Wild Cow Tales

by Ben K. Green

  The singin’ began to get clearer and cattle were bawlin’. As I rode out into the openin’ where I could see down into the valley there was Scotty Perth on his shay. He had set all the gates open to the corrals and the gate to the trap that joined this pasture and was drivin’ his horse at a slow walk to the hooked shay around in the valley and in a high, melodious tone was singin’ “Mother MacCrea.”

  Scotty Perth was a lone wolf and very seldom had anybody to help him with his cattle, and with his beautiful baritone voice he had a call all his own and those half-Hereford Scottish-bred cattle seemed to have a real appreciation for his voice and selection of music. As he rolled the R’s and clipped the words and hit the high notes in “Mother MacCrea,” all the cattle in that lower pasture were bawlin’ and comin’ to the valley.

  To see all those cattle out in the open was a beautiful sight to me since I had ridden so long and hard, but Scotty Perth’s singin’ “Mother MacCrea” wasn’t necessarily music to my ears.

  There was a long strip of slick, shaley rock at the bottom of the slope just before the turf of the valley started, and many a herd of cattle had gotten away because a man can’t run a horse across that shaley rock without takin’ an awful chance with life and limb, including the possibility of injury to his horse. I circled fast to the east of these cattle, and they were movin’ at a good trot and my only hope to offset Scotty Perth’s musical ability was to charge these cattle from the east and turn ’em fast through the open gates at the road which was no more than a quarter of a mile west of the gates that he had set to call them through at the north, which would lead them into the valley.

  The clouds were movin’ in fast and the wind was becomin’ variable, which helped me some in that Scotty Perth’s singin’ wasn’t reachin’ ’em quite as steadily as it had been when the wind was blowin’ up the canyon. When these cattle were about the same distance from the west gate as they were from Scotty’s north gate I had made it around to the east edge of the shaley rock slope. Scotty was drivin’ his shay at a slow walk toward the corral gates and had lowered his tone because he knew he had the cattle followin’ him. He hadn’t yet discovered me because I was ridin’ in the timber as best I could behind him until I had gotten to the east side of the shaley rock. The cattle weren’t more’n a quarter of a mile from his corrals or from the west gate into the road.

  When you are ridin’ a horse in a run and he hits a spot of slick rock, it is natural for him to “scotch” in order to steady himself, which increases the possibility of his falling. (If you are ridin’ a horse at a trot or fast gait on rock he will extend himself into a run without any thought of “scotching.”) This was a slim chance and it might not work, but if it didn’t put the cattle in the road it would put them back up in the canyon and it would stop that business I had been hearin’ about “gatherin’ the cattle in a shay.”

  I got out on the slick rock with my horse in a trot, took my jacket off, slipped my feet out of the stirrups so in case my horse fell I wouldn’t be hung to him, and broke into a top-speed run, swingin’ my jacket over my head and squallin’ as loud as a Texas cowboy could squall and charged these cattle even before Scotty Perth knew I was in the pasture.

  Disturbing weather, variable winds, and fast-movin’ clouds add to the nervousness of cattle, and when I ran towards them they were about ready for a stampede anyway. The only glance I got at Scotty Perth durin’ the wild ride was when his horse had tried to run away to get out from in front of the chargin’ cattle. The herd hit his fence about two hundred yards west of his gates, and as they piled up in a wad some of ’em found the road gate that I had opened the several nights before and the race was on.

  I didn’t lose a cow gettin’ through the gates, but they did knock some of the fence down. I squalled, hollered, and waved my jacket at them until I ran ’em for about five miles. When they had begun to “wind” and slow up, I dropped back to give my horse a breather and let them slow down for the drive to town. Any time you can wind a bunch of wild cattle, it makes ’em easier to handle for the rest of the day.

  The cloud had developed into a cold drizzle, and by the time we were halfway to town the roads were gettin’ muddy. I had gotten pretty well soaked by now and kind of chilly, and my horse was wringin’ wet with sweat and steam boilin’ out of his flanks from all the ridin’ that I was havin’ to do in that heavy, wet dirt.

