CHAPTER XIV
The Round-up
Much has been written of the passing of the cowboy. With the fencedrange, winter feeding, and short drives his occupation once appeared tobe gone. But the war of the sheep and cattlemen in the Western Stateshas recently caused the government to compel the cattlemen to removethe fences and permit the herds of sheep and cattle to range overpublic lands, and this means a return of the regime of the cowboy, withits old institutions.
Chief among these is the round-up.
A sheepman can shear wherever he happens to be. He can entrain at thenearest shipping-point to his grazing-bed. But a herd of cattle willrange four hundred miles in a season, so the cattlemen will be forcedto revive the round-up, and make the long drives either back to thehome ranch, or to the railroad. More cowboys will have to be employed.All the free life of the open will return. At work the cow-puncher isnot of the drinking, carousing, fight-hunting type; nor again is he ofthe daring romantic school. He is a Western man of the plains. True,after loading up his cattle and getting "paid off," he may spend hisvacation with less dignity and quiet than a bank clerk. But after ayear of hard work with coarse fare he must have some relaxation. Hetakes what he finds. The cattle-towns cater to his worst passions. Heis as noisy in his spending as a college boy, and, on the average, justas good natured and eager to have a good time.
Only a man of tried and proved courage can hold his job. Skill anddaring are needed to handle the half-wild beasts of the herds. Thesteer respects no one on foot, but has a wholesome fear for a mountedman. Taken separately, neither man nor horse has the smallest chancewith range cattle, but the combination inspires the fear noticeableamong the Apaches for cavalryman as compared with their contempt forfoot-soldiers.
The longhorned steer will fight with the ferociousness of a tiger. Amaddened cow will attack even a man on horseback. The most desperatebattles of the range are with cows who have lost their calves.
The cow-puncher first comes in contact with his cattle at the round-up.The outfit consists of a foreman with eight men to each thousand headas drivers. Each man has from six to ten mounts. The broncos are onlyhalf-broken. But they follow a steer like a terrier does a ball. Theydelight in the game as much as a polo-pony.
A chuck-wagon accompanies each outfit. This is usually of the UnitedStates Army type, solidly built and hauled by four mules. The cook ofthe outfit is the driver. He has a helper, a tenderfoot, or a boylearning the trade. In the field only the bravest dares defy the cook.His word on the camp is law. All the men are subject to his call. Inthe wagon are carried a tent, the men's bedding, sleeping-bags, andstores consisting of pork, navy beans, flour, potatoes, cannedtomatoes, and canned peaches. At the rear end of the wagon bed is abuilt-up cupboard, the door of which can be lowered with straps to makea table. Dishes, the lighter food supplies, and a small medicine-chestare stored there. A water-barrel is strapped to the side of the wagon.Enough fire-wood for emergency use is packed under the driver's seat.No wagon is complete without a bucket hanging from the axle.
The spare horses are driven with the herd, the men taking turns at thetask. At daybreak each morning the cowboys scatter from themess-wagon, riding up and down the draws and over the hills, driving inthe cattle for branding and the "cutting out," or separating from theherd, of marketable beeves. These are known as "dogies," "sea-lions,"and "longhorns." The size as well as the nickname depends upon thelocation of the range. The cattle of the Sweetwater valley weresmaller than the northern stock. From four to six thousand were drivenat a time. The calves are lassoed and thrown, and the owner's brand isburned into the hide, leaving a scar which, if the work is well done,will last until the beef is sold. Branding is hard work. The dust,the odor of burning flesh, the heat of the corral fire for heating theirons, the bellowing of frightened mother cows, and the bleating of thecalves, the struggles with the victims, these try men's strength andtempers severely. Once branded, the calf is turned loose and nottouched again until it is four years old and ready for the market.Stray unbranded cattle over a year old are known as "mavericks," andbecome the property of any person branding them.
Having cut out the stock for the drive, a road mark, a supplementarybrand for identification burned into the hides. The long march thenbegins.
A start is made usually in the late spring to reach the railroad in thefall. The drive is as orderly as the march of an army. By naturalselection the leaders of the cattle take the head of the herd. Theyare especially fitted for the place. The same ones are found in thefront every day, and the others fall into position, so that throughoutthe drive the cattle occupy the same relative position each day.
