The Hi-Lo Country

by Max Evans

  "There’s not enough hay,” I said aloud, "but I can drive them from the haystack to the water hole without draining too much of their strength. With luck we can hold out right here within a hundred-yard circle for maybe ten days. Then . . . Then if it does rain I’ll have horses and cattle enough to start again.”

  Early the next morning I rode out again. The herd was scattered between the muddy water hole and the foothills. About half of them were already dead. The rest were dying. Now the buzzards had found the carrion. They circled in the sky, making a black speckled funnel in the still, hot, yellow dust-laden air. Now and then some of them landed and pecked away at the carcasses of the cattle. The black-and-white magpies came out of the forest, crying their sharp piercing cries. They too joined the feast.

  The sun took the moisture from my lips and tongue. My throat was taut, raw. There was no escaping the August sun.

  I listened to the low, mournful bawling of the cattle. The old white-faced bull still stood, his head too heavy for him to hold erect, his legs splayed to keep from falling, his large, useless testicles swinging under his shrunken belly. He bawled occasionally from deep inside his weak frame, but the sound was not that of a thick-muscled, virile breeding animal: it was only a whisper cast into the wind.

  I gathered the living and walking stock into a small herd, then slowly moved them toward the haystack just across the draw from the water hole. Each day I drove them to the water hole and back to the diminishing haystack. I lost three more head, and the coyotes moved closer at night to feast on fresher meat. I didn’t stop, though.

  On the morning of the seventh day white clouds gathered in the west, but I couldn’t believe it was anything but bluff. Then their bottoms turned black and they moved swiftly across the hills and out over the ranchland. The first rumbling of thunder sent all the wild things seeking cover. Then the very air turned dark, and stabbing flashes of lightning scorched the sky.

  The rain came in torrents, cascading down the crevices, soaking into the dried earth, washing the dust from trees and bushes, roaring down the draw, clearing the dirt and grime from the water hole, filling it with muddy water—clean new mud. Along the banks below the draw, tender pale shoots of grass unfolded and reached for life.

  The cold wonderful wetness shocked me into action. I ran from the house and drank from a depression in the rocks. My mind and body ached terribly as yet, but I could feel my heart beat and pulse the living blood through my veins. I ran to the corrals and turned all the cows and horses loose but one. This one, Old Baldy, I saddled and rode across the draw. The rain had come and gone. The sun came out—warm but not hot. The sky was washed blue.

  The mud was already settling in the water hole. In a day or so, I thought joyfully, it would be clear, cool, and fresh again. The creatures of the forest would come down to drink, and the free flying things of the air would dry their feathers on its lush green banks.

  Twenty-One

  The heavy rain further scarred the earth. With so little protective

  cover left, the torrents cut through the topsoil in thousands

  of places. New arroyos were formed, some of which would in time be deep canyons. But the grass returned. It was a reversal of seasons. Now in late August, when the grass and weeds should be preparing to cure, the land glowed green as early spring.

  Dining this spell of peace, when even the wind subsided, the ranchers counted their losses, pulled in their belts, and prepared for winter. The Hi Lo country had been hard hit. There was at least a 30 per cent stock loss on the average, and it would take years for the land to recover its peak productivity.

  Almost everyone was in debt. I was no exception. My losses stood close to 60 per cent, and the bank had cut off my credit. The few steer calves I would have to ship in November would be too light to bring much. Those who could would hold some calves over to start replenishing their shrunken herds.

  At shipping time about the only herd of any size in the area belonged to Jim Ed Love. His surplus stacks of hay had hardly been touched, and his stock, though lighter than usual, weighed out enough per head to show a profit. Even with the last grass coming, the ranchers could take no chances. They had to have hay and cow cake in advance. If the snows came early, with only short grass for feed, the loss could be total.

  Jim Ed had the hay and he sold it for a price; he was charging thirty-five dollars a ton and taking mortgages on everything loose. Until the land recovered from its devastation, Jim Ed was the lord and master of most of the Hi Lo country. His holdings would grow like the belly of a bloated cow. All across the land the wolves and vultures fed on the cattle carcasses, fattening off the misfortunes of man. Jim Ed was indistinguishable from them.

