by Andy Adams
Joel was evidently embarrassed. Not that he questioned the older man’s advice, but the means to the end seemed totally lacking. The grind of poverty had been his constant companion, until he scarcely looked forward to any reprieve, and the castles being built and the domain surveyed at the present moment were vague and misty. “I don’t doubt your advice,” admitted the boy. “A man could do it, you could, but Dell and I had better return to the settlements. Mr. Quince will surely be well by fall.”
“Will you make me a promise?” frankly asked the cowman.
“I will,” eagerly replied the boy.
“After I leave tomorrow morning, then, tell Forrest that you are thinking of claiming Beaver Creek as a cattle range. Ask him if he knows any way to secure a few cows and yearlings with which to stock it. In the mean time, think it over yourself. Will you do that?”
“Y-e-s, I—I will,” admitted Joel, as if trapped into the promise.
“Of course you will. And ask him as if life and death depended on securing the cattle. Forrest has been a trail foreman and knows all the drovers and their men. He’s liable to remain with you until the season ends. Now, don’t fail to ask him.”
“Oh, I’ll ask him,” said Joel more cheerfully. “Did you say that control of a range was a basis on which to start a ranch, and that it had a value?”
“That’s it. Now you’re catching the idea. Lay hold and never lose sight of the fact that a range that will graze five to ten thousand cattle, the year round, is as good as money in the bank.”
Joel’s faculties were grappling with the idea. The two turned their horses homeward, casting an occasional glance to the southward, but were unrewarded by the sight of a dust cloud, the signal of an approaching herd. The trail foreman was satisfied that he had instilled interest and inquiry into the boy’s mind, which, if carefully nurtured, might result in independence. They had ridden several miles, discussing different matters, and when within sight of the homestead, Joel reined in his horse. “Would you mind repeating,” said he, “what you said awhile ago, about control of a range by prior rights?”
The trail foreman freely responded to the awakened interest. “On the range,” said he, “custom becomes law. No doubt but it dates back to the first flocks and herds. Its foundations rest on a sense of equity and justice which has always existed among pastoral people. In America it dates from the first invasion of the Spanish. Among us Texans, a man’s range is respected equally with his home. By merely laying claim to the grazing privileges of public domain, and occupying it with flocks or herds, the consent of custom gives a man possession. It is an asset that is bought and sold, and is only lost when abandoned. In all human migrations, this custom has followed flocks and herds. Title to land is the only condition to which the custom yields.”
“And we could claim this valley, by simply occupying it with cattle, and hold possession of its grazing privileges?” repeated the boy.
“By virtue of a custom, older than any law, you surely can. It’s primal range today. This is your epoch. The buffalo preceded you, the settler, seeking a home, will follow you. The opportunity is yours. Go in and win.”
“But how can we get a start of cattle?” pondered Joel.
“Well, after I leave, you’re going to ask Forrest that question. That old boy knows all the ins and outs, and he may surprise you. There’s an old maxim about where there’s a will there’s a way. Now if you have the will, I’ve a strong suspicion that your Mr. Quince will find the way. Try him, anyhow.”
“Oh, I will,” assured Joel; “the first thing in the morning.”
The leaven of interest had found lodgment. A pleasant evening was spent in the tent. Before excusing the lads for the night, Priest said to the doctor: “This is a fine cattle range, and I’d like your opinion about these boys starting a little ranch on the Beaver.”
“Well,” said the old physician, looking from Joel to Dell, “there are too many lawyers and doctors already. The farmers raise nothing out here, and about the only prosperous people I meet are you cowmen. You ride good horses, have means to secure your needs, and your general health is actually discouraging to my profession. Yes, I think I’ll have to approve of the suggestion. A life in the open, an evening by a camp-fire, a saddle for a pillow—well, I wish I had my life to live over. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear of Wells Brothers making a big success as ranchmen. They have health and youth, and there’s nothing like beginning at the bottom of the ladder. In fact, the proposition has my hearty approval. Fight it out, boys; start a ranch.”