A herd of a thousand beef will stretch out for two miles. The leadersare flanked by cowboys riding upon Mexican saddles with high backs andpommels. The stirrups are worn long, the riders standing in them inemergency. The Mexican is the only saddle fitted for rough work. Thecowboy's seat, his ease in the saddle, would make a poor showing in ariding academy or in a cavalry school. Yet the park rider and thesoldier would be helpless on the range. The cow-puncher of the plainsand the Cossack of the steppes are said to be the best riders in theworld, yet each has a different saddle and seat. An exchange ofequipment makes poor riders of both of them.
The cow-puncher of Texas and Arizona wears chaps of leather orsheepskin to protect his legs from the mesquit-bushes or the thorns ofthe cactus. These plants not being found in the northern plains, chapsare not worn there. The cowboy wears a handkerchief about the neck,not for protection from the sun, but to cover the mouth while ridingthrough sand and windstorms.
Flankers ride on each side of the herd at regular intervals. Thechuck-wagon and the spare horses follow far enough in the rear to avoidthe dust.
For the first few days the drives are long and hard, averaging fromtwenty-five to thirty miles a day, until the cattle are well tired.Then the pace is set at twelve to fifteen miles.
From dawn until noon the herd is allowed to water and graze along thetrail toward their destination. About noon they become restive. Thecowboys then drive them steadily forward for eight or ten miles, untilearly evening, when they are halted for another graze. As night fallsthey are turned into the bedding grounds. The men ride slowly aroundthe herd, crowding them into a compact mass. As the circle lessens thebeasts lie down to rest and chew their cuds.
About midnight the cattle usually get up, stand a while, and then liedown again, having changed sides. The night-guard slowly circles theherd, the men relieving each other at stated intervals.
On rainy, stormy nights, the guard has to double, as the cattle arerestless and easily stampeded. Under a clear sky, breathing thebracing air of the plains, with the herd well in hand, the day's workis a pleasant one. But in a steady downpour, with the thunder rollingand the animals full of fear, the task is one to tax the stoutest heart.
The cause of a stampede is always some trifle. A heavy clap ofthunder, a flash of lightning, the breaking of a stick, the howl of awolf, will start the herd off in a blind rush in any direction,heedless of cliffs over which they may tumble, or of rivers whosecurrent will sweep hundreds of the frightened beasts to death.
Once the cattle are off on a stampede, the cowboys ride recklessly,madly to the head of the herd, getting to one side of the leaders.With shouts and pistol-shots they turn the leaders to one side,gradually at first, and then into the arc of a great circle. Blindlyracing after the leaders the other cattle follow; and round they plungeuntil head and tail of the herd meet, and "milling" begins. Any thatfall are ground to death by the hoofs of the others. This mighty grindcontinues until the animals are exhausted or they have recovered fromthe fight.
To soothe the hysterical beasts, the men begin to sing. Any song willdo, but the drawling old hymn tunes of the Methodist camp-meetings havethe best effect. Ofttimes the more hysterical members of the herd areshot, as a stampede means a great loss. Animals that stampede once areprone to do it again. The mingli
ng of herds increases the danger. Inold days the approach of a herd of buffalo was sure to start a stampedeamong cattle. Men were detailed to turn the shaggy monsters asidewhenever they came within hearing.
Rivers are crossed by one of the cow-punchers swimming his horse in thelead and the other men driving the animals after him.
Once near the shipping-point, the herd is allowed to rest up andfatten, while the owner makes his deal with the cattle-buyers of Omahaor Chicago.
The animals are driven or decoyed into the cars, and the last journey,to the packing-house, begins. Punchers accompany them to feed andwater the beasts on the trip. They help turn them into the pens. Onenight in Chicago, one meal, a dinner ending with a "Lillian Russell"(peaches or apple pie covered with ice-cream) as dessert, and thepunchers start West again to begin anew the work of the fall roundup,which is on a smaller scale than the spring one.
It is dawn in the valley of the Sweetwater. The spring rainshave freshened the verdure of the plain. Clumps of coarse grass fringethe river's brink. Cacti and Spanish bayonets nod in the morningbreeze, which sweeps down from the mountains. Yucca palms andsahuaroes glisten with the dew. In the distance rise the foot-hillscrowned with stunted live-oaks. On the horizon tower the mountains,pine-clad to the timber-line, bare and desolate above.
