“I’ll get right to it, sir.”
Ben liked the boy. Not only was he polite and called him mister and sir, he offered no argument or complaints about the kitchen chores. Most cowboys — including potential ones — detested the inside work in the cookhouse or helping at the chuck wagon during round-ups. The cook was also fair game for taunting and teasing by the ranch hands. And to make things more precarious, a range chef could get a serious beating-up if he whipped up some bad grub for a crew of tired, irritated cowpokes.
Within a short time Silsby was deep into the cleaning chore, the brush making heavy swishing sounds as he worked the accumulated grease loose from the pots’ insides. In a half-hour he had them clean and shining. Once more Ben was pleased. “You done good, boy. Now go find Charlie and get on with your roping lessons.” He winked at him. “Or would you rather take the time to have a hunk of that cherry pie left over from supper last night?”
“I’d be much obliged, Mr. Shaw.”
“It’s over there on the table under the cloth,” Ben said, pointing over to where a swarm of buzzing flies was vainly trying to get to the sweet food. “Finish her off. They’s one big piece.”
Silsby fanned the insects away and uncovered the pie. He ate rapidly, devouring the desert that was heavy with cornstarch. When he finished, he cleaned off the pie plate and set it on the stack with the others. “Are you sure there ain’t nothing else I can do, Mr. Shaw?”
“They’ll be plenty of work for you later on, don’t worry none about that,” Ben said. “You’ll learn to hate the sight of the chuck wagon.”
Silsby grinned. “Not if that’s where the grub is kept.”
Ben laughed. “If you say so. Now you’d best get on with your lessons while you got the chance.”
“Yes, sir.”
Silsby went out to find Charlie for his roping instruction. The foreman was standing by the corral, amusing himself with rope tricks as Silsby walked up. Charlie spun a loop close to the ground and jumped in and out of it a couple of times before it came loose.
“Say!” Silsby exclaimed. “That’s right keen!”
“Nothing to it,” Charlie said. “Once you’ve used a rope some, you’ll be able to do it easy. Prob’ly better’n me.” He nodded toward the small herd of horses inside the corral. “Let’s get to work. We’ll start you out with a toss we call a forefooting slip catch.” He added, “Put on your gloves, you’re really gonna need ’em.”
Silsby complied, asking, “Ain’t I gonna be riding a horse and chasing ’em down?”
“You ain’t near ready for that,” Charlie replied with a laugh. “First you’ll learn to toss a lariat on foot. Later on when you’re a real cowboy, you can learn to catch cattle with some of the harder throws.” They went inside the fenced area where a half dozen of ranch horses gave them wary looks. Charlie adjusted the rope then advanced toward the animals. “Let’s get the little roan first,” he said. “She won’t fight you much, so she’s a good’un to start on.”
Silsby followed on the foreman’s heels as he advanced toward the mount. Charlie swung the large loop over his head, waiting for his chance. When the horse began trotting, he waited until the right moment then tossed the loop out in front of the roan’s forefeet. As she ran into the rope, he pulled it taut, making the catch as he braced himself for the jolt.
“Mighty fancy, Charlie!”
“I’ll do it a couple of more times, then you have a go at it.” The seasoned cowboy skillfully performed the catch in several demonstrations before he tossed the rope to Silsby.
“Here goes nothing,” Silsby said. At first he couldn’t even keep the loop intact as he whirled it over his head. His face reddened in angry disappointment. “Dagnab it!”
“Go easy on yourself,” Charlie said. “You’re just starting out. Your problem is that you ain’t holding the honda right.”
Silsby got it adjusted correctly after spinning the rope over his head a couple of times. Finally, the boy had the loop going the right size. He walked toward the mare who trotted away.
“Get her in position, Silsby!”
His first toss collapsed before the roan even reached it. He tried a few more times, each a failure as the horse simply went by too fast. “I just ain’t getting the hang of this,” Silsby said, embarrassed. It seemed things on the ranch were going to be exactly the same as at home. One mistake after the other. He had been surprised that the work in the cookhouse had gone so well.
