CHAPTER VII
The next day the gates of a new world opened for Greek Conniston. Andit was a world which he liked little enough. The cook, rattling hispots and pans and stove-lids, woke him long before it was fouro'clock. One by one the men tumbled out, dressed swiftly, washed andcombed their hair at the low bench by the door, and then sat aboutsmoking or wandered away to the stable to attend to their horses. Atfour o'clock the table was set, coffee and biscuits and steaks sendingout their odors to float together upon the morning air. Conniston gotup with the others and washed at the common basin, contenting himselfwith running his fingers through his hair rather than to use the onebroken-toothed comb. One or two of the boys said a short "Mornin'" tohim, but the most of them seemed to see him no more than they had whenhe had entered the bunk-house last evening. Lonesome Pete nodded tohim and, when they all sat down, indicated a chair at his side for himto sit in.
There was a great bruise upon his forehead and a cut where the muzzleof Brayley's gun had struck him, but he was surprised to find thatboth dizziness and faintness had passed entirely and that he wasfeeling little inconvenience from the blow which last night hadstretched him out unconscious.
He ate with the others in silence, making no reference to Brayley,noting that they gave no evidence of remembering the trouble of lastnight. The fare was coarse, and he was not used to such dishes forbreakfast any more than he was used to getting up at four o'clock toeat them. But he was hungry, and the coffee and the biscuits weregood. After breakfast he found himself outside of the bunk-house withLonesome Pete.
"When Brayley's away," the cowboy was saying, over hiscigarette-making, "Rawhide Jones takes his place. An' Rawhide saysyou're to come with me an' give me a hand over to the cross-fence. Iguess we'd better be makin' a start, huh?"
Conniston went with him to the stable. "We ain't brought in any extryhosses," Pete was explaining, as they came into one of the corrals."You'll ride your own to-day?"
In one of the stalls Conniston found the horse he had ridden fromIndian Creek, with his saddle, bridle, spurs, and chaps hanging uponwooden pegs. And in the next stall he saw the horse Hapgood hadridden.
"Hasn't Hapgood gone yet?" he asked of Pete.
"I don't reckon he has. He had supper with the Ol' Man up to the houselas' night. An' I guess he's stayed over to res' up."
They swung to their horses' backs and rode through the trees and oneastward across a long grassy slope from which the shadows of thenight were just beginning to lift. As day came on Conniston saw thatahead of them for miles ran a barren-looking, treeless country, risingon the one hand to the foot of the mountains, falling away graduallyon the other to the Big Flat. They rode swiftly, side by side, forfive miles, passing through many grazing herds of cattle, many smallerbands of horses. And finally, when they came to a wire fence runningnorth and south, Lonesome Pete swung down from his saddle.
On the ground near the fence were hammers, a pick, a shovel, and acrowbar. The old barley-sack at the foot of one of the posts gave outthe jingle of nails as Pete's boot struck against it. And Conniston,dismounting and tying his horse, began his first lesson infence-repairing.
The loose wires they tightened with the short iron bar, in the end ofwhich a V-shaped cut had been made. While Pete caught the slack wirewith this bar, and, using the post as a fulcrum, the bar as a lever,drew it taut, Conniston with hammer and staples made it secure. Nowand again they found a rotten post which must be taken out, while anew one from a row which had been dumped from a wagon yesterday wasput into its place.
It was easy work, and Conniston found, that he rather enjoyed thenovelty of it. But as hour after hour dragged by with the sameunceasing monotony, as the sun crept burning into the hot sky, and thewires, the crowbar, even the pick-handle blistered his hands, he beganto feel the cramp of fatigue in his stooping shoulders and in hisforearms and back. Noon came at last, and he and Lonesome Pete ate thecold lunch which the latter had brought, drank from the bottle ofwater, and lay down for a smoke. Conniston had left his pipe at thebunk-house, and accepted from his fellow-worker his coarse, cheaptobacco and brown papers.
The morning had been endlessly long. The afternoon was an eternity. Itwas hotter now that the sun had rolled past the zenith, now that thesand had drunk deep of its fiery rays. The air shimmered and dancedabove the gray monotone of flat country, Conniston's eyeballs wereburning with it. And back and arms and shoulders ached together. Hehad hoped that they would quit work at five o'clock. Five o'clock cameand went, and the red-headed man said no word of stopping. Half-pastfive, six o'clock. And still they tightened wires, hammered burningstaples, dug endless post-holes. Conniston's hands were torn with thesharp staples, blistered with the work. Half-past six, and he wasready to throw down his tools and quit. But a glance at hiscompanion's face, sweat-covered but showing nothing of the fatigue ofthe day, and Conniston held doggedly to his work, ashamed to stop.
