Home Ranch

by Ralph Moody

  Zeb had pushed his chair back and was leaving the table when I spoke, but he slumped back into it and said, “Naw! Said there wa’n’t no profit a-fightin’ a man as wa’n’t lookin’ for a fight.” And when he said it he was looking right square into Trinidad’s eyes.

  I guess everybody knew Zeb was talking to Trinidad instead of me. We were all watching them when Mr. Batchlett said, “Takes two to make a fight. Sit tight a minute, Zeb! I want to lay out your trip with you.” Then he nodded to me and said, “Better turn in, Little Britches! We’ll be hitting the trail at crack o’ dawn.”

  Sid had finished his pie when I left the table, but was sitting with his fork in his hand, watching Jenny with eyes as big and soft as a sheep’s. She was pouring Trinidad’s coffee, and he was saying something to her, so low I didn’t hear it. Whatever it was, it made her face as red as it had been when he bowed to her.

  When I went to the bunkhouse Tom, Ned, and Hank were snoring to beat the band. I didn’t want to wake them by lighting the lamp, so felt my way to the bunk. As I reached my hand out, my fingers struck tight wires that twanged sharply. I couldn’t have jumped back quicker if I’d found a rattlesnake in my bunk. When my heart stopped pounding I lit the lamp. My bunk was piled high with fancy clothes, boots, and saddle bags. A guitar was propped against the headboard, and lying on top of everything was a silver-studded gun belt and holsters—with two pearl-handled six-shooters, and every loop of the belt filled with .45 cartridges.

  All the bunks in our bunkhouse were double ones, and the posts between them ran up to the roof. About a foot and a half above the floor, a tanned horsehide was stretched tight to make the spring for the lower bunk. There were three double bunks on each side of the room, and one across the back wall.

  When you went to work on a ranch, nobody ever said, “This will be your bunk.” You looked around till you found one without a blanket on it, then pushed your war sack underneath and moved in. No cowhand would take an upper bunk if he could get a lower one, but it was first come, first served. Once you’d moved in, the bunk was yours till you quit or got fired, and it didn’t make any difference whether you were top hand or the horse wrangler.

  When I’d gone to the bunkhouse the first evening I’d come to the home ranch, there had been blankets on the three lower bunks along the south side of the room, so I crawled into the front one on the other side. Sid had taken the one next to me, then Hank, and Zeb had the one across the back, but all the uppers were empty.

  When I found all Trinidad’s stuff on my bunk, I looked to see if he’d bothered my war sack. Both it and my blanket were gone. At first I thought he’d thrown them outside, but when I stepped up onto a chair I saw them, slung into the far corner of the upper bunk above Hank.

  I had to stand there a few minutes before I could make up my mind what to do—and I was so mad that I bit my lip till it bled. I couldn’t run back to the chuckhouse and tattle to Mr. Batchlett. Hank, Ned, and Tom were too drunk to be of any help to me, and it would have been almost like tattling to have waked them anyway.

  I thought about yanking Trinidad’s stuff off my bunk and slinging it up where he’d slung mine—but I didn’t more than think of it. He hadn’t been fooling when he’d popped that quirt at me, and he might come back to the bunkhouse before any of the other men did. I decided that it would be best to climb up where my blanket and war sack were and say nothing—but I decided something else, too. As much as I liked my job, and as much as I wanted to keep it, I’d quit if Mr. Batchlett let Trinidad keep my bunk. Then I blew out the lamp and shinnied up into the bunk above Hank.

  I’d lain there about half an hour when I heard voices coming toward the bunkhouse. A minute later boots scuffed on the steps, I heard the scratch of a match on rough cloth, then the tinkle of the lamp chimney, and the bunkhouse glowed with light. At about the same moment Mr. Batchlett called, “Little Britches!”

  I sat up and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “What you doin’ up there?” he asked. “Did you trade bunks with Trinidad?”

  “No, sir,” I said, “but this is where I found my blanket and war sack when I came out from supper.”

  When I first sat up, the light from the lamp blinded me. As I blinked, my eyes cleared, and I was looking down on three tall, big men—each of them standing as still as if he’d been frozen. Trinidad stood in front of the bunk that had been mine, and I couldn’t see his face. Zeb was just inside the doorway, crouched to a few inches shorter than his six-feet-four, and with his long arms hanging a little out from his body. From above, he looked like the gorilla in the Denver Zoo, and he was watching Trinidad with the same look that the gorilla had when he watched the people in front of his cage.

