by Lois Lenski
Gypsy was her most prized possession. She was proving herself tame and useful. Now that Charlie had a horse, she could really help her father. She could ride and carry a roll of wire, a cedar post, a bag of feed, a dogie calf, or when summer came, a sack of wild plums. She could do everything on Gypsy. She need never walk again.
When Gus brought the horses into the horse trap, she mounted Gypsy and looked down at Salvador. No—she didn’t want to live the life of a sheepherder and spend her life walking. It would be dusty, too, behind all those sheep.
Charlie hated sheep, too, just like her father and all the cattlemen. They were nasty, smelly creatures. They bleated baa, baa, baa until it drove a person crazy. No wonder people said “crazy as a sheepherder.” Only people who were too stupid to do anything else herded sheep, and sheep had no brains at all. If the lead sheep did something wrong, the rest of the flock followed, and drowned or crippled themselves falling off rocks. Cows could think, cows had sense. A horse to ride and cattle to take care of—that was the only life. Charlie could never be anything but a ranchwoman.
As the Mexicans walked away, Dan Carter called to Gus: “You get out there behind that flock of sheep and keep them moving three miles a day through Triangle Ranch if you can. It’s only eight miles through, unless they go in circles—I don’t want them staying weeks and weeks. Let me know when you’ve turned them all over into Sam Reed’s pastures. Doggone-it! Won’t Sam be pleased!”
He turned to his daughter. “Come on, hon. You can drive the feed wagon today. Let me take Gypsy—Old Sam’s a bit lame and needs a rest. I’ll ride out later and meet you. You and Bones can take this load of feed out to the platform in Cutoff Pasture. On your way over, stop by the Lazy D and tell Sam that Hicks’s sheep are heading up his way.”
“Yes, Papa,” said Charlie, “but I don’t like to drive the wagon. It’s too slow. I’ll ride Gypsy…”
“You can ride Gypsy back,” said her father. “Do as I tell you. Bud and I will come and unload the feed. Wait till we get there.”
“I’ll go if Bones will go along,” said Charlie. She called her brother and he came running.
Benoni was a timid, quiet boy, three years younger than his sister. Charlie was always the aggressor and often led him into mischief. Frail from babyhood, the boy did not enjoy strenuous physical activity. He tried to get out of doing most of the things his sister enjoyed. He did not like horses or enjoy riding horseback, and rode only when he had to. But he liked riding on the wagon.
It was a slow, pokey ride over the rocky pastures. The slowest horses on the ranch, Goggle-Eye and Polecat, were always used for the wagon. Charlie slapped them hard with the lines, but they never changed their pace, for the load of cow cake was heavy and the way was rough. On and on, up and down over rough rock outcropping and over loose rocks, creaking and crunching they went. The wagon wheels were getting dry and needed a good soaking in water. The hubs needed greasing, too.
Bones got down and opened each gate, waited till Charlie drove the wagon through, then closed the gate again. A fenced-in lane brought them up to Lazy D Ranch, which joined Triangle Ranch on the north and east. Sam Reed came riding out. He was large and fat and had a genial smile.
“George Hicks’s sheep, eh?” He frowned. “Tell your father I hope he keeps them as long as possible—I don’t want them. Too bad—our cows need grass in a drouth like this. Sheep are a blasted nuisance.”
Sam Reed looked at Benoni almost wistfully, for he had no son of his own. “What’s your name, boy ?” he asked, as he always did.
“Benoni Daniel Carter,” answered Bones.
“What kind of legs you got, boy?”
“Spider legs!”
“What you got to eat to fatten ’em up?”
“Beans and bread and biscuits.”
“What you gonna be when you get big?”
“COWBOY!” shouted Bones, because he knew the man expected him to say it. Then he added: “No, I don’t guess I will. I don’t like to ride horses.”
“He don’t even know Clabber, his own horse,” said Charlie. “When Gus gets the horses up, Bones points and asks: ‘Is that one mine? Which horse is mine?’ ”
Sam Reed laughed and shook his head. “Don’t you race with that tomboy sister of yours?”
“I like a wagon better,” said Bones.