And, together with the breathless heat of the still afternoon, theache and dizziness returned to his head where Brayley's gun had struckhim; a new and growing nausea told him that a man is not knockedunconscious one day to forget all about it the next. As hestraightened up from bending over the lowest wire, nausea andfaintness together threatened to make him throw up his hands andacknowledge himself unfit for the new sort of existence into which hehad rushed carelessly. He was not certain why, in spite of all that hefelt, he held on. He knew only that as the son of William Conniston hemust be the superior in all things to the man who worked at his sidelike a machine; he knew that in spite of his liking for Lonesome Petehe held the cowboy in a mild contempt, and that he must not be outdoneby him.
When at length the sun had sunk out of sight through the flamingcolors of its own weaving in the flat lands to the west, and LonesomePete threw down his tools at the foot of the last post which they hadplanted in the sandy soil, Conniston was too tired to greatly carethat the day was done. He refused the proffered cigarette, and slowlywalked away to where his horse was waiting for him. He did not knowthat the other man was looking at him curiously, that there was muchamusement and a hint of surprise in the bright-blue eyes. He knew onlythat he had toiled from before sunrise until after sunset; that thewaking hours to which he had been long accustomed had been turnedtopsy-turvy; that instead of spending money he had been making money;that he had earned his board and lodging and one dollar! And evenwhile he ached and throbbed throughout his whole weary body he wasvaguely amused at that.
When finally they came again into the Half Moon corrals Lonesome Petecarelessly offered to unsaddle for Conniston and water and feed hishorse. And Conniston, while not ungrateful, answered with shortdoggedness that he could do his own part of the work.
They came to the bunk-house to find that several of the boys had eatenbefore them, that two or three of them were already in bed. The cook,however, had supper waiting for them, kept hot in the oven of his bigstove. Conniston knew that he was hungry; during the ride in he hadthought longingly of a hot meal and bed. But now he learned what itwas to be hungry and at the same time too tired to eat. He drank somecoffee, ate a little bread and butter, and, pushing his plate away,climbed into his bunk.
He thought longingly of silk pajamas and a hot bath--and started upfinding himself half asleep, dreaming of miles of wire fence, ofhammering staples and tightening wires, of laboring with breakingback over holes which, as fast as he dug them, filled with theshifting sand. And then--it seemed to him that he had been in bed tenminutes--he heard the cook rattling his pots and pans and stove-lids,and knew that the night had gone and that the second day of his newlife had come.
The first day had been purgatory. The second was hell. His raw,blistered fingers shrank from his hammer-handle, from the sun-heatediron bar. The muscles which through long idleness had grown soft, andwhich had been taxed all day yesterday, cried out with sharp pains asto-day they were called upon. He had thought that the night would haverested him; instead it had but made his arms and hands and back stiffand unfit. When
ten o'clock came he felt as tired as he had been lastnight at quitting-time. The heat was more intense, the day sultry,with a thin film of clouds across the gray sky allowing the sun's raysto scorch the earth, refusing to let the sand radiate the heat whichclung to it like a bank of heavy steam. Their water-bottle, althoughthey kept it always in the shade of some scorched tree or bush, grewas warm as the air about it. Still Conniston drank great quantities ofthe warm water until even it warred against him and made him sick. Allmorning long he fought against a dull, throbbing headache. At noontimehe ate little, but sat still, with his bursting temples between hishands.
Again the afternoon dragged on, unbearably long, each tortuous seconda slow period of agony. Lonesome Pete's stories of the range countryhe heard, while he did not attempt to grasp their significance. Theyno longer amused him. His own position, his own condition, no longeramused him. He felt that he could not laugh; he knew that he wouldnot. He told himself over and over that he was a fool for attemptingdrudgery like this. He vowed that when at last the day's work was donehe would go to Mr. Crawford and say, "I have worked off what I oweyou. I am going to quit." They could think what they chose. They couldlaugh if it pleased them. His was a finer nature than theirs; he was agentleman, thank God, and no day-laborer.
And night came, and he ate what he could and dragged himself into hisbunk in silence. He saw the glances which were directed toward himwhen he came into the bunk-house; he knew what the men were thinking.He knew what they would say. And while it had been pride until now,now it was nothing in the world but lack of moral courage which madehim stick to the thing which he hated.