“Good God, boy!” Charlie exclaimed. “You ain’t even started yet. You cain’t expect to be an expert roper in less than a hour.”
“I’ll keep trying.”
“I’d hate to work for you if you’re that hard on your own self,” Charlie said. “Relax and have a good time.”
But Silsby couldn’t make a game of it. Sweat ran off his forehead and dripped down his face as he doggedly went after the roan. Charlie sat on the corral fence and gave encouraging instructions to correct the boy’s mistakes.
Finally the first catch was made, but Silsby was jerked off his feet and he lost the rope. He got up completely disgusted with himself, waiting for Charlie to give him hell about his ineptness.
“You’re over the first hill,” the foreman said. “You’ll find catching her is easier now. Remember to brace yourself and pull back a little.”
After a couple of misses, Silsby made the right moves. He caught the horse and pulled her toward him. He immediately released her and performed a half dozen more faultless catches.
“You’re doing damn good, Silsby,” Charlie said. “You’re a fast learner.” Suddenly Silsby felt wonderfully confident. This was the second bit of praise he’d gotten in one morning.
“Now let’s teach you what we call the hoolihan catch,” Charlie said. “This is gonna take you longer to learn. You ready?”
“I hope so.”
“Do like I said and have fun,” Charlie urged him. “You got to learn how to enjoy yourself, boy. Now watch me.”
Silsby eagerly observed as Charlie advanced on the animal, holding the rope ready. Then he made but one turn around his head before tossing it out. The loop dropped over the roan’s head and he had her. “This is real quick and don’t bother the horses none,” Charlie explained. “You can have two or three fellers in here at the same time throwing hoolihans and not spook the critters.”
“That’s ’cause they don’t have to be running, huh?”
“Right,” Charlie answered. “You just toss the lariat over their heads.” He handed the rope to his student. “Go to it, Pard.”
Silsby had a difficult time with the hoolihan toss. He missed numerous attempts, and his frustration and anger surged. Once more a sense of discouragement set in.
“Calm down, Silsby,” Charlie counseled. “If you get riled, the horses is gonna sense it and they’ll get real skittish. You don’t want to be in the same corral with ’em if’n that happens.
Silsby took a couple of breaths and waited for a moment or two. Then he went after the roan in a calm deliberate manner. The rope swung around his head and he tossed it out. The effort was successful, but he missed his target, catching a large gray gelding.
“Good toss, wrong horse,” Charlie said laughing.
Silsby was angry. “At least I got me a horse, didn’t I?”
Charlie shook his head. “Cain’t you see the humor in nothing? They’s no call for you to get snappish.”
“You’re right.”
“Okay. Now go get that roan.”
It took another fifteen minutes of effort, but Silsby finally found his target. He caught her several times, pulling the gentle animal to him. Then he went after the others, throwing many more catches than misses. “That’s enough,” Charlie said. “We’ll get these horses bad nervous if we spend all morning throwing ropes over ’em.”
“What’ll we do next?”
“I’m gonna show you how to build a rope corral.”
“Let’s do it!” Silsby said, anxious to increase
his knowledge. He knew Charlie was right. He had to learn to relax and enjoy the lessons. He was on his own as a man now, no longer a boy performing farm chores. There was no doubt about it; life on a cattle ranch was going to be grand even for a lowly wrangler.
And he’d gotten an extra piece of cherry pie on the first day too.
Chapter Eleven
Luther McCracken, sitting beside Harvey Matthews, poked at the small fire beneath the tripod of cut saplings. A pot of bubbling rabbit stew hung from the contraption, giving off a combined scent of cooking meat and sage onions.
Tom Ralston and Ed Benson had gone off fishing, leaving the pair alone at the campsite on the Medicine Bundle Grasslands. They had set up but a few scant yards from the spot where Bob Ratner, Ed Byron, and the two cowboys had died in the disastrous gunfight not long before.
The Boomers had expected to spend no more than a week away from their families before being discovered by Lieutenant Grant Hollings and his troopers. Instead, the excursion had now stretched into nine listless days. Three of the wagons were forced to return to Clarkville, but the third, driven by Tom Ralston, came back to the Grasslands with fresh supplies. Now only Luther, Tom, Harvey and Ed occupied the camp.
