The Pastures of Beyond

by Dayton O. Hyde

  THE PASTURES

  OF BEYOND

  Also by Dayton O. Hyde

  Fiction

  One Summer in Montana

  The Major, the Poacher, and the Wonderful One Trout River

  Nonfiction

  Sandy

  Yamsi

  The Last Free Man

  Raising Waterfowl in Captivity

  Don Coyote

  For Children

  The Brand of a Boy

  Cranes in My Corral

  Strange Companions

  Island of the Loons

  Thunder Down the Track

  The Bells of Lake Superior

  Mr. Beans

  THE PASTURES

  OF BEYOND

  AN OLD COWBOY

  LOOKS BACK

  AT THE

  OLD WEST

  Dayton O. Hyde

  Arcade Publishing • New York

  Copyright © 2005, 2011 by Dayton O. Hyde

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in

  any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except

  in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should

  be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street,

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  Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of

  Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Chapter 22 appeared under the title “The Appy Mare” in Thunder of

  the Mustangs, produced by Tehabi Books and published

  by Sierra Club Books in 1997.

  Visit our website at www.arcadepub.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-61145-328-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to

  Slim Pickens, Mel Lambert,

  Montie Montana, Dick Blue,

  and every other cowboy

  that forked a bronc or threw a loop.

  THE PASTURES

  OF BEYOND

  Prologue

  THIS IS THE STORY OF A WEST THAT IS ALMOST GONE, a story of ranches, cattle, horses, Indians, cowhands, and rodeos, and of a kid from Michigan who ran away from home at thirteen to be a cowboy in Oregon. These days I need a stump to help get me on a horse, and the bad ones I rode get tougher with every telling. These are stories that you won’t read anywhere else, and if they have a certain value, it is because I was there when they happened and even remember what too many have forgotten, how the West sounded and how it smelled.

  Walk down any eastern Oregon street, and amongst a pollution of Californians you’ll rub elbows with descendants of men I once knew, and you’ll likely tread on the faded footsteps of men better than yourself because they lived at a time better than ours. Sometimes my memory fades, and I feel like a cowboy whose rope is too short and his horse too slow to catch the critter he’s chasing. But there are times when I smell the heady odor of crushed sage under the hooves of a moving trail herd, and hear the snores of sleeping cowboys in their bedrolls, or the contented munching of tired horses, eyes-deep in a manger of timothy hay. My mind clears; the shadows on the mossy walls of my memory become vivid once more.

  I’d best start by telling you about Homer Smith, because more than any cowboy I ever knew, he represents what I miss the most, leather-hided, strawberry-nosed, bull-voiced, ham-fisted, broad-shouldered, mule-skinning, yarn-spinning characters who made life hell or sometimes fun for those about them.

  “God damn yuh, kid,” he told me one day as he was about to die, “I like yuh!” After all the fights he’d won in barrooms, he was about to lose the big one. We hugged for the first time ever and turned away to hide our tears. Maybe I owe it to Homer to say a few words about him here, while I can see the twinkle in his sun-washed blue eyes, and see him standing bowlegged in the doorway of my memories. Here was a man who grew up in no man’s mold, and God help the man even twice his size who called him a liar.

  He’d been my uncle’s foreman once on the old BarY, and came back years later, when I had bought the ranch from my uncle, to work for the kid he’d once tormented. He could lose tools faster than any cowboy I ever hired. Issue him a brand-new pair of fencing pliers or some side-cutters for cutting baling wire, and they would be missing before the end of the first day. Lost accidentally, or maybe chucked in meanness or frustration into the brush. The old cowboy always had an excuse. It was never his fault.

  “Hadn’t been fer thet damn old bay hoss, Tune, I’d still have them tools. Had ’em in my saddlebags when he bowed his old noggin and bucked me off fair and square. I spent all afternoon followin’ his tracks back to the home corral. Could hev built you lots of fence hadn’t been fer thet hoss. Them tools er bound to show up someday.”

  The old man was right. Show up they did, but it was fifty-three years later when I happened upon some of Homer’s lost tools. I was checking fence in my pickup truck down on the Calimus Butte Ranch when I ran over a rusty hay hook and blew a tire. Climbing out of the vehicle in a blue funk, I kicked some rusty fencing pliers out of the dirt along with an old hammer. Long ago Homer and I had mended that piece of fence together. Both tools were rusted almost beyond recognition, and Homer, of course, was long in his grave.

  I keep the pliers in a drawer in the ranch kitchen as a link to my past, a tool no one has wanted to borrow, handy for cracking nuts at Christmastime and not much else. But sometimes I take them out and sit before the woodstove, holding them in my hands just for memories of times back before World War II, when something terrible happened to the West I loved, and it was never the same again.

  Partly it was Social Security that robbed the ranches of their old cowboys, enabling them to spend their final years in town instead of doing chores on the ranches they knew so well. Partly it was wartime industry with its big payrolls that lured them to cities and left them forever dissatisfied with ranch wages. Maybe some of them never went back to the farm after they saw Paree. Somehow, the old storytellers never came back to the old outfits, but frittered away their days in querulous company in some nursing home. Bereft of history and colorful tales by men whose vivid stories matched the turbulence of their lives, the ranches became pieces of real estate, nothing more.