  Mr. Batchlett was looking at Trinidad, too, but it wasn’t the first time I’d seen the look that was on his face. I’d seen it when I’d ridden a matched race against his horse the summer before. His rider had spit tobacco juice in my face when we were in the home stretch, and if the other men hadn’t held Mr. Batchlett I think he’d have torn that rider to shreds. He didn’t make a sound as he watched Trinidad, but stood there by the bunkhouse table with his hands right in front of his pants pockets—as if they were poised to grab the handles of six-shooters.

  There was something about the whole sight that made me hold my breath, and my heart was thumping crazily when Trinidad said in a sort of dry, husky voice, “I got a bad leg; can’t make it into them high bunks.”

  Mr. Batchlett flicked a glance up at me, and said, “Hop down!” Then he rapped out to Trinidad, “Git movin’!”

  As I jumped down to the floor, Trinidad stood looking back and forth from Mr. Batchlett to Zeb—as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether to move his stuff into the upper bunk or to make a break for the doorway.

  My heart jumped into my throat as I noticed one of Trinidad’s hands moving slowly back toward the bunk, but I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. Zeb crouched lower for a spring, and Mr. Batchlett said, “I wouldn’t!” in a voice that was as flat and cold as pond ice. Without the least bit of hurry, he walked toward Trinidad, reached around him, and picked up the gun belt and six-shooters. “I’ll take care of the artillery while you’re here,” he said, “my men don’t have no need for it. Now get your dunnage out o’ here! This boy needs his sleep.”

  21

  Trail Driver

  BY FOUR o’clock Monday morning we’d had breakfast, Mr. Batchlett had helped me lash my trail pack onto Lady, and I was saddling Pinch. I didn’t want to come right out and ask if I could take Blueboy along, so I said, “Would it be better to put a drag rope on Blueboy and turn him in with the herd, or should I tie him to Lady?”

  “He wouldn’t be no use to you,” Mr. Batchlett said. But my face must have shown how I felt. “Oh, tie him to the pack if you want to,” he added; “you’re goin’ to be mighty short of horseflesh for a long trip.”

  There were seventy head of cattle in our trail herd, all two-year-old steers and White Face bulls. In the cool of early morning they stepped out at a good pace, and by sunup we had the worst of the brush country behind us. About an hour later, Mr. Batchlett dropped back to where I was pushing up the stragglers, and asked, “How you makin’ it?”

  “Fine!” I told him. “If it’s as easy as this all the way, I won’t have a bit of trouble.”

  “It won’t be!” he said. “It’ll be rough as soon as these critters get a little tender-footed, and if water’s scarce it might turn out to be doggone rough.” He rode along beside me for a minute or two without a word, then said, “It ain’t too late if you want to turn back and send Tom along.”

  I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t telling me that he was sorry he’d brought me, and that he’d rather have Tom, so I had to think a little before I said, “If you’d rather have Tom I’ll go back, but I’m not afraid of a hard trip.”

  “I’d lay my chips on you,” Mr. Batchlett said, as if he were still thinking it over, “but I don’t want to do nothin’ to make your maw sorry
she let you come out here.”

  “If she hadn’t thought I was going to do a man’s job, she wouldn’t have let me take a man’s pay for coming,” I told him. “She’d be sorrier if I didn’t go with you than if I did and had a hard trip.”

  “Then forget about Tom,” he said, “but it’s sure goin’ to be a man’s job. I aim to hit the head of Black Squirrel Creek by nightfall; that’s close onto thirty-five miles. If there’s water there, we’ll be all right; if not, we could be in bad trouble. Spare your horse when you can! I aim to stop and day-graze on the divide above the head of Cherry Creek.” He didn’t mention Tom again, but touched his spurs to his horse and rode back to his side of the herd.

  We crossed the Denver highroad about twelve miles north of Colorado Springs, and watered the stock at a ranch that had two windmills. From there we drove east onto the high divide that separates the water running into the South Platte and the Arkansas rivers. It was broken by high rolling hills, and dotted with clumps of brush or scrub oak. I had never seen that country before, but Mr. Batchlett seemed to know every foot of it. We didn’t follow a straight line, but wound around the high hills and deep gulches.