The outfit of Sweetwater Ranch has gathered for the round-up and thedrive to the railroad. In the absence of her husband, Echo Payson hadassumed complete charge of the ranch, and with the help of Sage-brushhad carried on the work just as she thought Jack would do, hopingagainst hope for his return in safety, and hiding her sorrow from thoseabout her.
Under a clump of cottonwood, a chuck-wagon has halted. Many of theboys on the round-up are still asleep, the night herders returning tocamp. The cook has started his preparations for breakfast. His wagonhas a covered top like a prairie-schooner. The tail-board has beenlowered to form a table, supported by rawhide straps. About him arescattered tin cups and kitchen utensils. A thin spiral of smoke arisesfrom the fire which has been made in a shallow pit to prevent a spreadof flames. The flickering flashes illumine the cook's face as he bendsover a steaming pot of coffee, and reveal the features of Parenthesis.
Parenthesis is mixing dough in a dish-pan set on the tail-board.Sage-brush kneels near him, putting on his spurs, preparatory tosaddling up as he goes on the first relief.
"Wake up Texas and the other boys, Fresno," ordered Sage-brush. TheCalifornian threw away the butt of his cigarette and shook each man bythe shoulder. With much yawning and rubbing of eyes the men crawledfrom their sleeping-bags. Dashing cold water into their faces from abasin beside the water-barrel, they drank copiously of the coffee whichParenthesis poured out for them.
"Mostly all the boys are in now, ain't they?" asked Parenthesis,looking about the group.
"Yep," answered Sage-brush, "we'll finish brandin' the calves to-day.I reckon Fresno will have to take charge of the drive. I can't leavethe ranch until Jack gets back."
Show Low was the only sleeper who had not responded to Parenthesis'call. That worthy walked over and gave him a kick which brought fortha grunt but no other sign of an awakening. Returning to the fire,Parenthesis took a tin cup and poured himself out a cup of coffee.
"Heard any word from him yet?" he asked, as he gulped the beverage.
"Nothin'," replied Sage-brush grimly. "Slim wrote from Fort Grant hewas on the trail, but the 'Paches were out an' they wouldn't let himleave the fort till the soldiers went with him."
"Slim hadn't oughter gone and left things the way he did. Buck McKeeis gettin' a lot of bad men together, and 'lows he is goin' to run forsheriff himself," growled Fresno.
"He's sure got a tough outfit with him; Slim being away ain't doin' usany good. All the rustlers from Texas an' New Mexico came trailin'into the country just as soon as they heard he was gone. Won'tsurprise me if we have a run in with the bunch afore we git throughwith this round-up."
"I got my eye on that Peruna," interjected Fresno.
"Peruna! who's he?" asked Texas.
"One of Buck's outfit," answered Fresno. "He is mighty slick with therunnin'-iron and brandin' other folks' calves."
"We can't be too careful," warned Sage-brush. "Things is strained tothe bustin'-point, and any promise of gun-play is goin' to set off awhole lot of fireworks."
Show Low was on the verge of waking up. This he did, by graduallyincreasing the volume of each snore and breaking it off with a whistle.
At the very moment Sage-brush suggested gun-play, Show Low snorted hisloudest.
"What's that?" asked Sage-brush, grabbing his revolver.
"Show Low. He's a regular brass band when he gets started--from thebig trombone down to the tin whistle," laughed Fresno.
"It's a wonder he can sleep alongside of that noise."
"He can't," Fresno volunteered. "He'll wake himself up in a minute.He's off now."
The snores of Show Low grew more frequent until he climaxed hisaccompaniment to sleep with one awful snort, which awakened him. "Eh,what's that?" he yelled, as he bounded to a sitting posture.
"Didn't I tell you?" queried Fresno.
Sage-brush grinned and slowly arose, gathering up his saddle and rope.
Swinging one over each arm, he started toward the corral, saying: "Comeon, boys, we got a lot to do to-day. Git your hosses."
The night riders, were coming into camp greeting their comrades withgrunts, or in a few words telling them what to guard against in someparticular part of the grazing herd.
The sun had risen. The cattle were on their feet browsing the short,sweet grass, moving slowly toward the river.