  We should have recorded the stories before those old cowboys took their last ride. So many adventures! So much of the history of the old, true West died with them and can never happen again. Ern Morgan, Fred Joy, Oliver Little, Buck Williams, Homer Smith, Al Shadley, Ernest and Etta Paddock, Mamie Farnsworth, Frank Emery, Orrie Summers, Buster Griffin, Tommy Jackson, Ash Morrow, Slim Pickens, Mel Lambert, all long dead, out riding the pastures of beyond. A list of names out of my personal past, men and women who lived lives, loved and were loved, drank whiskey like water, fought bare-fisted, and grubbed sagebrush by lantern light on land that, a half century or more later, is farmed by a stranger, unaware, uncaring even, of the richness that is history.

  The traces are still there to find. But the story of the land lies fading fast in the piles of rusty cans and milk of magnesia and whiskey bottles in the dumps, in the tortured trees grown up between cast-iron spokes of old mower wheels, in bent drift pins which once f
irmed the logs of wild horse corrals, in the names of certain fields, or hills, or springs. In stories once told around a bunkhouse stove to kids who pretended not to listen. Without the stories that went with them, the heaps of old iron are just that, heaps of old iron.

  We all have our memories, our own stories to tell, that stand only a feeble heartbeat from being lost forever, relegated to the dumps of old baby carriages and the rusting fenders of vintage cars that took us to church or witnessed the loss of our virginity. The stranger in the bar has his own list of folks who made up his personal history. I can only tell mine. As a writer I feel a responsibility to those whose lives touched my youth. Many of them were buried without an obituary, but these men and women deserve our thanks and our prayers. Important folk, for they shaped a West that was and will never be again.

  These are the stories of old Indians I knew, old cowboys I knew, and old horses I knew. All gone now, traveling the great green ranges of heaven. This is partly my own story — of a lonesome kid, maybe the only one in history to run away from Marquette, Michigan, to ride saddle broncs and fight Brahma bulls in rodeos, who was lucky enough to grow up on one of the great cattle ranches of the West.

  Book One

  Chapter One

  MY LIFE AS A COWBOY STARTED amidst the thick upper foliage of a horse chestnut tree in Marquette, Michigan. I was a thirteen-year-old beanpole of a boy given to tree sitting and watching birds. I had been up that tree for several hours, watching a robin build a nest, when my full bladder told me I had better hurry home. But not wanting to disturb the robin, who seemed to be in the process of laying her first egg, I put the privacy of my treetop bower to good use and watched as a golden stream trickled groundward from leaf to leaf. As fate would have it, at that moment my mother was walking under the tree, heading up Spruce Street with her bridge group.

  What really hurt my feelings was that of all the boys in the neighborhood, my mother knew exactly who was up that tree. The chorus of screams frightened the poor robin off the nest, and as the ladies rushed up the street to tend to their bonnets, I hit the ground running. Half an hour later I was hidden in a freight car just leaving town on a westward track.

  I could have toughed it out, of course, and bared my behind to my father’s leather slipper, but in my pocket was a crumpled letter. It was from my rancher uncle in far-off Oregon, who had written that he could step off the front porch of his ranch house and scoop up enough trout in a dishpan from the stream to feed his crew. If that were not enticement enough, his cowboys had just captured thirty wild horses and were breaking them to ride.

  I felt no guilt at leaving home. For seventeen years my father had been bedridden with multiple sclerosis, and I had long been dreaming about relieving my parents’ burdens by fending for myself. No matter now that I had neither spare clothes nor money, nor had I ever been more than sixty miles from home. I had yet to ride a horse, but at that moment I was already a cowboy.

  By the time the steam locomotive had sounded its lonesome whistle at several crossings, however, I was so homesick and hungry that I was ready to jump off the first time the train slowed. My fate was decided by an old hobo named Gus, who, smelling of rancid sweat and cheap wine, threw his bedroll into my car at the next town, followed by a gunnysack that proved to be full of blackened pots, coffee, and dried beans. Nursing a hangover, he didn’t talk much. For much of the trip I huddled near the open door, hypnotized by the rise and fall of telephone cables between the poles. Gus left me at a hobo camp under a trestle near Spokane, but not before he had lectured me on the dangers of rattlesnakes, booze, and young girls, and seen me safe from yard dicks on a Southern Pacific freight train headed south for Oregon.

  When I jumped off the train a day later in the southern Oregon town of Chiloquin, I was tired, dirty, and as hungry as a teenager can be. Gus had given me fifty cents as a parting gift, and with this I purchased a chocolate cake from some ladies at a church sale, and sat down on the curbing to devour every crumb.

  My uncle’s ranch lay thirty miles to the east, one of the church ladies told me, but there was a stage that delivered groceries to the ranch and the logging camps beyond. I’d best find the driver, an Indian named Hi Robbins, and arrange to get a ride.