This day again he had seen Roger Hapgood's horse in the stable. He hadheard one of the men say that Hapgood was still resting up at thehouse as a guest. He himself had not had a fleeting glimpse of ArgylCrawford, and he knew that Hapgood was seeing her constantly. A quickbitterness made up of resentment and a kind of jealousy sprang upwithin him. He knew that at least the girl was blameless, and yet heblamed her. He told himself, knowing that he was wrong, that she wasunfair, unjust, even unkind.
The third day came. It was longer, drearier, wearier than the othertwo had been. He began to fear that soon he should have to give up.His body, instead of becoming gradually inured to the long hours oftoil, seemed to be gradually succumbing to them. He felt that he waswearing out, breaking down. He did not know if Hapgood were still onthe Half Moon or if he had gone. He did not greatly care.
Brayley was back from the Lone Dog. He saw him at night when he cameinto the bunk-house. He and Brayley looked at each other, saying noword. Brayley turned with a casual remark to one of the men; Connistontook his place at the table. Still they said nothing to each other,each man knowing without words that what had passed between them waspassed until some new incident should arise to settle matters forthem. Brayley, being quick of eye, saw that Conniston had adopted atleast one of the customs of the range, and that he carried a revolverat his belt.
The third day was Friday. Conniston determined to work Saturday. Thenhe would have Sunday for rest. And when Sunday afternoon came he couldquit if he felt that his aching body had not recuperated enough tomake the following week bearable. But he had yet to learn that in therush of busy days on the range there is no Sunday. For Sunday morningcame and brought no opportunity to sleep until noon. Breakfast wasready at the usual dim hour, and the men went to work as they had onevery day since he came to the Half Moon. They knew what he did not,that for many weeks to come they might have no single day off. Andthey understood, and did not complain.
Brayley stopped him that morning as he was going out of the bunk-housedoor with Lonesome Pete.
"We got something else to do besides tinker with ol' fences," he said,roughly. "Pete, you got to git along alone to-day. I'll give you a manto-morrow if I can spare one. Conniston, you git your hoss an' go withRawhide an' Toothy."
Not stopping for an answer, Brayley lurched away toward therange-house. Lonesome Pete, nodding his red head to show that he hadheard, filled his water-bottle and got the lunch the cook had readyfor him. And Conniston, wondering vaguely what work the Sunday was tobring for him, turned silently and followed Rawhide and the man whomthey called Toothy to the stables.
Toothy was a little man, so stubborn, they said, that he even refusedto let the sun brown his skin. Instead of being the coppery hue of hiscompanions, the parchment-like stuff drawn tight over his highcheek-bones was a dirty yellow. His eyes were small, set closetogether, and squinted eternally in a sort of mirthless grin. Histeeth, which had given him his name, were the most conspicuous of hisodd features. The two front incisors of his upper jaw protrudedoutward so as to close when his mouth was shut--and generally itwasn't--over his lower lip. He was the smallest man on the range andby long odds the ugliest. But he could ride!
Conniston was sorry to be separated from Lonesome Pete, the only manof the outfit with whom he spoke a dozen words a day, the only man whodid not treat him as a rank outsider and an alien. But, on the otherhand, he was glad that he was to be given a respite from theblistering wires of the cross-fence, that he was to be given change ofwork. And when he learned what the work was he was doubly glad. Thethree men were to ride twenty miles from the bunk-house to the lowercorrals of the Lone Dog to gather up a herd of steers there and drivethem across to the Sunk Hole. It would mean long hours in the saddle,but Conniston told himself that riding, urging on lagging cattle,would be almost rest after the drudgery of the last four days. And insome elusive way, not clear to himself, he felt that this workcarried with it a bit less humiliation than the sort of "hired man'swork" which he had been doing with Lonesome Pete.
Like many men who know of the range only what they have read in books,only what they have seen in breezy pictures, it seemed to Connistonthat there could be no life so lazy as that of the cowboy who hasnothing to do but ride a spirited horse, day in and day out to drivesluggish-blooded cows from one pasture to another or to amarket-place, to watch over them as they grazed, or to ride along theoutskirts of a scattering herd to see that they did not stray beyond aset boundary-line. That life, as he saw it, was an existence withoutresponsibility, without fatigue, even tinged with something ofexhilaration as one galloped up and down over wide grassy meadows.To-day he began to learn that a gay-colored picture may hide quite asmuch as it shows.