Harvey Matthews spat into the flames. “They must be big doings over in the Cherokee Strip,” he observed. “Otherwise them soljers would have been here to arrest us by now.”
“Yeah,” Luther remarked absent-mindedly.
“I wish we could go home,” Harvey said. He instinctively glanced northward toward Clarkville. “But I guess we cain’t ‘til them army darkies find us.”
“Yeah.”
“We ain’t seen any of Dewey Harknell’s men neither. I’m thinking that’s peculiar.”
“Maybe not,” Luther said. “Ed says it’s getting close to round-up so they’ll be branding calves. I figger they’re over on the other side of the range.”
“I’m starting to miss my woman’s comp’ny, if you know what I mean,” Harvey said. “We should have made arrangements for some of the other fellers to come out here and trade off with us.”
“We’ll do that next time.”
Harvey laughed. “I’ll bet young W.R. Dunbar was good and randy when he got back to Clarkville. Him with a new young bride. They ain’t got’ny kids so I reckon they’re working at making the first’un.”
“That’s right,” Luther said, poking at the fire some more. Another few moments passed, then he asked, “Do you whip your boys very often, Harvey?”
“No more’n anybody else does their own, I reckon. How come you to ask that?”
“I was thinking on Silsby running away,” Luther said. “I’m a pretty strict pa.”
“Yeah,” Harvey said. “Folks have noticed that.”
“They have?”
“Well, you seem kind of impatient, that’s all.”
“I’m beginning to think maybe I am,” Luther said. “I been worrying lately if maybe I’m too strict with Rebecca too.”
“It’s hard to stay balanced with your kids,” Harvey said. “You got to give them guidance, but you don’t want to be too easy or too hard.”
Luther looked at the far horizon as he talked. “You know that me and Fionna lost our four oldest, don’t you? Measles one summer did ’em in. I always thought it odd that the youngest ones came out all right.”
“That’s unusual,” Harvey said. “It’s the little’uns that generally don’t make it through a spell of sickness.”
“The sawbones said that since Rebecca and Silsby have had the measles, they won’t catch ’em no more.”
“That’s a blessing,” Harvey said. He was thoughtful for a moment. “You been doing a lot of thinking on Silsby running off, ain’t you? It kind of sounds like you’re putting the blame on your own self.”
“I am,” Luther admitted. “It ain’t easy either. I reckon that’s just about all I been thinking on. I was real disappointed when Tom came back with the supplies and told me the boy still wasn’t to home.”
“I reckon Fionna is worried.”
“Rebecca is upset too.”
“Are they perty near the same age? Her and Silsby?”
“Yeah. A couple of years’ differ’nce,” Luther said. “Since the two was the only kids, they’ve had a lot of chores to do between ’em.”
“Do you think Fionna and Rebecca is mad at you about Silsby?”
“I been running that through my mind,” Luther said. “I don’t think I could stand it if they turned agin me, Harvey. Even thinking about it gives me a real lonesome feeling.”
“That would be a burden to bear all right.”
“This is worser than if Silsby had took sick and died,” Luther said more to himself than Harvey. “She coulda got over that eventually, but this is something that might never be forgave.”
“I’d allow as to how you’re right about that.”
“Maybe I should learn not to get so riled about things.”
“That would be a start.”
“I think I’ll put what Fionna and Rebecca want first, then let my own wants come in second,” Luther said. Then he quickly added, “As long as it don’t interfere with anything real important. Womenfolk’s minds don’t always allow them a lot of good sense.”
“That’s for sure,” Harvey said. “Sometimes my wife will say or do something that just leaves me thinking she’s gone plumb crazy.”
Luther grinned. “I know what you mean.”
Harvey stood up. “Looky yonder. Here come the others.”
“I hope they caught some fish,” Luther said. “I’m getting tired of rabbit.”
Harvey spent a few moments watching their two friends come closer. “Nope. It don’t look like they caught a thing.”
Ten minutes later the other Boomers walked up to the camp and dropped off their fishing gear beside the wagon. They joined Luther and Harvey by the fire. “Didn’t get nothing, huh?” Luther remarked.