"Work," growled Show Low, "darn me if I ain't commenced to hate it."
Fresno picked up his saddle to follow his foreman, but paused longenough to fire this parting shot at the cook: "Say, Parenthesis, ifthem biscuits you're makin' is as hard as the last bunch, save four of'em for me. I want to shoe that pony of mine."
Parenthesis threw a tin cup at Fresno, who dodged it. Punching thedough viciously, he said: "Darn this housekeepin'. Gets a feller'shands all rough,--it's enough to spile the disposition of a saint."
His soliloquy was interrupted by Buck McKee riding up to the wagon fromLazy K outfit, which was camping a mile below them.
"Hello, Cookie! How goes it?" was his greeting.
"You wind it up, and it goes eight days." Parenthesis bellowed, histemper fast reaching the breaking-point.
"Jack Payson ain't back yet?" Buck asked, paying no attention to thebad humor of Parenthesis.
"Not that I knows on."
The cook rolled the dough with elaborate care.
"Nor Hoover?"
"Ain't seen him," he replied curtly.
"Well, they ain't comin' back, either. They pulled it off pretty slickon us fellers. Hoover he lets Payson go and makes a bluff at chasin'after him. Then they gets off somewhere, splits up the money, andgives us the laugh."
Parenthesis turned on him in anger and shouted: "'I'll bet my outfitagainst a pair of green socks either one of 'em or both will be backhere before this round-up is over."
"You will, eh?" snarled Buck. "Well, we're just waitin' for 'em.We'll swing Payson so high he'll look like a buzzard, and as forHoover--well, he's served his last term as sheriff in this yere county,you hear me shouting."
McKee cut his pony with his quirt and dashed away in time to escape anunwelcome encounter with several members of the Sweetwater outfit whowere riding back to camp.
"S-t-a-y with him, Bud, s-t-a-y with him," shouted Parenthesis, as thefirst of the cowboys pitched on a bucking horse past the chuck-wagon,the rider using quirt and spurs until he got the bronco into a lope.The other boys followed, each cayuse apparently inventing some new sortof deviltry.
For two weeks before the round-up the outfit had been busting broncosat the home ranch. Each morning at dawn they started, working untilthe heat of the day forced them to rest. When the temperature crawlsto 104 in the s
hade, and the alkali-dust is so thick in the corral thatthe hoofs raise a cloud in which horses can hide themselves twenty feetaway, when eyes smart and the tongue aches in the parched mouth, itbecomes almost impossible to handle yourself, let alone a kicking,struggling bronco.
As one day is like another, and one horse differs from another only inthe order of his tricks to avoid the rope and the saddle, a glimpse ofthe horsemanship of Bud Lane and his fellows will serve as a generalpicture of life on any Western ranch.
The breaking of the ponies was the work of Bud Lane, who, through theinfluence of Polly, had broken with McKee and returned to work onSweetwater Ranch in order to assist Echo, with whom he had becomereconciled on discovering that she had been loyal to his brother evento the extent of sending her husband into the desert to bring Dick back.
Bud was the youngest of the hands, but a lad born to the saddle andrope. "Weak head and strong back for a horse-fighter" is a proverb onthe plains, and Bud had certainly acted the part.
Fresno and Show Low, with four flankers, had driven into the corral ahalf-dozen horses untouched by man's hands since the days of colthood.A shout, a swing of a gate, and the beasts were huddled in the roundcorral, trembling and snorting. This corral has a circular fenceslightly higher than a man's head with a snubbing-post in the center.
While this is going on, Bud has laid out his cow-saddle, single-rigged,his quirt, and pieces of grass rope for cross-hobbling.
"Ready, Bud?" asks Sage-brush.
"Yep," he replies, as he drops into the corral.
Bud adjusts the hondo and loop of his lariat, keeping his eye on thecircling horses, and picking out his first victim. The rope snakesthrough the air, and falls over the head of a pony. Leaping, bucking,striking with his hoofs at the rope about his neck, the horse fightsand snorts. As the rope tightens, shutting off his wind, he plungesless viciously.
Bud, with the help of Fresno and Show Low, takes a turn about thesnubbing-post, easing up the rope to prevent the horse from breakinghis neck when he falls.