They left the Half Moon corrals at a gentle canter, Conniston swingingalong beside the other men, actually enjoying himself. He wondered atthe deliberate slowness with which Rawhide Jones and Toothy begantheir errand. For he had heard the few short orders which Brayley hadgiven, and he knew that to-day was a day of haste, with much to bedone. But before they had cantered more than a mile across the rollingcountry to the west he saw that there was going to be no loitering.They had ridden slowly only until their horses had "warmed up," andnow, shaking out their reins loosely, they swept on at a pace whichallowed of little conversation. They drew away from the Half Mooncorrals at four o'clock. It was not yet six when they pulled in theirpanting, sweat-covered horses at the corrals of the Lone Dog.
These corrals were at the lower, eastern end of the Lone Dog, and someten miles from the Lone Dog bunk-house. To reach them the three menhad ridden across three spurs of the mountains, across much roughcountry, and always at a swinging gallop. Conniston's legs, where theyrubbed against the sweat leathers of his saddle, were already chafedand raw. With the day's work still ahead of him he was tired and sore.He was more glad than he was willing to confess even to himself whenhe saw the corrals ahead. For now, he assured himself, there could belittle to do but jog along after a slow-moving body of cattle.
The three big corrals were crowded with a bellowing, churning,restless mass of cattle, big, long-horned steers for the most part,and vicious-looking. In a much smaller inclosure were a fewsaddle-horses--half-broken colts, to look at them--thrusting theirlong noses above their fence to stare at the seething jam of cattle,or, with tails and manes flying, to run here and there snorting. Twomen on horseback were sitt
ing idly near the corrals, seeming to havenothing in all the world to do but smoke cigarettes and watch themilling cattle.
Conniston drew rein with his companions as they stopped for a wordwith the two men from the Lone Dog. And then he followed them whenthey turned and rode to the little corral. The horses in it bunchedup, quick-eyed, alert, at the far side of the inclosure. Rawhide Jonesand Toothy as they rode were taking down the ropes coiled upon theirsaddles.
"We're goin' to change hosses here," Rawhide said, shortly. "Pick outone for yourse'f, Conniston."
They had ridden into the corral, their ropes in their hands, each mandragging a wide loop at his right side. Toothy rode swiftly into theknot of horses, scattered them, and, as they shot across the corral,sent his rope flying out over their heads. The long loop widened intoa circle, hissed through the air, and settled about the neck of alittle pinto mare, tightening as it fell. A quick turn about the hornof his saddle, and Toothy set up his own horse. The pinto mare,checked in her headlong flight, swung about, confronting her captorwith quivering nostrils and belligerent, flashing eyes. Almost at thesame instant Rawhide's rope obeyed Rawhide's hand as Toothy's haddone, settling unerringly about the neck of a second horse. AndConniston, with grave misdoubtings and a thumping heart, took his ownrope into his hand and rode among the untamed brutes, one of which hewas to ride.
Here was another thing which seemed, upon the face of it, so simpleand which was simple--to the range born and bred. He knew that therewere four men watching him as he fumbled awkwardly with his rope. Heknew that in spite of their grave faces they were laughing inwardly.He found that to hold the coil of rope in his left hand while thatsame hand must keep a tight rein upon his mount, to whirl the wideningloop with his right, throwing it at just the right second with justthe right force, was one of the things which in pictures looked to beso easy and which were not at all easy to accomplish. He grew hot andred as he became entangled in his own rope.
At last he selected a big roan and threw his rope. He threw awkwardlyand a second too late. The loop fell fifteen paces behind the horse,who had seen, understood, and shot by in a flash. Again he coiled hisrope, drawing it in to him as he had seen the others do; again hethrew, and again he missed. He heard Rawhide Jones curse softly,contemptuously.
Now the horse which he was riding began to plunge and rear, frightenedat the rope which now fell upon its back, now struck its flanks in theunskilled hands of the man who was growing the more awkward as hisanger surged higher within him.
"You blame fool!" yelled Rawhide Jones. "What in hell are you tryin'to do? Want to throw your own cayuse?"
Conniston glared at him and again coiled his rope. The big roan wasonce more surrounded by a crowd of his fellows, his ears erect, hislong neck outstretched, his eyes watchful and distrustful. The man whowas beginning to look upon lassoing as a sheer matter of sleight ofhand made his loop again carefully, slowly, trying to convince himselfthat here was an easy matter, and that the next time he shouldsucceed. And even as he began whirling it above his head, one half ofboth mind and muscle given over to restrain his nervous mount, he sawanother rope shoot out from behind him and settle, tightening, aboutthe roan's neck.