  I found Hi Robbins at the back of the general store, loading groceries into the back of his Chevy panel wagon. The groceries were in different piles, one marked Pelican Bay Camp, and one marked Lamm’s Camp. I took them both to be logging camps. The other pile, no less large, was marked for my uncle’s ranch, Yamsi.

  The vehicle was old and needed paint, but it was clean. I had never seen an Indian up close. I was astonished to note that Hi was as handsome and well-groomed as any western movie star.

  At that moment, a slender Indian girl trotted up on a spirited black-and-white horse. She looked at me and giggled. I realized how dirty I must have looked to them both. I rubbed my face on the back of my torn sleeve, no doubt making matters worse, and tried to smooth down my cowlicks with my hand. “Mr. Robbins,” I said, “my uncle owns a ranch named Yamsi at the head of the Williamson River. Can I catch a ride out there in your truck?”

  The man’s bronzed face showed no emotion. “Inside,” he said. “Inside the store there’s a sink with soap and water. You better scrub the dirt and stink off yourself if you’re goin’ to ride with me!”

  The girl must have thought better of me when I cleaned up. She slid from her horse and offered me the reins. “Go ahead,” she said. “Ride him if you want.”

  “I got a sore leg,” I said, not wanting her to know I was afraid. “Some other time.”

  “My name is Rose,” she said shyly, as though a last name were superfluous. She seemed to sense that I was looking down her shirt front, and her face flushed darkly. Grabbing her reins and a mane-hold, she vaulted swiftly onto her horse and galloped off. I was ashamed at my own crudity and turned away, embarrassed.

  Hi Robbins covered the groceries carefully with canvas and nodded to me to get into the truck. The roar of the engine filled the cab, making conversation impossible without shouting. We headed out of town on dusty roads that wound through great forests of ponderosa pines. Here and there were windfalls, so thick in the trunk a grown man could not have seen over them. Now and then we would pass small Indian ranches, where little brown children lined the fences to wave at Hi. Now and then older women in long skirts looked up from their chores, their round faces splitting in grins.

  Once, we stopped at a roadside spring, where Hi sieved out pollywogs from a rusty coffee can with his fingers and filled the steaming radiator with water. “Your uncle know you’re coming?” Hi asked. His voice was as refined and beautiful as his face.

  I shrugged. “I guess not,” I admitted.

  “I figured as much,” Hi said. “He’s quite a character, that uncle of yours. Never did get married. They say he hates kids.”

  Doubts swept over me. My uncle had never really invited me west. Just told me about the trout in his stream and the wild horses. What if he got angry when he saw me and sent me packing back to Michigan?

  We left the main road at a twenty-six-mile marker to drive across a cattle guard made of railroad iron and through a grove of virgin pines. There were no stumps anywhere, indicating the timber had never been thinned. The ranch house showed up suddenly while I was still ogling the immense trees. The building was huge and ominous, with sharply sloping roofs to accommodate heavy mountain snows. The substantial walls were made of local lava rock with windows framed by huge pine logs, showing rough scars where they had been peeled with a broad axe.

  The windows caught the afternoon sun and stared back at us, each pane a tiny eye. I thought I saw a curtain move, but no dog barked and no one came out to greet us. Even the birds were silent, as though busy watching.

  I helped Hi Robbins unload groceries onto the back stoop. “Good luck, kid,” he said. The engine roared, leaving a pall of stinking blue oil smoke, and swiftly the old Chevy was gone up the dusty road. For a few min
utes I could still hear the growl of his truck engine as he shifted gears, and see a cloud of volcanic pumice dust as he progressed up the ridge toward the logging camps to the east. Then all was silent, and I was alone.

  There was water running everywhere amongst the willows of the house lot. It bubbled in clear springs from the ground and merged into a larger channel spanned by a crude log bridge. The holes in my worn sneakers squirted water as I crossed the bridge and moved across the wet meadow toward an A-frame barn and log corrals. There was a freshly skinned cowhide draped across a top log on the corral, raw side up, and a dozen black-and-white birds with long tails were picking it clean. I’d seen their pictures in my bird books. They were magpies and rattled off at my approach, cursing me angrily. From the rafters of the barn hung a fresh beef carcass, shrouded with cloth against the flies. The white cotton had soaked up blood, giving it the coloration of a strawberry roan horse.

  Far off I heard a horse nicker and a cow bawl, but the sounds ceased before I could judge the direction. To my right was a small unpainted cottage I took to be a bunkhouse. The door of the adjoining outhouse swung open and shut with the wind; I peeked in, half hoping that there would be someone expected him to be wearing talk to, but the three seats were empty. On the floor of the privy was a pile of chewed pinecones where a squirrel had recently made a meal.

  I was about to investigate the bunkhouse when suddenly I became aware that I was being followed. I turned and saw a tall gray man standing there, watching. “Who the hell are you,” he growled, “and what are you doing nosing around?” I felt a flash of resentment at the greeting. I sensed that this was my uncle, but I had expected him to be wearing cowboy boots, Levi’s, and a big Stetson. Instead, wearing a wool cardigan sweater and a slouch hat, this man could be some old banker from Marquette.