“Come on, Dell,” said Joel, leading the way; “these gentlemen want to make an early start. You’ll have to bring in the horses while I get breakfast. Come on.”
CHAPTER III
THE BOTTOM RUNG
An early start was delayed. Joel had figured without his guest, as the Texan stands in a class by himself. The peace and serenity of pastoral life affects its people, influencing their normal natures into calm and tranquil ways. Hence, instead of the expected start at sunrise, after breakfast the trail foreman languidly sauntered out to the corral, followed by the boys.
The old physician, even, grew impatient. “What on earth do you think is detaining that man?” he inquired of Forrest. “Here the sun is nearly an hour high, and not a wheel turning. And I can see him from the tent opening, sitting on a log, flicking the ground with his quirt and chatting with those boys. What do you suppose they are talking about?”
“Well, now, that’s a hard question,” answered Forrest. “I’ll chance the subject is of no importance. Just a little social powwow with the boys, most likely. Sit down, Doctor, and take life easy—the cows will calve in the spring.”
Patience had almost ceased to be a virtue when the trail boss put in an appearance at the tent. “You are in no particular hurry, are you, Doctor?” he inquired, with a friendly smile.
“Oh, no,” said the physician, with delightful irony; “I was just thinking of having the team unhooked, and lay over another day. Still, I am some little distance from home, and have a family that likes to see me occasionally.”
The buckboard rattled away. “Come in the tent,” called Forrest to the boys. “If old Paul sees you standing out there, he’s liable to think of something and come back. Honestly, when it comes to killing time, that old boy is the bell steer.”
Only three were now left at the homestead. The first concern was to intercept the next passing herd. Forrest had a wide acquaintance among trail foremen, had met many of them at Dodge only ten days before, while passing that supply point, and it was a matter of waiting until a herd should appear.
There was little delay. Joel was sent at ten o’clock to the nearest swell, and Dell an hour later. The magic was working overtime; the dust cloud was there! In his haste to deliver the message, the sentinel’s horse tore past the tent and was only halted at the corral. “It’s there!” he shouted, returning, peering through the tent-flaps. “They’re coming; another herd’s coming. It’s in the dip behind the first divide. Shall I go? I saw it first.”
“Dismount and rest your saddle,” said Forrest. “Come in and let’s make a little medicine. If this herd has one, here’s where we get a cow. Come in and we’ll plot against the Texans.”
With great misgiving, Dell dismounted. As he entered the tent, Forrest continued: “Sit on the corner of my bunk, and we’ll talk the situation over. Oh, I’m going to send you, never fear. Now, the trouble is, we don’t know whose herd this may be, and you must play innocent and foxy. If the herd is behind the first divide, it’ll water in the Beaver about four o’clock. Now, ride down the creek and keep your eagle eye open for a lone horseman, either at the crossing or on the trail. That’s the foreman, and that’s the man we want to see. He may be ten miles in the lead of his herd, and you want to ride straight to him. Give him all the information you can regarding the water, and inq
uire if this is one of Lovell’s herds. That will put you on a chatting basis, and then lead up to your errand. Tell him that you are running a trail hospital, and that you have a wounded man named Quince Forrest at your camp, and ask the foreman to come up and see him. Once you get him here, your work is over, except going back after the cow.”
Dell was impatient to be off, and started for the opening. “Hold on,” commanded Forrest, “or I’ll put a rope on you. Now, ride slowly, let your horse set his own pace, and don’t come back without your man. Make out that I’m badly wounded, and that you feel uneasy that blood poisoning may set in.”