The children turned around and slowly made their way back to Cutoff Pasture. Finally they entered a water lot in the Cutoff, where a herd of cows were waiting.
“What are the cows lying down for?” asked Bones.
“They’re tired and weak,” said Charlie. “They want this feed we’re bringing.”
“That one’s dead,” said Bones, pointing.
“Oh no, just lazy,” laughed Charlie. “Wait till Papa comes—he’ll tail her up. He’ll make her use her legs all right.”
“There—what’s that? A dead sheep?” asked Bones.
“Maybe it’s just lying down,” said Charlie.
“It’s gonna die,” said Bones.
“It’s not dead,” said Charlie. “That old sheepherder will be leaving dead sheep all over the place. I’m like Uncle Moe—I hate sheep. There’s nothing dumber than a sheep, unless it’s the men who look after them.”
A wailing cry came to the children’s ears, clear and penetrating over the creaking of the wagon. Bones shivered and clung to his sister. They looked up and there, across in front of a thicket, they saw a row of shadowy forms moving.
“Look!” cried Bones. “Oh! Oh!”
“Coyotes!” said Charlie. She counted. “Gee-whillikens!—five of ’em, all gray but the big one, with a spot on its breast.”
“Are they gonna kill our cows?” asked Bones.
“No, they’re after Hicks’s sheep,” said Charlie. “Bringing all those sheep into our ranch has brought the coyotes too. But they’re gone now, don’t you cry, Bones.” Charlie was always kind and tender to her little brother.
They came to the feed platform and waited. They waited a long time, but the men did not come. They saw a thin thread of smoke rising over the brow of a low hill.
“Let’s go see what that smoke is,” said Charlie.
“It might be a grass fire,” said Bones, fearful again.
“Silly!” laughed Charlie. “There’s not enough grass to burn.”
They left the wagon and ran over, to find a sheep camp. A chuck wagon with a water barrel stood beside the little tent. A black cooking pot sat on the half burned-out campfire. Men’s overalls hung from the limb of a mesquite tree.
“Must be Pilar’s sheep camp,” said Charlie. “Wonder where Salvador is.”
Bones looked in the barrel. “Their water’s almost gone. Did the sheep drink it up?”
“That’s not the sheep’s water,” said Charlie. “That’s the Mexicans’ drinking and cooking water. When they have sheep in a big flock like that, they only water ’em once a week. They have to go find water somewhere once a week.”
She found a dipper, and she and Bones both took drinks, for they were thirsty. “Will the Mexicans be thirsty when they come back?” asked Bones.
Charlie remembered the clouds of dust that hung over every moving flock. “Sure, they’ll be thirsty. They’ll have to go fill their barrel up again.”
“Where will they fill it?” asked Bones.
“Oh, stop asking so many questions,” said Charlie. “Gee-whillikens! I’m hungry. We haven’t had a bite since breakfast. Wonder what Pilar’s going to have for supper.” She lifted the cover off the pot. “Nothin’ but old frijole beans.”
She found a tin pan and a spoon, and she ladled out beans.
Bones was hungry too, so they took turns with the spoon. She ladled out more, and they kept on eating until the iron pot was almost empty.
“What are Pilar and Salvador going to have for their supper?” asked Bones.
Charlie shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t know and don’t care,” she said. “We better go before they come and find us he
re. We got to get home in time for supper or Mama will skin us alive.”
“What will the Mexicans do to us, if they catch us here?” asked Bones.
“Chase us,” said Charlie. “Throw rocks at us, maybe.”
“I don’t want any supper,” wailed Bones. “I’m not hungry.”
“You’re full of beans, that’s why!” laughed Charlie.
Then all at once, before the children had a chance to go, there stood the two Mexicans, father and son, before them. Charlie grasped Bones tightly by the hand, to be ready for anything. She knew she had done wrong to eat all their food. If they were mad about it, she decided to answer them back and not run unless she had to. If she and Bones ran, the Mexicans would be sure to throw rocks. Besides, Bones was no good at running. He always stumbled and fell.
But the Mexicans did not chase them or throw rocks.
