Home Ranch

by Ralph Moody

  “Yeah, I know. You only weigh as much as a hoptoad.”

  I was going to tell Mr. Batchlett that my weight wouldn’t make any difference about handling cows, but the old man with the gray mustache cut in. “Fifty miles, huhh!” he snorted. “By dogies, a man would think . . . why, I recollect when I was the size of this here young’un I rid a flea-bit cayuse from . . .”

  “I know, I know, Hank,” Mr. Batchlett said, “but you just ride that fry pan till we get some grub around here. I want to make it into the corrals before nightfall.”

  The old man started back toward the wagon, but he’d only gone a couple of yards when he turned and hollered, “Boy, wrastle me up some firewood; you ain’t did nothin’ to be a-braggin’ ’bout, and we ain’t got all day to . . .” Then without finishing, he turned and stumped away. He rolled from side to side as he walked, and was so bowlegged that a fat hog could have run between his knees without touching either one.

  Mr. Batchlett winked at me, and said, “You’ll get used to Hank. Never mind the wood; Sid’s fetching it.” Then he looked up at me quickly, and asked, “Water the mare at The Monument?”

  “No, sir,” I told him. “She was too warm then.”

  “Cooled out enough now,” he said, pointing toward some willows half a mile to the north. “Better give her a couple of swallows; it’s a dry run from here to the home ranch.”

  I got a pretty fair look at the herd when I was riding Lady to water, but I was a lot more interested in the other two cowhands than in the cows—and I couldn’t help remembering what the storekeeper at Castle Rock had said. I wasn’t close enough to see what either man’s face looked like, but they certainly looked funny in the saddle. The one who was dragging wood to the wagon didn’t look to be any bigger than I, and was mounted on a tall piebald horse that looked like a short-necked giraffe.

  The other rider was just the opposite. From where I was he looked to be seven feet tall, and was mounted on a mule that wasn’t much bigger than a burro. His stirrups were so short he looked as if he were sitting in a chair, and he rode hunched over—as if he had a bellyache. I’d have had one if I’d been riding that mule. It was going round and round the herd at a steady dogtrot that would have shaken the teeth out of a garden rake. And, over the bellowing of the herd, he was calling out to the cows, in a voice as monotonous as the mule’s trot, “hup . . . yaaa, hup . . . yaaa.” It sounded like a gramophone record that was stuck and saying the same words over every time it went around.

  The tall man was still riding around the herd when I’d watered Lady and was heading back to the chuckwagon. From behind it a thin line of blue smoke was rising, and the little cowhand was loosening his saddle cinches. When I rode in, Mr. Batchlett was washing at the water barrel beside the chuckwagon. He looked around and said, “Sid, this is Little Britches; he’s going to ride with us this summer.”

  Sid’s face lit up as if I were an old friend. He grinned and said, “Ain’t he the one rode ag’in Le Beau in the matched race, last Fourth o’ July? Ain’t he the one as done trick-ridin’ with Hi Beckman in the Littleton roundup?”

  “Yep, that’s him,” was all Mr. Batchlett said.

  “I ought to knowed it was him when I seen him hightailin’ off to the water hole,” Sid chirped in a high voice. “I ought to knowed by the way he hauls his knees up and hunkers over the neck of a horse.” He came hurrying toward me with his hand out. “Yessirree, Little Britches! Yessirree! We’re right proud to have you in the outfit. Make yourself right to home. Hank, he’ll have the chuck ready in two shakes of a latigo.”

  I’d never known I pulled my knees up and leaned over a horse’s neck when I rode, but I suppose it was because I’d done most of my riding bareback, and had to hold on tight or fall off. When I took Sid’s hand his grip was like the closing of a vise, and the palm was as horny as a piece of sun-dried leather. I must have flinched, because he loosened his grip, looked down at his hand, then grinned and said, “That calf-brandin’ sure puts bark on ’em, don’t it? Been workin’ roundup down La Junta way. Never did wear no gloves; cheaper to grow hide than buy it.”

  Even in his high-heeled boots, Sid Faulker was only about three inches taller than I. He might have been thirty, but it’s hard to tell about those red-headed, freckled-faced fellows. His eyes were that kind of blue that can be as warm as June or as cold as January. I knew we were going to be friends.

  I had just given Lady some oats, and was washing my face and hands when Hank yelled, loud enough to have been heard in Colorado Springs, “Come an’ git it, ya lazy mav’ricks!”