  Because of his habit of pinching the laggards, Pinch was better for working the drag than Mr. Batchlett’s chestnut. So, without any planning, we each took our own position with the herd. Mr. Batchlett rode near the front, turning the leaders into the right draws and valleys, and I pushed the laggards along and held in the stragglers.

  As the sun rose higher, its heat bore down from the clear sky, and bounced up from the dry buffalo grass under foot. I guessed it to be about ten o’clock when Mr. Batchlett dropped back for the first time. “Ease off a bit!” he told me. “We’re pushin’ ’em a little too hard. If my recollection’s good there’s a pretty fair valley beyond them hills yonder. We’ll drift ’em along to it and day-graze ’em three-four hours. They won’t feed good if we dry ’em out too much before we leave ’em graze.” Then he rode back to the point again.

  There had been nothing in what Mr. Batchlett said to make me happy, but it was in the way he’d said it—not as if I were a boy, but another man. The sun didn’t feel nearly so hot after that, and the dust that rose from the cattle’s hoofs didn’t seem to be smothering me. I wouldn’t have traded jobs with the President of the United States.

  Mr. Batchlett had been right about the valley. After we’d drifted the herd along for another hour, we came out into a valley that was shaped as if a great bowl had been pressed down among the hills when the earth was made. In the center there was a little pond, hardly more than a puddle, and a few stunted cottonwood trees grew around it.

  Before the pond came into sight, the cattle and spare horses smelled the water and quickened their pace. Mr. Batchlett took the coffee-pot from his trail pack, and cantered ahead of them to fill it before they muddied the water. By the time I’d brought in the stragglers, he had a little fire going under the cottonwoods, and the pot on to boil.

  All morning I’d been worried about its being my job to do the cooking, but Mr. Batchlett didn’t seem to expect it of me, and went about it as if he were the driver instead of the trader. He didn’t give me any orders, but unlashed both of the packs, lifted them down, and took out the things he’d need for cooking dinner.

  I’d never been on a trail trip before, but I’d been around cow camps enough that I knew what had to be done, so I unsaddled Pinch, hobbled him, and turned him loose to drink and graze. Then I caught a spare horse, hobbled it, and tied the drag rope up around its neck. After I’d taken care of Mr. Batchlett’s horse string, I picked up a pair of hobbles and started toward Blueboy with them. I didn’t know Mr. Batchlett was watching me, but he called, “Leave him be! Tie him to a tree here, and hobble your mare! He’s tough; he’ll make out all right without grass! If he’s goin’ to be any use to you, it’ll be for day-herding.”

  Deep down inside, I knew that Blueboy wasn’t a cowhorse, and that I’d never be able to make one of him. He was all run and drive, without any patience or cow savvy, and he’d always fight me if I tried to rein him hard enough for working cattle. I didn’t like to admit it even to myself, but I knew that I’d brought him along because I couldn’t bear to leave him behind.

  When Mr. Batchlett called to me, a lump came into my throat. It wasn’t because of what he’d said about Blueboy, but about day-herding. I was his driver, was getting full cowhand’s wages, and I wanted to do my job the way any other cowhand would have done it. When a trail herd stopped for day-grazing, that was the driver’s time to get what sleep he could. It was his job to do the night herding while the trader slept. From what Mr. Batchlett had said, it was plain that he was going to do the night herding himself. I knew he wouldn’t have done it if he’d had Tom with him instead of me, and wanted to tell him that I’d rather do the night herding like any other driver. But I couldn’t be sure that he’d trust me alone at night with cattle in a strange country, so I watered Blueboy, tied him to a tree, and kept my mouth shut tight.

  “Fetch your canteen!” Mr. Batchlett called to me while I was tying Blueboy. When I got to the fire, he went on, “This puddle water ain’t fit for a man to drink without boilin’, but there’s no telling when we’ll strike any better. It’s got the taste of all the cows this side the Platte in it, but it’ll be better than none. Hold out your bottle!” As I held out my canteen, he filled it with boiling water from the coffee-pot, then threw a big handful of coffee into the pot and set it back on the fire. “A man can make out most any place,” he said, “if he’s got good stout coffee.” Then he lifted the lid and tossed in another handful.