  I had nowhere to go. It was all over for me. Rather than make a lopsided deal with Jim Ed, I decided to give the whole thing up. I listed my place for sale in Ragoon, threw all my thin cattle on the market, and moved into the hotel in Hi Lo for a while.

  I had reached the last of my credit, and a winter without feed reserves would have been insanity. But it hurt.

  It was a late fall and everyone had a new breath and, more important, new hope. Some would lose and some would win. It was all a question of courage and luck. But nature wasn’t going to make it easy. This brief lull in the battle was as deceiving as a woman—some women, anyway.

  After a while I moved out to Hoovers place, agreeing to work a while for just my room and board. I wanted to give myself a chance to think. And somehow, some time, I had to have a showdown with Big Boy Matson. I would have to tell him the truth, no matter what. All this time Mona had apparently kept silent.

  It was a good outfit. Mrs. Hoover had the sure confidence born of a thousand overcome disasters, and she handled the house, the meals, and her men like a West Point colonel.

  Big Boy and I rode the hills looking for grassier places to shift the cattle to. The red-brown oak brush and the golden aspens higher up gave us a smile now and then.

  Big Boy was restless. He seldom mentioned Mona, but when he was quiet, looking off in the distance, I knew he was thinking about her. I had repaid most of my debt to Big Boy out of the money from my ranch sale, and I expected him to make his move at any time. When he told me it would be early summer before he could leave Hoover’s I was puzzled. There were plenty of hands looking for work now. In fact, I was willing to take the job on, and told him so. But he shook his head and said: “No, I can’t leave now. I have reasons.”

  Thanks to Mrs. Hoover’s good cooking I was picking up a little weight and feeling about half contented. In the evenings we would sit around the fireplace and listen to Hoover tell tales of the old-time cowboy days. His tight, weather-aged face would glow and his eyes would sparkle like snow in bright sun as he talked. Big Boy listened entranced, not moving, reliving in his head and heart every story Hoover told.

  It got colder, but the snow still held off. We started easing the cattle back down to the home pasture, so they would be in ready reach of the haystacks. It was a good time, too good to last long.

  The morning the storm struck we were riding about five miles from the house, pushing fifteen head of cattle in front of us. Hoover had gone into Hi Lo for supplies. First there was an almost invisible grayness, something you felt instead of saw. Then from the west and north long fingers of clouds, like the spear points of an attacking army, appeared over the mountains. They advanced swiftly, silently, shoving the sun from the sky and killing its blue, like the tentacles of a ghostly flying octopus.

  The wind came. A white wind. And with it the billions of flakes of blinding, freezing snow.

  We spurred our horses back and forth, keeping the cows together as they moved out ahead of the storm. Within an hour: the drifts had begun to pile next to every tree.

  Big Boy was worried about Hoover. “I hope he was already on his way in before this hit,” he said. “In another hour the drifts will cover the road from Hi Lo and there he’ll be, stuck for sure.”

  But Hoover got back befo
re we had unsaddled.

  “Keep the horses up, boys,” he said; “we’re sure as hell going to need them in the morning.”

  Night had come an hour early, and the trip from the barn to the house seemed like a mile with blinders on.

  Oh, it was warm in the house, with the old cookstove throwing out the heat and the homy fragrance of Mrs. Hoover’s hot biscuits. But you couldn’t forget the cold; the snow-laden wind rattled the windows and ate at the corners of the house.

  We all turned in early. I lay in my bunk thinking how lucky I was to have cashed in my chips. The cattle out there, standing with their tails to the wind and shivering, were not mine. But I felt guilty, too, and couldn’t sleep. I wanted to be in the saddle, saving as many head as possible. The storm did a lot of talking that night. As it lashed in icy fury it seemed to say: You can’t escape me. You have to face up to me. But I will win in the end. And then the terrible voice would be lost and only a great sighing and moaning could be heard. Then it would come again, as if it had circled the earth, picking up all the moans of torment in the world, in order to hurl them all in the white, frigid face of the Hi Lo country. Well, the coyote would understand. Just as the forces of the storm could understand his timeless howling at the moon.