The messenger lost no time in getting away. Once out of sight of the tent, Dell could not resist the temptation to gallop his mount over level places. Carrying the weight of a boy was nothing to the horse, and before half an hour had passed, the ford and trail came in view of the anxious courier. Halting in order to survey the horizon, the haze and heat-waves of summer so obstructed his view that every object looked blurred and indistinct. Even the dust cloud was missing; and pushing on a mile farther, he reined in again. Now and then in the upper sky, an intervening cloud threw a shadow over the plain, revealing objects more distinctly. For a moment one rested over the trail crossing, and like prophecy fulfilled, there was the lone horseman at the ford!
In the waste places it is a pleasure to unexpectedly meet a fellow being. Before being observed, Dell rode within hailing distance, greeting, and man and boy were soon in friendly converse. There was water sufficient for all needs, the herd required no pilot, the summons found a ready response, and the two were soon riding up the Beaver in a jog trot.
The gait admitted of free conversation, and the new foreman soon had Dell on the defensive. “I always hate to follow a Lovell outfit,” said the stranger regretfully; “they’re always in trouble. Old man Don’s a nice enough man, but he sure works sorry outfits on the trail. I’ve been expecting to hear something like this. If it isn’t rebranding their saddle stock with negro brands, it’s sure to be something worse. And now that flat-headed Quince Forrest plows a fire-guard down his own leg with a six-shooter! Well, wouldn’t that sour sweet milk!”
“Oh, it wasn’t his fault,” protested Dell; “he only loaned his pistol, and it was returned with the hammer on a cartridge.”
“Of course,” disgustedly assented the trail boss; “with me it’s an old story. Hadn’t no more sabe than to lend his gun to some prowling tenderfoot. More than likely he urged its loan on this short-horn. Yes, I know Colonel Forrest; I’ve known him to bet his saddle and ride bareback as the result. It shows his cow-sense. Rather shallow-brained to be allowed so far from home.”
“Well,” contended poor Dell, “they surely were no friends. At least Mr. Quince don’t speak very highly of that man.”
“That’s his hindsight,” said the trail foreman. “If the truth ever comes out, you’ll notice his foresight was different. Colonel Quince is famous, after the horse is stolen, for locking the stable door. That other time he offered to take an oath, on a stack of Bibles, never to bet his saddle again. The trouble is the game never repeats; the play never comes up twice alike. If that old boy’s gray matter ever comes to full bloom, long before his allotted time, he’ll wither away.”
Dell was discouraged. He realized that his defense of his friend was weak. This second foreman seemed so different from either Priest or Forrest. He spoke with such deep regret of the seeming faults of others that the boy never doubted his sincerity. He even questioned Dell with such an innocent countenance that the lad withered before his glance, and became disheartened at the success of the errand. Forced to the defense continually, on several occasions Dell nearly betrayed the object of bringing the new man to the homestead, but in each instance was saved by some fortunate turn in the conversation. Never was sight more welcome than the tent, glistening in the sun, and never was relief from duty more welcome to a courier. The only crumb of comfort left to the boy who had ridden forth so boldly was that he had not betrayed the object of his mission and had brought the range men together. Otherwise his banner was trailing in the dust.
The two rode direct to the tent. During the middle of the day, in order to provide free ventilation, the walls were tucked up, and the flaps, rear and front, thrown wide open. Stretched on his bunk, Forrest watched the opening, and when darkened by the new arrival, the wounded man’s greeting was most cordial. “Well, if it isn’t old Nat Straw,” said he, extending his hand. “Here, I’ve been running over in my mind the different trail bosses who generally go north of the Platte River, but you escaped my memory. It must have gotten into my mind, somehow, that you had married and gone back to chopping cotton. Still driving for Uncle Jess Ellison, I reckon?”
“Yes, still clerking for the same drover,” admitted Straw, glancing at the wounded limb. “What’s this I hear about you laying off, and trying to eat some poor nester out of house and home? You must be getting doty.”
“Enjoy yourself, Nat. The laugh’s on me. I’m getting discouraged that I’ll ever have common horse sense. Isn’t it a shame to be a fool all your life!”