  At the edge of town about two thirty that afternoon, somethin’ boogered these cattle, and they made a wild run back up the road toward the ranch. I rode at full speed about three miles in front of ’em, hopin’ that nothin’ could happen that would cause my horse to fall. The herd finally quit runnin’, and after they stopped they milled around in the road awhile and started driftin’ back towards town.

  In about an hour and a half after the run started, I had them up close to where they first stampeded and wondered what caused the first run and was hopin’ whatever it was would be gone or else that they wouldn’t run from it again.

  When a bunch of wild cattle go to findin’ buggers and runnin’, you needn’t expect anything but trouble until you get ’em where you started.

  I knew Mustang was pretty well spent by now, and I hoped that I wouldn’t have to call on him for too much more. I managed to wing the cattle into the railroad right of way and towards the stockyards. I knew that if a train came along or some old woman hung out her washin’ or just any damn thing happened, these cattle would run again. But I took my chances and rode just as far away from them on the other side of the railroad as I could. I didn’t dare strike a run, so I trotted on to the stock-pen gates and propped them back with some bales of alfalfa hay. The cattle were still comin’ and bawlin’ as they had been doin’ all that day.

  The misty rain had turned into a pretty hard rain, which I guess slowed ’em down a little and gave me time to set the stock-pen gates. There wasn’t a soul drivin’ these cattle from behind, and I was afraid to go around them because I might turn them back. I thought my best chance was to take a few more minutes and break several bales of that alfalfa and scatter it around on the ground in front of the stock pens. I did this, and got on my horse and rode away from the stock pens, and away from the cattle towards the depot and hoped that wet alfalfa would smell enough to stop a bunch of wild cattle that had been on the run all day in the mud and the rain. Sure ’nuff, when the herd began to get into that hay they stopped and went to eatin’. Then I rode way back around them to a pen on the north side of the loadin’ chute and pens, crawled over the fence, and went to breakin’ alfalfa hay off another stack inside the stock pens.

  I knew the hay I broke in front of the stock pens wouldn’t last long between what they had eat and what they had tromped into the mud. I broke about twenty-five bales and scattered it, and crawled back over the fence to my horse and then rode back away from them in a walk. I got around them, not to push them, but to wait for them to drift themselves into the stock pens as the hay ran out on the outside. It took a good while, it seemed to me sittin’ in that cold rain on a hot horse, waitin’ on a bunch of wild Scotch crossbred cows to pen themselves.

  When the last cow was in the gates, I rode up as slow as I could and stopped my horse sideways from the gates. I slipped a lariat rope around the first plank of one gate and slipped it through another gate so I could bring them together at the same time. When I started pullin’ on the rope and closin’ the gates, I did it as quiet as a thief in the dark. When I got the chain around the gates and fastened with the lock, I took the first breath I had had in the last ten minutes.

  It was nearly quittin’ time for the depot agent, and by reason of the weather nightfall would be soon. I rode up to the depot, and the agent was fixin’ to leave and had already locked the door when I stepped off my horse and told him that the stock pens had over two hundred head of cattle in them. That was the first he knew about it. So he unlocked the depot and started to make out an order for stockcars. I told him that I had to wire Kansas City for shippin’ inst
ructions, and that we could order the cars in the mornin’.

  I sent Mr. Merideth at the bank a night letter saying that I had two hundred and twenty-one head of cattle in the railroad stock pens and none in the Scotty Perth pasture, and would he wire me shippin’ instructions.

  As I came out of the depot, I noticed the white foamy lather that had almost covered my horse was dryin’ and he had begun to quiver.

  I rode him in a walk up to the mercantile, which was about a mile and a half away, and bought a wagon sheet and two wool blankets. I took them back to the stock pens with me, and it was almost dark when I decided to change pens with some of the cattle. I put about half of them in a pen on the north side of the loadin’ chute and about half of ’em in a pen on the west side of the loadin’ chute. Mustang and I got in the crowdin’-pen part of the loadin’ chute. This way I was usin’ the cattle for a windbreak for me and my horse.