  The coffee was so strong and bitter that it made my mouth pucker, but the dinner was a good one. Mr. Batchlett had fried a dozen thick slices of bacon, cooked a can of beans in the hot grease, and baked biscuits in an iron pot. When we’d finished eating, he scrubbed out the frying pan with dry grass, and asked, “Reckon you can get a saddle on Blueboy alone, or want I should lend a hand?”

  At the home ranch I’d always saddled Blueboy from the top of the corral fence, and always had someone to help me. But, after Mr. Batchlett’s putting me on day-herding, I didn’t want any help that any other cowhand wouldn’t have had, so I said, “I think I can do it alone, but if I need help I’ll call you.”

  I picked up a biscuit that was left over, took my saddle and blanket, and walked slowly to the place where Blueboy was tied. I didn’t make any quick moves, but fed him a little of the biscuit, untied him, and moved him to a place where a couple of trees stood just below a little cut-bank. After I’d scratched his neck a minute, I eased the folded blanket over his back, and climbed up onto the bank with my saddle.

  Blueboy spooked away when I lifted the saddle toward him, bumped against one of the trees, and bounced back, so all I had to do was to drop the saddle on him. Once it was on, he stood fairly quiet while I pulled up the cinch and slipped the hackamore over his head. I didn’t notice that Mr. Batchlett had mounted and ridden over until, from just above me on the bank, he chuckled and said, “Reckon you’d best to take that set-up along with you. It won’t be long now till we’ll be gettin’ into flat country.”

  I wasn’t too sure of what Blueboy might do when I mounted him, and I don’t think Mr. Batchlett was nearly as sure as I. He shook out a loop in his catch rope, and pulled his horse in tight against Blueboy’s off side. I went up as easy as I could, and was careful not to haul on the hackamore rope. Just as he had done the day before, Blueboy reared straight up and came down running hard. But this time he wasn’t holding his head so low, his ears weren’t pinned back tight, and there wasn’t that driving feel under the saddle.

  Mr. Batchlett’s chestnut was fast, but Blueboy left him rods behind in the first ten seconds. I tried to stay loose in the saddle, brought the hackamore lines up snug but not too tight, and drew one gently against the side of Blueboy’s neck. He didn’t answer it sharply, but bore off into a sweeping circle. I let it be a good wide one, and began bringing hi
m around toward the place where I could see Mr. Batchlett pulling in his chestnut.

  From the moment I began to rein Blueboy I knew he was willing to do what I wanted. Mr. Batchlett knew it too, and when we pulled up beside him, all he said was, “I’ll be turnin’ in for a spell. Leave the herd spread out, so long as it don’t scatter!” Then he reined his horse back toward the cottonwoods, hobbled it, and turned it loose.

  There was nothing for me to do on that day herd. The grass in the valley was good, the cattle and spare horses were well watered, and there was no reason for them to scatter. It gave me about three hours to do the kind of work I’d always wanted to do with Blueboy; to learn how short I could turn him, how hard I could pull him in without making him angry, and to get him used to my feel in the saddle. At first he reared and plunged when I tried to turn him too short. But as we grew more used to each other, he fought the reins less, and his turns and stops began to smooth out a little.

  I guessed it to be about half past three when Mr. Batchlett ya-hooed and motioned for me to round up the herd and bring it in. I knew I couldn’t do it the way I would have with Pinch or Lady, but I held Blueboy in as much as I could, circled the herd, and began drawing it toward the cottonwoods. The biggest trouble I had was that Blueboy was too much wild horse—that he’d been too used to doing his own herding in the driving, slashing, wild stallion way. If an animal lagged or tried to dodge away, he wanted to rush it and slash hide with his teeth.

  Mr. Batchlett stood and watched until I had the herd fairly well drawn in, then he called, “Leave ’em be!” and motioned me to him. “You done pretty good,” he told me as I rode up, “but you’ll never make a cowhorse out of him if you both live to be a hundred. Too much wild stud in him! I ought to have turned him loose in the mountains when he was a yearlin’. Pull your saddle off; I reckon he’ll trail with a drag rope now. Better catch up your mare for the rest of the day.”