  After I’d dried my face I looked around the front of the wagon to see if the man on the mule was coming in, but he was still riding round and round the herd, so I asked Sid, “Is the tall man deaf?”

  “Shucks, no,” Sid chuckled, “old Zeb, he can hear a calf bat its eyes at half a mile. He’s got to stay with them ornery critters till I get out there. Leave ’em ten minutes, and they’d be scattered from here to La Junta.”

  I looked around as far as I could see, and asked, “Then who’s Hank calling in?”

  “Ain’t callin’ nobody. Old Hank, he don’t never do nothin’ by the halves; never did—to hear him tell it. We best to light into that chuck ’fore it gets burnt to cinders.”

  When we went to eat I found out what Sid meant. Hank had a fire big enough to barbecue a beef, and was holding one arm up to shield his face from the heat as he fished burned biscuits out of an iron pot. Both frying pans were smoking like volcanoes, and the coffee pot was shooting up geysers of steam and grounds. As we filled our plates and cups, Hank kept shouting at Sid, “By dogies, Sid, look what you done to the grub! Ain’t nobody never learnt you to fetch in firewood that ain’t drier’n gun powder? Look at them biscuits! Frizzled to a . . .”

  Hank didn’t have to tell us to look at the biscuits; it was hard to look anywhere else. I’d thought I was nearly starved, but I could hardly stuff the chuck down. The canned beans had stuck to the pan and burned, the bacon was hacked half an inch thick, and was blacker than the biscuits. Mr. Batchlett winked at me and said, “Ought to make it to the ranch for supper. Reckon you can hold out? Jenny’ll be over to help Helen with the grub, and she’s right handy with a skillet.”

  I didn’t think Hank had heard, but he blurted out, “By dogies, give me a parcel o’ good dry prairie chips, ’stead o’ this here greasewood tinder, and I’ll show you who’s handy with a skillet. Why, I recollect when . . .”

  If Mr. Batchlett heard him, he didn’t let on. He looked over at Sid and said, “Going to be a bit tricky getting this herd in to the ranch tonight. It’s scrub oak all the way, and some of them old sisters are pretty well wore down. Not being herd broke, they’ll try to scatter, mostly back to the north. Little Britches can take the south, I’ll ride point and let Zeb bring up the drag; he’s right good with a bull whip.”

  He glanced around at Lady, and asked me, “Reckon the mare can stand up to it? South side shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “Sure she can,” I told him. “I’ve been graining her for two weeks, and she’s in good shape.”

  Mr. Batchlett didn’t seem to be listening to me. While I was still talking he got up and went to his horse. As he put the bridle on and tightened the cinches, he told Hank, “We’ll start lining ’em out. Soon’s Zeb has had his grub, you haul the chuckwagon into the gulch beyond this next hill. Unharness, turn the black loose, and saddle the bay. Give the boys a hand wherever they need it; you can come back for the wagon tomorrow.” Then he swung into the saddle and jogged away toward the herd with Sid.

  It didn’t take me two minutes to get on my boots, spurs, and chaps, and to have my saddle cinched onto Lady. I was anxious to get started on my new job, and caught up to Sid and Mr. Batchlett before they were half way to the herd. “Take it easy! Take it easy!” Mr. Batchlett told me as I pulled up beside him. “You ain’t working mustangs, but milk cows! Didn’t Hi or your paw learn you better’n that? Slow and easy does it; you w
atch old Zeb and that mule!”

  Mr. Batchlett’s voice wasn’t rough, but he’d given me a scolding, and I’d had it coming. Both Father and Hi Beckman had taught me to handle cattle as quietly as possible, but we weren’t close enough to frighten the herd. And besides, I didn’t really think of tame milk cows as being cattle. Of course, I couldn’t explain all that, so I just said, “Yes, sir, they did. I guess I forgot.”

  Mr. Batchlett just nodded, waved to Zeb to come in, and said, “Spread out; we’ll start ’em moving.”

  Before an hour was passed I knew what the storekeeper meant when he told me it would be as easy to herd the Ladies’ Missionary Society as a bunch of milk cows. Steers and range cattle will hold together in a herd, and each herd usually has one leader that does all the thinking. But every one of those milk cows had a mind of her own, and each one wanted to do something different.