  I unsaddled him and covered him up with a wool blanket. Then I tied the wagon sheet to the side of the fence and draped it over him, just leavin’ his head stickin’ out to where he wouldn’t be spooked or boogered by bein’ covered up. Mustang was a sensible horse and was rode to exhaustion and had a lot of trust in me. So he let me do all this messin’ around him without showin’ any sense of uneasiness. It had quit rainin’, but the ground was wet underfoot. I carried several bales of alfalfa from the outside pen and broke it up good and shook it out into a pile around under him and got him to move his feet around until I got him upon a pretty good pad of dry hay.

  After I had him dried out good, he began to get warm and quit shakin’ and shiverin’ and began to breathe easy. I found an old bucket and carried him two bucketsful of water, which was all I thought he should have. He groaned and stretched a time or two and laid down on the alfalfa hay with the wagon sheet still stretched over him. But he just laid down like a tired horse ought to sort of settin’ down on his haunches and knees with his head and neck out at a restful angle, which is normal for a tired horse. A sick horse stretches out and lays flat on the ground with his body and with his head and legs and will roll and beat his head against the ground.

  I felt pretty good about old Mustang and decided I would take that other blanket I bought and roll up in it and lay down to his back. With him on one side of me and a herd of cattle in the pen on the other side of me made a pretty good, warm spot for the night. I waked up a time or two in the night and everything would seem to be all right, and I would doze back off to sleep.

  About daylight I began to get cold, and I waked up and saw that Mustang had gotten up and walked out from under the wagon sheet and was standin’ up on three legs asleep, which is very normal for a good, healthy horse. The reason I went to all this trouble to dry him off and then to keep him warm was because about a year before this I had gotten into a wild mare drive and rode a good horse in a run most of the day and part of the night. When I unsaddled him, he had walked out in the corral and died before mornin’. I had promised God and all of my good horses that I wouldn’t get into that kind of a storm with a bunch of wild stock again. But Scotty Perth and the Scotch-crossed cattle and “Mother MacCrea” had made me forget that until after the ride was over.

  I got up and shook myself and looked around. I saw that I still had a bunch of badly drawn cattle in the stock pens and decided I would walk down to the depot to see if I had a wire from Mr. Merideth.

  The railroad agent wasn’t there yet so I stood around on the south side of the depot, humped up in the weather, and waited for him. It must have been an hour or so until he showed up and unlocked the depot and we went inside.

  He got out his telegraph machine and tapped the wire to somebody that he was alive, and they went to givin’ him the night’s messages. Pretty soon he came through with a night letter from Mr. Merideth.

  It started out by instructing me to ship thirty head of the oldest cows to the Kansas City market. The wire further stated that I was to turn one hundred and ninety-one head, or all that I had left after shippin’ the thirty, back to Scotty Perth.

  Then the last of the wire was addressed to Scotty Perth and stated “when you asked us for additional money last summer, we would have been glad to have made you additional loans provided you would have complied with the new rulings that have been set forth by the federal government whereby all cattle that are submitted to a bank for collateral must be counted, inspected, and appraised. But in your fit of rage you forced the bank to protect its interest by rounding up and selling enough cattle to cover your indebtedness which this final thirty head that we have instructed Ben Green to ship this mornin’ will more than finish paying your total indebtedness to this bank. Whatever is left over of that amount will be credited to your account, which so far as this bank is concerned has never been closed. We are instructing Ben Green to turn over to you the hundred and ninety-one head of cattle that are left and are extending to you an invitation to come back and borrow whatever additional money you may need—providing you will leave the rules of banking to the bank and we will leave the matter of ranching to you. Please remember in considering this proposition that you are the one that became angry, and not the bank.”

  The railroad agent handed me the wire, which was a night letter, and he blew a long sigh of relief and said Scotty Perth ought to be ashamed of himself. I folded the wire and put it in my pocket and immedately gave him an order for an “immigrant car.” (An immigrant car is a boxcar [not a livestock car] that is to be loaded with mixed stock, household goods, and anything else that a farmer or stockman would need to move such as implements, etc.) I ordered two barrels of fresh water and twenty bales of hay to be put in the car and told him to spot it at the loadin’ dock by the depot for me the next afternoon.

