfect summary of the situation.

  "There's between fifty and a hundred head in this drift," remarkedSargent, as the two remounted. "They're through cattle; the storm musthave caught them on the divide, north of the Beaver. They struck thecreek in the flats and were driven out of the valley. The trail's notover two hours old. Ride the line until you meet the other boys, andI'll trail down these cattle. The sand dunes ought to catch them."

  Dell and Sargent separated. Five miles to the eastward Joel was met.Manly was reported at the rear, the two having intercepted a contingentof cattle approaching the line, and was then drifting the stragglersback to the valley. On Dell's report, the brothers turned to theassistance of Sargent, retracing the western line, and finally bearingoff for the sand hills. Several times the sun threatened to breakthrough, lighting the valley, but without revealing any stir among thecattle in the shelter of the creek. In the short time since leavingtheir stables, the horses under saddle had whitened from the action ofthe frost on their sweaty coats, unheeded by their riders. There was nochecking of mounts until the range of dunes was reached, when from thesummit of a sand hill the stragglers were located in care of Sargent,and on the homeward drift. The cattle were so benumbed and bewilderedfrom the cold that they had marched through the shelter of the dunes,and were overtaken adrift on the wind-swept plain.

  The contingent numbered sixty-odd cattle, and with the help of thebrothers were easily handled. Before recrossing the line, the sun burstforth, and on reaching the slope, the trio halted in parting. "A fewhours of this sun," said Sargent, "and we've got the upper hand of thisstorm. The wind or sun must yield. If the wind lulls, we'll ride theinner line to-night and bed every hoof in the shelter of the creek. Pickup Manly, and we'll ride the valley line about the middle of theafternoon."

  Joel turned homeward, scouting that portion of the line under patrolfrom headquarters. The drifting contingent was intrusted to Dell,leaving Sargent to retrace their division of the line, and before noonall had reached their quarters. From twenty to thirty miles had beencovered that morning, in riding the line and recovering the lost, and atthe agreed time, the relay horses were under saddle for the afternoontask. The sun had held sway, the wind had fallen, and as they followedup the valley, they encountered the cattle in large bunches, grazing toevery quarter of the compass. They were not molested on the outwardride, but on the return trip, near evening, they were all turned back tothe sheltering nooks and coves which the bends of the Beaver afforded. Acrimpy night followed, but an early patrol in the morning found thecattle snug in the dry, rank grasses which grew in the first bottoms ofthe creek.

  The first storm had been weathered. The third day, of their own accord,the cattle left the valley and grazed ou
t on the northern divide. Theline-riders relaxed their vigil, and in preparation for observing theNatal day, each camp put forth its best hunter to secure a venison. Theabsence of snow, during the storm, had held the antelope tributary tothe Beaver, and locating game was an easy matter. To provide the roast,the spirit of rivalry was accented anew, and each camp fervently hopedfor its own success.

  A venison hung at headquarters before noon, Manly making a running shotat the leader of a band, which was surprised out of a morning siestanear the old trail crossing. If a quarry could only be found in the sandhills, a natural shelter for antelope, Sargent had flattered Dell intobelieving that his aim was equal to the occasion. The broken nature ofthe dune country admitted of stealthy approach, and its nearness to theupper camp recommended it as an inviting hunting ground. Thedisappointment of the first effort, due to moderated weather, was infinding the quarry far afield. A dozen bands were sighted from theprotection of the sand hills, a mile out on the flat plain, but withoutshelter to screen a hunter. Sargent was equal to the occasion, andselecting a quarry, the two horses were unsaddled, the bridle reinslengthened by adding ropes, and crouching low, their mounts afforded thenecessary screen as they grazed or were driven forward. By tacking rightand left in a zigzag course they gained the wind, and a stealthyapproach on the band was begun. The stabled horses grazed ravenously,sometimes together, then apart, affording a perfect screen for stalking.