  Next morning we gave it everything we had. Leaving the ranch- house kitchen was the hardest part of all. It smelled of safety, comfort, home—the things that only a woman can create. But we left it and struggled through belly-deep drifts to the barn. The horses were skittish, and it was difficult to spur them out into the weather.

  We hit a fence line in single file, the horses’ heads low, nose to tail. Their eyelashes turned to strings of ice, and their nostrils coated with frozen breath. We had the collars of our sheep-skinned coats turned up, and one bandana tied our hats on and covered our ears while another was tied about our faces, leaving only a slit for the eyes. Every few moments the ice had to be scraped from the handkerchiefs where our breathing had frozen in the cloth.

  It was Hoover’s guess that most of the stock in the open country to the north would drift to this five-mile fence line, and hold. There was a gate every mile. The idea was to push these cows through the gates and into the home pasture, where a lot of brush-covered draws afforded some protection. At least the strongest would have a chance for survival if the storm didn’t last too long. Then we could work them on into the haystacks, which were their lifelines.

  It was hard to stay together as the horses breasted drifts that plugged their nostrils one moment, and hit hard frozen ground the next. The cold sifted in under our coats and down our collars and finally straight through to the marrow of our bones. It seemed to strip the flesh away and leave a naked skeleton exposed to the raw, unthinkable air.

  We found most of the cattle in little bunches where they had drifted to the fence. They stood with heads lowered, their tails curled under their bellies, all humped up trying to withdraw into themselves. It was hard to get them to move, and the horses were half-blind. But one by one we fought them through the gates. Time seemed to stand still, frozen stiff, but after a while the unseen day was gone. We had probably saved fifty or sixty head, but we were now five miles from the house and it was getting dark fast. The Arctic Circle had suddenly up and moved to Hi Lo.

  We relied on the horses to keep near the fence; without its guiding line we were done. We moved a drift at a time back toward Mrs. Hoovers warm kitchen.

  I don’t know now how it happened, but topping out on a little rise where a gully cut under the fence, my horse stumbled. He must have stepped on an ice-coated rock. He fell heavily into the horse in front of him, and we all went down in one big heap. I didn’t know whether it was Big Boy or Hoover until I felt someone lift me and heard Big Boy’s voice through the howl of the frozen gale.

  “You hurt?”

  I stood up. “No,” I said, “I’m all right.”

  “Hoover’s got something broke, and his horse’s leg is busted to hell.”

  I looked for my horse. He was gone.

  “Where’s my horse?” I asked.

  “Probably lit out through one of the gates into the home pasture. No use looking for him now.”

  “The dirty son of a bitch,” I said.

  Hoover sat next to his fallen horse trying to untie the heavy wire pliers from his saddle.

  Big Boy said, “Here, let me do it.”

  He got them loose and with a savage swing embedded the tool in the base of the horse’s skull. The animal kicked into the snow a moment, and then was still.

  “Come on, Pete,” Big Boy yelled, “help me lift Hoover on Old Sorrel.”

  We picked him up, but something must have wrenched, because he made a grating noise in his throat and went limp.

  “Do you think he’s dead?” I shouted.

  “I don’t know, but he will be if we don’t get him on in.”

  We got him up behind Big Boy; then I took a catch rope and lashed them together. Hoover’s head dangled to one side and his arms flopped like dry clothes on a line.

  “Get Old Sorrel by the tail and hang on,” Big Boy yelled.

  I did, and we moved out into the ever-increasing white darkness. Old Sorrel plunged into the drifts carrying a double load and half dragging me besides. I was down and up and off to the side, and sometimes I fell forward into the hard hoofs of the horse. The effort to hold on soon had me breathing so heavy that my lungs were afire with pain. Then instead of white I could see only the red and orange flashes of lost vision and strength.

  Finally, my arms numbed and my hands slipped from the horse’s tail and I fell in the snow. I no longer gave a damn.

  Hell, this is a soft warm place. I’ll just stay here for a while until I feel better.

  “Get up! Get up, you crazy bastard!”

  It seemed so far away. Then Big Boy’s voice drilled through to me. “Pete, get up and listen!”