  I went by the stock pens and saddled my horse and rode him to town in a slow walk. He was awful sore and stiff and I was goin’ to have to be a little careful ridin’ to limber him up.

  I went to the hotel and was eatin’ some breakfast when Dr. Turner came in and sat down on the stool at the counter next to me. News had traveled fast. The railroad agent had beat me to the drugstore and told the story about the Scotty Perth wire.

  Dr. Turner broke the silence between us by sayin’, “I know about the wire. I wondered what else you had to tell Scotty Perth and the rest of the people of the town.”

  I had my mouth full of ham and eggs. My horse wasn’t hurt too bad from the ride and I was already thinkin’ about shippin’ out for Texas, so I wasn’t in too bad a humor to entertain the doctor’s question. I said when I finished my breakfast, “If you’ve got the time I would like for you to meet me at Scotty Perth’s house.”

  He said, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” and slipped off the stool and went back across the street to his office.

  When I came out of the door and started gettin’ on my horse I saw Dr. Turner comin’ out gettin’ in his car. I took my time and rode up in front of Scotty’s house and tied my horse to a tree in his front yard and walked up on the porch and knocked on the front door. As Mrs. Perth opened the door Dr. Turner came up on the porch.

  Mrs. Perth addressed me by name and then seemed to have lost her speech.

  I said, “I want to see Mister Perth.”

  He was listenin’ from the livin’ room and bellowed, “That kid is not welcome under this roof.” Dr. Turner shoved me in front of him and then walked on in front of me and Mrs. Perth and in a firm tone said, “Scotty, shut up and listen to what Ben has to say.”

  I walked on up to where he was sittin’ in a huge chair in front of the fireplace and without speakin’ to him pulled the wire out of my pocket and read it to him. He began to break over and hold his head in his hands. Mrs. Perth began to say, “Oh, Scotty, Scotty!” and she repeated it a dozen times or more. The young girl that I had seen at the church party came and sat on the arm of his chair and put her arm around him.

  Ever’body was silent it seemed to me for a long time when Dr. Turner said, “Scotty, what do you have to say?�
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  He got up out of the chair on his peg leg and pronounced Ben like it had an A in it and in his Scottish brogue he said, “Ben, my lad, I have been a mite hard on you.”

  I was about to explode when I said, “Mite, hell!” I wonder how much a lot would be. There I stood with a wire in my hand giving me just cause and reason to give Scotty Perth the best cussin’ that he ever had and would have in Scotland or in America, but my raising at this moment had turned out to be a handicap. I had been taught since a small boy to “behave in the house,” “mind your manners and your language in the presence of ladies,” and I was already regretting that I had used the word “hell.”

  I stood there and wished I had Scotty Perth at the stock pens or a wagonyard where I could turn the air blue from there to the horizon, but feeling ill at ease and already embarrassed before Mrs. Perth and Scotty’s daughter, I turned and left the room and walked out of the house alone.

  I rode slowly back to town and went to the drugstore. It was a long time before Dr. Turner came to town behind me. The druggist had spoken to me that mornin’ without calling me mister, so he must have gotten the news too.

  Dr. Turner said, “Come back to my office with me.” So I followed him back there. He said, “Scotty and Mrs. Perth are pretty bad torn up, and he wonders if there is somethin’ he can do to make things better between you and him.”

  The idea of anything bein’ better between me and him sounded repulsive to me, and I told the doctor so.

  He said, “Well, there is something else botherin’ Scotty. He wanted me to ask you if you would ship some other cattle besides the old pure-blooded Scotch cows and leave them for him to take back to the ranch.”

  I told the doctor that my instructions were to ship thirty of the oldest cows, and this would probably be my only chance to get some of the mean, mad Scotch blood out of the country and he could damn sure bet that I was goin’ to ship every old pure-blooded Scotch cow that there was in the herd.