  After a seeming age to Dell, the required rifle range was reached, whenthe cronies flattened themselves in the short grass and allowed thehorses to graze to their rope's end. Sargent indicated a sentinel buck,presenting the best shot; and using his elbow for a rest, the rifle waslaid in the hollow of Dell's upraised hand and drawn firmly to hisshoulder, and a prompt report followed. The shot went wild, throwing upa flash of dust before the band, which instantly whirled. The horsesmerely threw up their heads in surprise, attracting the startled quarry,which ran up within fifty yards of the repeating rifle. In theexcitement of the moment instantly following the first shot, Dell hadarisen to his knee, unmindful of the necessity of throwing anothercartridge into the rifle barrel. "Shoot! Shoot!" whispered Sargent, asthe band excitedly halted within pistol range. Dell fingered the triggerin vain. "Throw in a cartridge!" breathlessly suggested Sargent. Thelever clicked, followed by a shot, which tore up the sod within a fewfeet of the muzzle of the rifle!

  The antelope were away in a flash. Sargent rolled on the grass, laughinguntil the tears trickled down his cheeks, while Dell's chagrin left himstanding like a simpleton.

  "I don't believe this gun shoots true," he ventured at last, toomortified to realize the weakness of his excuse. "Besides, it's too easyon the trigger."

  "No rifle shoots true during buck ague season," answered Sargent, notdaring to raise his eyes. "When the grass comes next spring, those scarsin the sod will grow over. Lucky that neither horse was killed. Honest,I'll never breathe it! Not for worlds!"

  Sargent's irony was wasted. Dell, in a dazed way, recovered his horse,mounted, and aimlessly followed his bunkie. On reaching their saddles,the mental fog lifted, and as if awakening from a pleasant dream, theboy dismounted. "Did I have it?--the buck ague?" he earnestly inquired.

  "You had symptoms of it," answered Sargent, resaddling his horse."Whenever a hunter tries to shoot an empty gun, or discharges one intothe ground at his feet, he ought to take something for his nerves. It'snot fatal, and I have hopes of your recovery."

  The two turned homeward. Several times Sargent gave vent to a peal oflaughter that rang out like a rifle report, but Dell failed toappreciate the humor of the situation.

  "Well," said the older one, as they dismounted at the stable, "if wehave to fall back on corn beef for our Christmas dinner, I can grace itwith a timely story. And if we have a saddle of venison, it will fit theoccasion just as well."

  The inner line was ridden at evening. The cattle were caring forthemselves; but on meeting the lads from headquarters, an unusual amountof banter and repartee was exchanged.

  "Killed an antelope two days before you needed it," remarked Sargentscathingly. "Well, well! You fellows certainly haven't much confidencein your skill as hunters."

  "Venison improves with age," loftily observed Manly.

  "That's a poor excuse. At best, antelope venison is dry meat. We locateda band or two to-day, and if Dell don't care for the shot, I'll go outin the morning and bring in a fat yearling."

  "Is that your prospect for a Christmas roast?" inquired Manly withrefined sarcasm. "Dell, better air your Sunday shirt to-morrow and comedown to headquarters for your Christmas dinner. We're going to havequite a spread."

  Dell threw a glance at Sargent. "Come on," said the latter with polishedcontempt, reining his horse homeward. "Just as if we lived on beans atThe Wagon! Just as if our porcelain-lined graniteware wasn't as good astheir tin plates! Catch us accepting! Come on!"

  Sargent was equal to his boast. He returned the next day before noon, ayoung doe lashed to his saddle cantle, and preparations were made for anextensive dinner. The practical range man is usually a competent cook,and from the stores of the winter camp a number of extra dishes wereplanned. In the way of a roast, on the plains, a saddle of venison wasthe possible extreme, and the occupants of the line-camp possessed aruddy health which promised appetites to grace the occasion.

  Christmas day dawned under ideal conditions. Soft winds swayed the deadweeds and leafless shrubs, the water trickled down the creek from poolto pool, reminding one of a lazy, spring day, with droning bees andflights of birds afield. Sargent rode the morning patrol alone, meetingJoel at the halfway point, when the two dismounted, whiling away severalhours in considering future plans of the ranch.