“Go get wood,” said Pilar, and Salvador scuttled off. Soon he came back with his arms full. The man built up the fire.
Nervously, Charlie watched as he uncovered his cooking pot and looked in. What would he do when he found it empty? Her question was soon answered. Pilar went to the wagon where he kept his supplies, brought more beans and poured them into the pot. He dipped water from the barrel and covered the beans. He put the cover back on.
“Come, sit down,” he said to the children. His voice was friendly.
“Come, stay, eat,” begged Salvador, smiling shyly.
“We’re not hungry,” Charlie began.
“Wait long time for beans to cook,” said Pilar. “Salvador show you his pet paisano. What you say for paisano—road runner, eh?”
Salvador ran into the tent and came out with a small, long-tailed bird. He had found it half-dead, had fed and cared for it and made it a pet. The bird strutted about on the ground, cocking and jerking its head in its own queer way, but did not run off.
Suddenly the howl of a coyote pierced the air.
Pilar looked over his shoulder and frowned. “Dog of the devil,” he said. “Dog of the devil!” Then he smiled. “When señor coyote speaks to the sun in the morning, he sings a rain-song. But when he speaks to the moon at night, he is singing of dry weather to come.”
Salvador started a game. With a handful of twigs, he laid up play-corrals and fences on the ground. He had baby horned-toads for cattle and two lizards for horses. He tied strings on the lizards for harness. Charlie and Bones sat down and played ranch with the little Mexican boy.
After a while, Pilar brought tortillas out from the tent, and they all ate. A second Mexican man came in, dust-covered from tending the flock, followed by his sheep dog. He ate but did not talk.
Charlie was puzzled. Pilar had not said a word about their eating all the beans. He and Salvador seemed glad to have company. They did not want the children to go. Could it be they were lonely?
She had never thought of a sheepherder being lonely before. Didn’t they have each other to talk to? “Crazy as a sheepherder”—the phrase came back to her. Pilar and Salvador were not crazy. They were nice and friendly. They were harmless—they wouldn’t hurt a flea. Why, they even let people take their food right out from under their noses!
“Who - o - o - o! Who -o-o- ey!”
Charlie heard her father calling. “There’s Papa and Bud. They’ll think we’re lost.”
The children ran as fast as they could to the feed wagon. They did not look back to see Salvador standing there, a forlorn little figure under the trees. They did not realize it might be months before he saw another child.
“Were you calling us or the cows, Papa?” asked Charlie.
“Both!” said her father. “We thought you’d been eaten by the coyotes. Where were you?”
“Just over the hill,” said Charlie.
Bones shivered. “We counted five coyotes, Papa,” he said.
“Another job for Bud and me,” said Dan Carter. “But first we’ve got to tail up these cows and get them started eating.”
The wagon was already unloaded. The children sat on the wagon seat and watched. The two men slapped their hands on their chaps and stamped their feet, trying to “booger” the cows up. Some rose half-heartedly, but others did not stir.
“We’ll have to bring the weak ones into Little Pasture,” said Dan, “where we can take care of them.”
“Soon they won’t be worth bringin’ home,” said Bud. “Some of these old mama cows have made up their minds to quit this vale of tears. They’re thinkin’ about greener pastures up on high.”
Bud stopped to grasp a cow’s tail and get it up over his shoulder. Then he lifted, raising her up on her rear feet. Dan Carter tugged at her head and Bud at her tail until she was up. They went from one cow to another. Some would lie right down again, and had to be “tailed-up” the second time.
“Never saw so many downers,” groaned Bud. “Gee, my shoulder’s gittin’ out of joint. This thing of tailin’ up fifty or seventy-five cows every day is enough to take the starch right out of a man.”
“Ranching is no child’s play,” said Dan Carter. “It’s fighting the elements. Now if it would only rain, the grass would grow and the cows would eat it and grow fat, and we wouldn’t ever have to tail them up.”
“Tailin’ up ain’t no child’s play,” repeated Bud, laughing.” Now Charlie makes a good hand on the ranch, but this is one thing she can’t do.”
“I can’t skin a dead cow, either!” shouted Charlie. She had climbed down from the wagon and was following the men around. “You cowboys would get plumb lazy if I did all your work.”