The pony, with braced feet, hauls on the lariat, until choking, itthrows itself. Bud in a twinkling has his knee on the bronco's neck.Grasping the under jaw, he throws the head up in the air until the nosepoints skyward. The turn is slipped from the post, and the noose isslackened and pulled like a bridle over the animal's head, to befastened curbwise to his under jaw. Stunned and choked, the horsefights for breath, giving Bud time to hobble his front feet and bridleit. Bud jumps aside as the bronco struggles to his feet. But everymove of the beast to free itself results in a fall.
Meantime the hind foot has been noosed and fastened to the one infront. Bud has cross-hobbled the horse, preparing it for the saddleand the second lesson. Holding the pony by the reins and rope, Bud,after many failures, throws a saddle-blanket across its back. With onehand he must also toss a forty-pound saddle into place. Every move Budmakes is fought by the bronco, every touch of blanket resented. Withhis free hand, Bud must now slip the latigo strap through thecinch-ring. Dodging, twisting, struggling, covered with sweat, thehorse foils Bud's quick movements. Finally he succeeds, and with onetight jerk the saddle is in place.
No time to think is given the beast. Fresno and Show Low remove thehobbles, but Bud is twisting an ear to distract its attention. Thisnew torture must be met with a new defense, and the horse is so dazedthat it stands still to puzzle out the problem.
This is what Bud has been waiting for. With the agility of a cat, heswings himself into the saddle. The pony arches its back like abow-string, every muscle taut.
Bud jerks the reins. The horse moves forward, to find that its legsare free. Up it goes in a long curve, alighting with his four feetstiffly planted together. The head is down. Maddened and frightened,the bronco bawls, like a man in a nightmare. Up in air the animal goesagain, drawing up its hind feet toward the belly, as if it would scrapeoff the cinch-strap. The fore feet are extended stiffly forward.Every time the bronco hits the ground, the jar is like the fall of apile-driver's weight. Bud watches every move. When the feet hit theearth, he rises in stirrups to escape the jolt. But always he is inthe saddle, for any unexpected move.
The horse rises on its hind legs to throw the rider. Should it fallbackward, the wind will be knocked of the animal, but Bud will be outof the saddle before he strikes the ground, and into it again beforehorse can struggle erect.
If it tries the trick again, Bud uses the quirt, lashing it about theears, the flanks, and under the belly. There is not a part of the bodyinto which the biting leather does not cut. Lashing the flanks drivesthe horse forward.
The struggle has been going on for twenty minutes. Bud is covered withsweat and dust. The horse has begun to sulk. It will not respond torein or quirt.
Now is the time for the steel. Bud drives the spurs deep into itsflanks. The horse plunges forward with a bounding leap. Again thespurs rasp, and again it plunges. The bronco finds that going ahead isthe only way in which to avoid punishment. Round and round the corralit gallops until exhausted. The sweat is pouring off the brute inrivulets. It has taken Bud forty minutes to give the first lesson.Easing up the bronco, Bud swings out of the saddle, and then remounts.This is done a half-dozen times, as the horse stands panting andblowing. Then, with a quick movement, the saddle and bridle are flungagainst the post. Bud pats the bronco on the neck and the flank, andturns it loose for a second lesson in a couple of days. A third willfollow before the end of the week. Then he will saddle the horses,unaided, ride them once or twice about the corral, and finally let oneof the hands give each the first lesson on the open plains. This meansa wild dash anywhere away from the ranch. The rider must avoid holesin the ground, and keep up the pace until the horse slows up on its ownaccount. Four or five of these lessons with a post-graduate course indodging a waving slicker, and Sage-brush will declare all of thebroncos are "plumb gentle."
The men were riding out their new string to-day. As each passed,Parenthesis flung a jibe at him. He had resumed his bread-making whenPolly rode to the wagon.
"Hello, Parenthesis!" was her greeting. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothin'. This yere housekeepin' is gettin' on my nervous system somefearful." Parenthesis struck the dough a savage whack, and added: "Iain't cut out for housekeepin'."
"You've been cut out all right," retorted Polly, glancing at his legs,"whatever it's for."
Parenthesis was not abashed. "Yep, fer straddlin' a hoss," he proudlyreplied, as if that were the chief end of man.