  It was high noon when the two returned to their respective quarters.Dell had volunteered to supervise the roasting of the venison, and onhis crony's return, the two sat down to their Christmas dinner. What therepast lacked in linen and garnishment, it made up in stability, gracedby a cheerfulness and contentment which made its partakers at peace withthe world. Sargent was almost as resourceful in travel and story asQuince Forrest, and never at a loss for the fitting incident to graceany occasion.

  Dell was a good listener. Any story, even at his own expense, wasenjoyed. "Whether we had corn beef or venison," said he to Sargent, "youpromised to tell a story at dinner to-day."

  "The one that you reminded me of when you shot the rifle into the groundat your feet and scared the antelope away? No offense if I have tolaugh; you looked like a simpleton."

  "Tell your story; I'm young, I'll learn," urged Dell.

  "You may learn to handle a gun, and make the same mistake again, but ina new way. It's live and learn. This man was old enough to be yourfather, but he looked just as witless as you did."

  "Let's have the story," impatiently urged the boy.

  "It happened on a camp hunt. Wild turkeys are very plentiful in certainsections of Texas, and one winter a number of us planned a week'sshooting. In the party was a big, raw-boned ex-sheriff, known as one ofthe most fearless officers in the state. In size he simply towered abovethe rest of us.

  "It was a small party, but we took along a commissary wagon, anambulance, saddle horses, and plenty of Mexicans to do the clerking andcoarse handwriting. It was quite a distance to the hunting grounds, andthe first night out, we made a dry camp. A water keg and every jug onthe ranch had been filled for the occasion, and were carried inthe wagon.

  "Before reaching the road camp, the big sheriff promised us a quailpot-pie for breakfast, and with that intent, during the afternoon, hekilled two dozen partridges. The bird was very plentiful, and instead ofpicking them for a pot-pie, skinning such a number was much quicker. Inthe hurry and bustle of making the camp snug for the night, every onewas busy, the sheriff in particular, in dressing his bag of quail. Onfinishing the task, he asked a Mexican to pour some water, and the horsewrangler reached into the wagon, at random, and emptied a small jug intothe vessel containing the dressed birds.

  "
The big fellow adjourned to the rear and proceeded to wash and drainhis quail. After some little time, he called to the cook: 'Ignacio, Ismell kerosene. Look in the wagon, please, and see if the lanternisn't leaking.'

  "'In a minute,' answered the cook, busy elsewhere.

  "The sheriff went on washing the quail, and when about halfway throughthe task, he halted. 'Ignacio, I smell that kerosene again. See if thelantern isn't upset, or the oil jug leaking.'

  "'Just in a minute,' came the answer as before. 'My hands are in theflour.'

  "The big man went on, sniffing the air from time to time, nearlyfinishing his task, when he stopped again and pleadingly said: 'Ignacio,I surely smell kerosene. We're out for a week, and a lantern without oilputs us in a class with the foolish virgins. Drop your work and seewhat the trouble is. There's a leak somewhere.'

  "The cook dusted the flour from his hands, clambered up on the wagonwheel, lifted the kerosene jug, pulled the stopper, smelt it, shook it,and lifted it above his head in search of a possible crack. The emptyjug, the absence of any sign of leakage, gradually sifted through hismind, and he cast an inquiring glance at the big sheriff, just thenfinishing his task. Invoking heaven and all the saints to witness, hegasped, 'Mr. Charlie, you've washed the quail in the kerosene!'

  "The witless, silly expression that came into that big man's face isonly seen once in a lifetime," said Sargent in conclusion. "I've beenfortunate, I've seen it twice; once on the face of a Texas sheriff, andagain, when you shot a hole in the ground with your eye on an antelope.Whenever I feel blue and want to laugh, I conjure up the scene of aMexican, standing on a wagon wheel, holding a jug, and a six-footer inthe background, smelling the fingers of one hand and then the other."