“Not a nibble,” Tom Ralston said.
“Did you put the lines in the water?” Harvey joked.
Tom only scowled, but Ed Benson laughed. “I knowed we forgot to do something.”
Tom and Ed settled down on a log dragged in from a nearby copse. They turned to their cigars, biting the ends off and spitting them into the fire. “Don’t get them stogie ends in the stew,” Harvey said.
“It might improve the flavor,” Ed suggested with a snigger.
“How much longer are we gonna stay out here?” Tom asked, ignoring the feeble attempt at jocularity. “The cowboys is busy at work and the soljers is over to the Cherokee Strip. I think we’re just wasting our time.”
“We got to stay,” Luther said. “Lorenzo Markham said that the more incidents they is, the more attention is drawed to this situation. Congress has got to act perty soon.”
“Politicians!” Tom scoffed.
“I kind of figgered that Mr. Markham would come out here and see how we’re doing,” Luther said.
“Yeah,” Ed agreed. “Or at least bring us some news.”
Harvey said, “I’d even be glad to see Marshal Sinclair come out here and put the cuffs on us.”
“When is that stew gonna be ready?” Tom asked.
“It’s got to stew some more,” Ed said grinning.
“I don’t know which is worse,” Tom complained. “Just sitting around here or having to listen to your lame jokes.”
“You ain’t gonna have to do either before long,” Ed said. “They’s a dust cloud out there.” He walked over to the wagon and climbed up to stand in the seat to get a better look. “It’s soljers. I can see them blue uniforms.”
“So what’re we gonna do?” Tom asked.
“Me? I’m gonna have some stew,” Luther said. He served himself a bowlful of the thick liquid, blowing on it.
“Me too,” Harvey said.
“We’ll just let them soljers ride in here and see us calmly having a meal,” Luther suggested.
Twenty minutes later Lieutenant Grant H
ollings and his detachment appeared. Their uniforms were dusty and perspiration-soaked as they stopped a bit less than fifteen yards from the Boomers. Grant dismounted, pulling a piece of paper from his tunic pocket. He walked up to the Boomers, displaying the document, foregoing any formalities. “This is a Federal order prohibiting trespassing on the Medicine Bundle Grasslands.”
Luther, well prepared by attorney Lorenzo Markham, stood up. “We’re establishing a town here, Mr. Hollings. Farms too.”
“Mine’s over there,” Harvey Matthews said, pointing off in a northerly direction.
“That’s my farm,” Ed Benson said, nodding toward the south.
Tom Ralston said, “I picked out —”
“That’s enough!” Grant angrily interrupted. “I have just spent a week chasing Boomers off the Cherokee Strip between the Salt Fork and Cimarron Rivers. I am in no mood for your foolishness.”
“We ain’t fooling around, Mr. Hollings,” Luther said.
“Neither am I, Mr. McCracken, as you are about to find out. You have one hour to vacate this area and get off the Medicine Bundle Grasslands. If you don’t obey that order, I’m going to arrest you all.”
“Are you gonna report us either way?” Luther asked.
“Of course,” Grant replied. “They need to keep track of how many incursions occur on these lands. But, report or no, you’ll be leaving here.”
“Can we finish our stew first?” Harvey asked.
Grant ignored him. He turned and faced his troops, calling out, “Sergeant Whitcomb! Corporal Rawlings!” The two noncommissioned officers dismounted and walked stiffly over to report to the lieutenant. Grant ordered, “In one hour, if these men are not well on their way northward toward the Kansas state line, you are to arrest them and place them in irons for transportation to the Federal Court in Wichita.” He turned to the Boomers. “Once there, I shall personally charge you with trespassing on Indian lands.” He scowled at them. “I’m going to rest up a bit. Remember, you have one hour.”
He mounted his horse and rode back to the waiting detachment. When he joined the column, the soldiers dismounted and settled down to wait. Sergeant Whitcomb and Corporal Rawlings stayed with the Boomers. Rawlings pulled out his pocket watch and showed it to Whitcomb.
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