  Most of them had been petted or spoiled by the people who owned them during the winter, and I began to think that maybe they’d grown to be like those people. Some were docile and some were cranky, some were clever and some were dumb; some were fat and lazy, and others were nervous and skinny. Some bellowed as if they were angry, some lowed in a lonesome way, and some just moaned as if they were sorry for themselves.

  It was twelve miles from the Colorado Springs highroad to Mr. Batchlett’s ranch at the foot of the mountains. A narrow road led to it, winding through scrub oak, gulches, dry creek beds, and over hills that grew higher as they neared the mountains. It would have been easy to put a big herd of beef cattle over that road. They’d have strung out for a mile or so, and would have trailed along behind each other like elephants in a parade, but those milk cows had no more idea of trailing than so many jack rabbits.

  Sid might have had the toughest side of the herd, but Lady and I had every bit we could do on our side—and just a little bit more. Lady was as good a horse as anyone could want on the road, and she was all right for ordinary herding, but she wasn’t used to brush country. She couldn’t turn short enough to thread her way quickly between the clumps of scrub oak, but those cows could dodge through them like cottontails.

  There was hardly a minute, all the way to the ranch, when I didn’t have to fight back cows that were trying to leave the herd on my side. I spurred and jerked Lady around until I was ashamed of myself, but quite a few times ten or a dozen cows dodged past us, and I really needed help. The brush was so thick I couldn’t see the other riders, and I didn’t holler for any help, but each time I got into bad trouble Mr. Batchlett showed up from nowhere. He was never a bit excited, and he didn’t seem to be trying very hard, but within two or three minutes he’d have my stragglers all back in the herd. He didn’t scold me for letting the cows get away, but once he said, “Take it easy! Don’t fight ’em so hard! You’re getting your mare wore down.”

  Hank could pick the wrong times to help me just as well as Mr. Batchlett could pick the right ones. I’d have three or four stragglers all rounded up and on their way back to the herd when he’d come galloping out of the brush in front of us. Every time he scattered the bunch all over again, and every time he blamed me for letting them get away. “By dogies,” he’d holler, “why’n’t you watch what you’re doin’? Don’t let ’em dodge past you! Git around ’em! Git around ’em, boy! Head ’em off! By dogies, I recollect when I was your . . .”

  About the sixth time Hank scattered a bunch of cows for me I was so mad that I rode back to the herd and left him to round them up alone. It was an hour before I heard his voice again. He was way over on Sid’s side of the herd then, and I never saw anything more of him till we got to the ranch.

  I was so busy that afternoon that I lost all track of time or moving ahead until the sun went down. Then I noticed that the front range of the mountains was just above us. It was deep twilight when we topped the next hill, and three or four yellow sparks of light showed in the valley below. Those lights must have looked as good to the cows as they did to me. There was a change in the sound of their lowing, and they didn’t try to scatter any more. Even the fattest and laziest raised their heads and quickened their pace.

  It wasn’t until the last cow was in the corral and the gate closed that I realized how tired I was. And I’d worked Lady so hard she stood with her legs spraddled and her head down. We’d done the best we could, but I knew it hadn’t been very good. I was thinking about it as I climbed out of the saddle and began loosening the cinch. Then I heard Hank shout, “By dogies, Batch, that there kid you got ain’t worth a tinker! Left a whole parcel o’ critters get a-past him, then run off and left me to round ’em up alone. Like to never got ’em fetched back. By dogies, when I was . . .”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” was all Mr. Batchlett said.

  He came past when I was pulling the saddle off Lady, gave me a slap on the seat of the pants, and said, “You done all right for your first time in brush country. Put your mare in the horse corral over there; there’s feed in the rack. Grub’ll be ready by the time you get washed up; bunkhouse is yonder.”

  I went to the bunkhouse as soon as I’d taken care of Lady, but I didn’t wash up, or even take off my spurs and chaps. I was so tired I was seeing double and was a bit dizzy, so I thought I’d lie down on an empty bunk for a few minutes before I washed. When I woke up it was morning.

  3

  I Seen You Before

  THE SUN had just risen and was streaming in through the bunkhouse doorway when I woke up that first morning at Batchlett’s home ranch. For a minute I didn’t know where I was, then I saw Sid and remembered, but thought I must still be dreaming. He was wearing a white shirt, creased pants and new boots, and was shaving at a washstand in the corner.