Straw glanced from the bunk to Dell. “I was just telling the boy, as we rode up the creek, that you needed a whole heap of fixing in your upper loft. The poor boy tried his best to defend you, but it was easy to see that he hadn’t known you long.”
“And of course you strung him for all he could carry,” said Forrest. “Here, Dell. You were in such a hurry to get away that I overlooked warning you against these trail varmints. Right now, I can see old Nat leading you in under a wet blanket, and your colors dragging. Don’t believe a word he told you, and don’t even give him a pleasant look while he stays here.”
The discouraged boy brightened, and Joel and Dell were excused, to water and picket the horses. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” resumed Forrest, “brow-beating that boy. Considering my hard luck, I’ve fallen into angels’ hands. These boys are darling fellows. Now before you leave, square yourself with that youngest one.”
“A little jollying while he’s young won’t hurt him,” replied Straw. “It’s not a bad idea to learn early to believe nothing that you hear and only half of what you see. If you had been taken snipe hunting oftener when you were young, it wouldn’t hurt you any now. There are just about so many knocks coming to each of us, and we’ve got to take them along with the croup, chicken-pox, measles, and mumps.”
During the absence of the boys, Forrest informed Straw of the sad condition which confronted the lads, when accident and necessity threw him into their hands. He also repeated Priest’s opinion of the valuable range, unoccupied above on the Beaver, and urged his assistance in securing some cattle with which to stock and claim it for the boys.
“There’s plenty of flotsam on the trail,” said he, “strays and sore-footed cattle, to occupy this valley and give these boys a start in life. I never even got thanked for a stray, and I’ve turned hundreds of them loose on these upper ranges, refused on the delivery of a herd. Somebody gets them, and I want these boys of mine to get a few hundred head during this summer. Here’s the place to drop your cripples and stray cows. From what Paul says, there’s range above here for thousands of cattle, and that’s the foundation of a ranch. Without a hoof on it, it has a value in proportion to its carrying capacity, and Priest and I want these boys to secure it. They’ve treated me white, and I’m going to make a fight for them.”
The appeal was not in vain. “Why not,” commented Straw. “Let me in and we’ll make it three-handed. My herd is contracted again this year to the same cattle company on the Crazy Woman, in Wyoming, as last season, and I want to fool them this trip. They got gay on my hands last summer, held me down to the straight road brand at delivery, and I’ll see to it that there are no strays in my herd this year. I went hungry for fresh beef, and gave those sharks over forty good strays. They knew I’d have to leave them behind me. Watc
h me do it again.”
“About how many have you now, and how do they run?”
“They’re a hit-and-miss lot, like strays always are. Run from a good cow down to yearlings. There ought to be about twenty-five head, and I’ll cut you out five or six cripples. They could never make it through, nohow.”
“Any calves among the strays?”
“Two or three.”
“Good enough. Give each of the boys a cow and calf, and the others to me. We’ll let on that I’ve bought them.”
That no time might be lost in friendly chat, a late dinner was eaten in the tent. Straw would have to meet his herd at the trail crossing that afternoon, which would afford an opportunity to cut out all strays and cripples. One of the boys would return with him, for the expected cow, and when volunteers were called for, Dell hesitated in offering his services. “I’ll excuse you,” said Straw to Joel, who had jumped at the chance. “I’m a little weak on this red-headed boy, and when a cow hand picks on me for his side partner, the choice holds until further orders. Bring in the horses off picket, son, and we’ll be riding.”
The latter order was addressed to Dell. No sooner had the boy departed than Straw turned to Joel. “I’ve fallen head over ears in love with the idea of this trail hospital. Just where it ought to be; just about midway between Dodge and Ogalalla. Of course I’m hog wild to get in on it. I might get a man hurt any day, might get sick myself, and I want to be a stockholder in this hospital of yours. What’s your favorite color in cows?”
Joel’s caution caused him to hesitate. “If you have one, send me a milk-white cow with a black face” instantly said Forrest. “White cows are rich in cream, and I’m getting peevish, having to drink black coffee.”