Polly, thus balked in her teasing, tried a new form of badinage.
"Say, the boys are all braggin' on your bread-makin'. Won't you giveme your receipt?"
"Good cooks," said Parenthesis, "never give away their receipts. Bringsbad luck to 'em next time."
"Aw, come now, Parenthy, tell me, an' I'll let you make myweddin'-cake."
"Will you? an' let me put in whatever I want fer jokes on the boys?"
"Yep, everything goes."
"Oh, I'll give 'em somethin' to dream on, you can bet yer sweet life!Soap fer Fresno's finger, clothes-pin fer Show Low's nose, bottle o'anty-fat fer Slim. It's a swop, Miss Polly!"
"Well, out with yer great secret o' bread-makin'."
"Well, Miss Polly, I take flour, an' water, an' sourin's, an' a pincho' salt--"
"Flour an' water, an' sourin's, an' a pinch o' salt," repeated Polly,totting the list off on her fingers. "Why, so do I, an' so does everyone. It must lie in the workin'. How long do you work the dough,Parenthesis?"
"It must lie in the workin'," repeated Parenthesis solemnly. "Why, Iwork it, an' work it--" he continued, with exasperating slowness.
"How long do you work it?" asked Polly impatiently.
"Till my han's look purty clean like!" said Parenthesis, holding up hisfloury paws.
"Then you've got a day's work still before you!" snapped Polly, huffedat seeing herself the victim of a chaffing that she herself had begun."I won't bother you any longer.
So long!"
Parenthesis, however, desired to continue the conversation. "When isthis yere hitch between you and Bud comin' off?" he asked.
Polly drew herself up proudly, and, speaking assumed haughtiness,replied: "We're figurin' on sendin' out the cards next month."
The cowboy's eyes twinkled. "Well, I'm a-goin' to give upcigaroot-smokin'."
"What for?" asked Polly, in surprise.
"Goin' in trainin' to kiss the bride."
"That's nice!" said Polly, beaming.
"Yep, have to take up chawin', like Bud Lane."
Polly was saved from having to answer by Sage-brush galloping up to thewagon.
"Put on your gun!" he shouted to Parenthesis.
Asking no questions, the cow-puncher obeyed his foreman. Trouble wasbrewing, that he could plainly see. All he had to do was to obeyorders, and shoot when any one tried to point a gun at him.
Turning to Polly, he cried: "Where's Mrs. Payson?"
"She came over with me, but stopped to look over the tally for thosecows that are goin' with the drive."
More to himself than to Parenthesis or Polly, Sage-brush said: "I wishshe'd stayed at the ranch. This range is no place for women now. BuckMcKee and his outfit has tanked up with Gila whisky, an' they're justpawin' for trouble."
"What's come over people lately?" asked Polly.
"It's all along of Hoover goin' away like he did, and leavin' uswithout a sheriff, or nobody that is anybody makin' a bluff at law andorder," cried Sage-brush.
"It's sot this section back twenty years," observed Parenthesis.
"That's what it has," agreed the foreman. "Fresno reports that hefound that Peruna slappin' the Lazy K brand on one of our calves.There ain't nobody can maverick no calves belongin' to this outfit.Not so long as I'm ranch boss an' captain of the round-up. We've gotto take the law in our own han's an' make an example of this bunch,right now."
Sage-brush meant what he said. He was gathering reenforcements fromhis own men. He knew that the boys of the Allen ranch would side withhim, and he felt that there were enough lovers of law and order in thecounty to declare themselves against the high-handed methods of BuckMcKee and his followers.
"Come on, you fellows!" shouted Show Low, as he rode past the wagon upthe range.
"What is it now?" asked Sage-brush.
Over his shoulder Show Low shouted: "We all had a run in with that BuckMcKee's bunch. Fresno's laid out with a hole in his shoulder. BillieNicker's cashed in. I've got some of the Triangle boys, and we'regoin' to make a clean-up."
"You ain't goin' to do nothin' unless I say so. We don't want norange-war--we'll git the man that did the killin'. Come on," commandedSage-brush.
Polly galloped after the men, saying: "Gee, I'll miss something if Idon't hurry up."
The Round-Up: A Romance of Arizona; Novelized from Edmund Day's Melodrama Page 14