  I knew it was Sunday morning, and thought Sid must be getting ready for church, but I couldn’t understand where he’d got his good clothes. He wasn’t lugging anything when we left the chuckwagon the afternoon before.

  I was lying there trying to figure it out when Sid spied me in the mirror, and sang out, “By jiggers, Little Britches, you sure ripped off a heap of shingles last night! Hope you don’t snore that-a-way ’ceptin’ when you’re plumb beat out. Sounded like a lost hooty owl in a blizzard. Jenny Wren’s got the flapjacks comin’ up; you’d best to rise and shine.”

  I swung my feet out onto the floor, sat up, and asked, “You going to church this morning?”

  “Shucks, no!” he said. “Ain’t no church closer’n Castle Rock or The Springs—and there’s plenty room for worshipin’ right close to home. Ain’t a man got a right to get slicked up without he’s goin’ to church?”

  None of the cowhands I’d ever worked with got dressed up unless they were going to town, but I was more interested in how Sid got dressed up than why. “Sure, he’s got a right to,” I said, “but what I can’t figure out is how you brought your good clothes and razor along. I didn’t see any saddle bags on your rig when we left the chuckwagon.”

  “Come to think about it, there wasn’t,” he said.

  “Then how did you get your things out here?” I asked.

  “Oh, a little bird flowed out here with my war sack bright and early this mornin’.”

  “Hmm, you couldn’t have had much sleep,” I said. “It must be twenty miles to where we left the wagon and back.”

  “Didn’t reckon a man could sleep in late with you takin’ on like a sick calf, did you? If you knowed as much about this here layout as what I do, you’d shake a leg and get slicked up a mite ’fore we go to the chuckhouse for flapjacks. Jenny Wren ain’t the only bird in this bush.”

  I couldn’t do much about getting slicked up, but I took off my chaps and spurs, washed my face and hands, and combed my hair. Before we’d been in the chuckhouse five minutes, I began to understand why Sid had ridden all the way to the chuckwagon to get his good clothes—and why he told me I’d get slicked up if I knew as much about the layout as he did.

  On the Y-B and most of the other big ranches, the chuckhouse was a separate building, with its own ki
tchen and a man cook, but it wasn’t that way at Batchlett’s ranch. Our chuckhouse was a good-sized log room, built onto the back of the house. It had a big fireplace, with three easy chairs and a couple of card tables around it. Down the middle of the room there was an oilcloth-covered table, long enough for twenty or more places, with chairs instead of benches. Opposite the fireplace there was a doorway that connected with the main kitchen of the house.

  When Sid and I came in there were eight or ten men, in bib overalls and blue jumpers, sitting at the end of the table nearest us. Separated from them, at the end nearest the kitchen, were Mr. Batchlett, Zeb, Hank, three men I hadn’t seen before, and a boy. “Here he is now!” Mr. Batchlett called out. “Come on over here, Little Britches, and meet the folks! By dang, you sure hit the bunk in a hurry last night. How you makin’ it? ‘Bout ready for some chuck?”

  “Fine,” I said, as I walked around the table to him. “I didn’t know how tired I was until we got here last night, and I didn’t know how hungry I was till right now.”

  “Betcha my life you’re hungry,” a big man across the table laughed. “I tried eatin’ some of Hank Bevin’s chuck a couple of years back. Sit in! Sit in! Grub’s on the fire.”

  “By dogies, Watt,” Hank shouted, “give me a parcel o’ good dry prairie chips an’ . . .”

  Mr. Batchlett didn’t let him get any further. “This is Watt Bendt,” he said; “he’s ranch boss. And next is Kenny and Ned and Tom. The boys down yonder are the dairymen.”

  Ned and Tom were just ordinary cowhands, in their early thirties, but Kenny looked to be about five years old. He was sitting up as straight as a prairie dog beside his father, and watching me with bright blue eyes. “I seen you before,” he chirped as soon as Mr. Batchlett had finished. “Hazel cut your pi’cure out of the paper.”

  I knew it must have been the picture that was in the Denver paper, the time Hi Beckman and I won the trick-riding contest at the Littleton roundup. It wasn’t a very good one, because my hat shaded my face so much it was mostly black. I was just going to tell Kenny so when a voice from the kitchen doorway snapped, “I did not either! It just happened to be on the back of an old ad I cut out.”