"Bein' as we ain't got all summer to practise up lass'in' bosses,"Toothy murmured, apologetically.
Conniston tied his rope to his saddle-strings in silence. After all,there was something to do beyond sit in a saddle. And he soon foundthat even that was not always play. For the roan which he had selectedfought at having the saddle thrown upon his back, so that Toothy hadto lend a helping hand. And when the cinch was drawn tight he foughtat being mounted. He had been broken, at least--and at most--as muchbroken as the rest of the three and four year olds in the corral. Buthe had not been ridden above a dozen times, and certainly had notknown the feel of rope or bridle or saddle for months. When at lastConniston got his foot into the stirrup and swung up, violating allrange ethics by "pulling leather," the colt shot through the gate ofthe corral which Rawhide Jones had thrown open, and across the unevenplain, determined, since he could not run away from his enemy, to runaway with him.
At home Conniston was accounted an excellent horseman. That meant thathe was used to horses, that he rode gracefully, that he was not afraidof them. Horses like the maddened, terrified brutes in the corral,like the quivering, frantic thing he precariously bestrode, he hadnever even seen. And still, because he was doggedly determined not tofail in everything, because he knew that the men who were watchingwere enjoying themselves hugely and that they would be greatlydelighted to see him thrown, he at last stopped his horse, and withspur and quirt urged him back to the corrals. The roan still fought,still half bucked. But he had not entirely forgotten his past defeatsin encounters like this, and finally allowed himself to be mastered.
Then began the real day's work. There were perhaps fifty cows andyoung heifers in the corrals which were to be left behind, as only thesteers were to be driven across country to the Sunk Hole. WhileRawhide Jones and Toothy rode into one of the corrals Conniston was tosit his horse at the open gate, allowing the steers to run by him intothe open, but heading off any of the smaller cattle. The two Lone Dogmen were together working another corral.
Steer after steer passed by Conniston as he held his horse aside,keeping a watchful eye for the cows. Rawhide and Toothy were "cuttingthem out" as best they could, urging the steers toward the gate,trying to keep the cows to the far side of the inclosure. But againand again a quick-footed heifer pressed her slender body against thatof some big, long-horned steer, running with him. That she did notpass through the gate was Conniston's lookout.
They were not sluggish-blooded brutes. They were as swift as a horsealmost, quick-footed, alert to leap forward or to stop with sharphoofs cutting the dry dirt, and swing shortly to the side. In a suddenonrush toward him Conniston shut off one cow by forcing his horse infront of her and threatening her with his waving quirt. As she turnedand ran back into the mass behind her he saw two more cows runningtoward the gate. He swung his horse and dashed at them. But they hadseen their opportunity, they had grasped it, and they shot through thegate, mingling with the herd outside.
Again Rawhide cursed him, and Conniston made no answer, having none tomake. He gave over his place silently at Rawhide's surly order androde over to aid Toothy. And he marveled at the ease with whichRawhide did the thing which he himself had found simple from adistance and impossible near at hand.
At last, behind the scattering herd of running cattle, they left thecorrals and the Lone Dog men behind, and began their drive forty milesto the Sunk Hole. Now a man must be a hundred places at the same time.In twenty minutes the three horses were wet and dripping with sweat.The herd was one which ordinarily, when there was not so muchrequiring to be done at once on the ranges, half a dozen men wouldhave handled. The steers were wild; they were as stubborn as hogs;there was no narrow, fenced-in road to keep them in the way theyshould go. They broke back again and again; they turned off to rightand left by ones and twos, by scores. While Conniston galloped afterone of them that had left the others and broken into a run to theright the main part of the herd over which he should have beenwatching took advantage of the opportunity to lose themselves in thetimbered gulches to the left. Both Rawhide Jones and Toothy had toride with him to drive them out of the gulches and back to the herd.
Conniston learned that day how a cattle-man can swear--and why. Helearned that a steer is not the easiest thing in the world to handle,that sometimes he is not content with fleeing from his natural enemy,but charges with lowered horns and froth-dripping mouth upon man andhorse. He learned many, many little things that day, and some bigthings. And the biggest thing came to him suddenly, and brought a lookinto his eyes which had never been there before. He learned that GreekConniston, the son of William Conniston, of Wall Street, was the mostinefficient man upon the range.
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