  I strained to my feet and held to the mane of the horse.

  “Listen now, Pete. I’m going on in with Hoover. But I’ll be back. Your only chance is to keep moving. Hear me? Keep moving down the fence line. If you turn loose you’ll lose your direction and I’ll never find you. Try to keep from gripping the wire too tight, Pete, or you’ll cut a hand off. Pete! Pete!” he screamed. “I’ll be back! Just keep moving.”

  I mumbled something and took hold of the wire.

  Then I was alone. It was all up to me now. I kept saying over and over to myself: “Keep moving, moving, keep moving. Post to post.” That was the idea. If I could just keep going from one post to another, I would finally make it. The drifts were higher around the posts, and time after time I wanted to stop and rest just for a minute. Even ten seconds would help. But I would hear Big Boy’s voice echoing in my skull, “Keep moving, keep moving!”

  Time froze forever. The whole world was just a fence that went on and on and never stopped, and there was nobody left but me. My hands were so numb I could no longer feel the wire except when my weight fell against it. The mittens were worn through here and there and the wire had cut to the bone across my palms. The blood clotted and froze in the rips as fast as it oozed.

  He won’t ever make it back, I thought. The horse will founder under the double load. I’m sure he knows about me and Mona.

  Now he can have his revenge. And then I fell into the opening of a gate—and centuries later another. This time I couldn’t get up. I just lay back and kicked feebly with my legs and shook my arms, hearing Big Boy’s warning to the last.

  When I woke up next morning I couldn’t reconcile myself to the idea of being in bed. I decided I was dead and gone to heaven. Then the reality of pain brought me around. My hands throbbed as sleep left me. They were bandaged. I got up, and it was quite a spell before I could get dressed because of the hands.

  I went into the kitchen. Mrs. Hoover was boiling some strong-smelling something on the stove.

  “How’s Hoover?” I asked. “Where’s Big Boy?”

  “Hoover’s in a bad way,”
she said. “Broken hip, I’m afraid. Big Boy’s down in the pasture driving the stock to the stacks.” I noticed that the sun was shining, not a cloud in sight. I looked out the window at the glittering stillness. The land was a desert of white stretching on and on. I shivered.

  “Here,” Mrs. Hoover said, “take this coffee. Your hands were pretty bad cut up, but they’ll heal if you’re careful.”

  I gulped the coffee, scorching my throat. I said, “Don’t you think we’d better get a doctor for Hoover?”

  “Can’t,” she said. “It’s twenty miles in to Hi Lo, and even if a horse were to make it Old Doc Mullins is too old and feeble to get out here. Well just have to wait and hope till the roads are cleared.”

  “That might be days,” I said.

  “I know,” she said, “but it’s all we can do.” She strained the boiled liquid out into a tall glass and took it in to Hoover. I followed her.

  Though he was in great pain, he said, “Thanks for the help,

  Pete. I think we saved the most of them.”

  I felt rotten. “Hoover,” I said, “I think I was just in the way,

  and if it hadn’t been for me you wouldn’t be in the shape you’re in.”

  “Hell, son,” he said, getting half sore, “it’s nobody’s fault. Blame it on the storm if you want, but not on yourself. We’re lucky to get out as easy as we did.”

  Big Boy came in after a while. I could vaguely remember now his returning for me, and saying, “Hold on, feller, just hold on and we’ve got it made.”

  He took his hot coffee and went into Hoover’s bedroom. I could hear him say, “Well, Hoover, we’ve only lost seven or eight head as far as I can tell. Most of them had found the stacks, and I got the rest of them in now. We can make it till spring, Hoover.”

  But Hoover didn’t make it. He died the day the machines plowed open a path through the snow to the ranch house. Clots formed in his blood, and the old man went on his last ride in terrible pain.

  It had been a disastrous storm to say the least. Over on the Diamond-Two outfit three hundred head of two-year-old heifers that had survived the drought started drifting with the blizzard and walked off a sheer bluff into a two-hundred-foot canyon. The snow had piled in on them, and it would be spring before even the coyotes could get to them. All across the range cattle lay stiff and frozen with their legs sticking out like cedar posts.