“There’s nothing in the world makes a ranchman so unhappy,” Dan Carter went on, “as to see his stock hungry, or see them die. I’ll spend my last cent on feed for my cows, and then borrow till my credit runs out. Here, spring’s coming on, and we’re still feeding and feeding and feeding. When my credit runs out, I’ll sell off the stock and go out of the ranch business.”
“Move to town, eh?” said Bud.
Charlie’s face grew more set and determined as she listened. “Are all the cows going to die?” she asked bluntly.
“No, hon, of course not,” said her father. “How did you get such an idea?”
But Charlie knew more about it than he realized. She had seen the hides that her father had skinned from dead cows, hanging on the fence to dry. She had smelled them, too. She knew that Old Man Drake hauled the hides away in his freight wagon and sold them to the hide-buyer for a dollar apiece. No one mentioned these things, but Charlie knew all about it. She did not miss much that went on at Triangle Ranch. She knew, too, that if all the cows died it would be the end of the ranch.
“Move to town!” she cried out angrily, repeating Bud’s words. “Well, if you do, you can leave me here. Mama and Grace will go with you…”
“Me, too,” called Bones from the wagon seat. “I’d rather live at Aunt Eleanor’s in town. I like it better in town.”
“And Bones—they’ll all go with you,” said Charlie bitterly. “The cowboys’ll go off and get jobs on other people’s ranches, but I’ll stay here. I’ll never leave the ranch.”
“Live out here all by yourself, hon?” asked her father, teasing.
“I’ll go live in that sheepherder’s tent,” said Charlie. “Pilar and Salvador will take me in.”
“And eat frijole beans three times a day?”
Charlie hesitated. “I hate ’em, but I’ll choke ’em down.”
“Get in the wagon now, hon, and go along home,” said Papa.
“You promised I could ride Gypsy back,” said Charlie.
“Well, you can’t,” said her father. “Bud and I are going to try to find those coyotes. Bud’s got his Winchester with him. Don’t know just when we’ll get back. Tell Mama to save some supper for us.”
The men rode away before Charlie could argue about it, but her disappointment showed in her face.
“Gee-whillikens!” she complained. “Got to drive these stupid nags all the way home again.”
�
��Will the Mexicans chase us?” asked Bones.
“Course not, silly, they’re friends.”
“Will the coyotes chase us?” asked Bones.
“Course not, silly.” Charlie was always at her best when protecting her brother. “Papa and Bud are gonna shoot ’em dead.”
Bones moved closer on the wagon seat and rested his head against Charlie’s shoulder.
“Giddap, Goggle-Eye!” called the girl, slapping the lines. “Giddap, Polecat. Git goin’, you two!”
CHAPTER IV
A Bloody Battle
“I HATE SCHOOL!” said Charlie flatly.
“Now that she has a horse,” said Mrs. Carter, “she’ll never go. With spring coming on, she’ll be riding all the time. Moe can just come and take that horse away.”
Dan Carter turned to the girl. “Your Mama doesn’t want you to grow up an ignoramus, hon,” he said.
“Don’t learn nothin’ outa their silly old books,” growled Charlie.
“Do you hear how she speaks?” cried Mrs. Carter. “Worse than the most illiterate cowboy.”
“Listen, hon,” coaxed Papa. “I know you can learn a-plenty right here on the ranch—about Nature, about animals, the weather and so on. But there’s good things to learn in books, too.”
“What?” demanded Charlie.
“Well…er…lots of things,” said Papa lamely. “Poems and…”
“Poems!” scoffed Charlie. “Silly things like this: ‘A boy stood on the burning deck, eating peanuts by the peck!’ Bah!”
“You’ll never be a good ranchwoman,” said Papa sternly, “if you’re not good at figures. Ranching is a business. If you don’t know arithmetic, you can never manage a ranch.”
“Thank goodness, she won’t ever have to manage a ranch,” said Mama lightly. “We’ll have a house in town before she reaches high school. I hope my sister Eleanor will ask Grace to live with her in town next year. I want all my children to go to college.”