by Andy Adams
The dams were finished none too soon, as a dry spring followed, and the reservoirs had barely filled when the creek ceased flowing. The unusual winter snowfall had left a season’s moisture in the ground, and the grass came in abundance, matting slope and valley, while the garden grew like a rank weed. The corn crop of the year before had repaid well in forage, and was again planted. In the face of another drouthy summer, the brothers sowed as if they fully expected to reap. “Keep busy” was the slogan of the springtime.
The month of June arrived without a sign of life on the trail. Nearly one hundred calves were born to the herd on the Beaver, the peltry had commanded the highest quotation, and Wells Brothers swaggered in their saddles. But still the herds failed to come.
“Let’s put up the tent,” suggested Dell, “just as if we were expecting company. Mr. Paul or Mr. Quince will surely ride in some of these evenings. Either one will reach here a full day in the lead of his herd. Let’s make out that we’re looking for them.”
Dell’s suggestion was acted on. A week passed and not a trail man appeared. “There’s something wrong,” said Joel, at the end of the second week. “The Lovell herds go through, and there’s sixteen of them on the trail.”
“They’re water-bound,” said Dell, jumping at a conclusion.
“Waterbound, your foot! The men and horses and cattle can all swim. Don’t you remember Mr. Quince telling about rafting his wagon across swimming rivers? Waterbound, your grandmother! High water is nothing to those trail men.”
Dell was silenced. The middle of June came and the herds had not appeared. The brothers were beginning to get uneasy for fear of bad news, when near dark one evening a buckboard drove up. Its rumbling approach hurried the boys outside the tent, when without a word of hail, Quince Forrest sprang from the vehicle, grasped Dell, and the two rolled over and over on the grass.
“I just wanted to roll him in the dirt to make him grow,” explained Forrest to an elderly man who accompanied him. “These are my boys. Look at that red-headed rascal—fat as a calf with two mothers. Boys, shake hands with Mr. Lovell.”
The drover alighted and greeted the boys with fatherly kindness. He was a frail man, of medium height, nearly sixty years of age, with an energy that pulsed in every word and action. There was a careworn expression in his face, while an intensity of purpose blazed from hungry, deep-set eyes which swept every detail of the scene at a glance. That he was worried to the point of exhaustion was evident the moment that compliments were exchanged.
“Show me your water supply,” said he to Joel; “old beaver ponds, if I am correctly informed. We must move fifty thousand cattle from Dodge to the Platte River within the next fortnight. One of the worst drouths in the history of the trail confronts us, and if you can water my cattle between the Prairie Dog and the Republican River, you can name your own price.”
“Let’s drive around,” said Forrest, stepping into the blackboard, “before it gets too dark. Come on, boys, and show Mr. Lovell the water.”
All four boarded the vehicle, the boys standing up behind the single seat, and drove away. In a mile’s meanderings of the creek were five beaver ponds, over which in many places the willows interlapped. The pools stood bank full, and after sounding them, the quartette turned homeward, satisfied of the abundant water supply.
“There’s water and to spare for the entire drive,” said Forrest to his employer. “It isn’t the amount drank, it’s the absorption of the sun that gets away with water. Those willows will protect the pools until the cows come home. I felt sure of the Beaver.”
“Now, if we can arrange to water my herds here—”
“That’s all arranged,” replied Forrest. “I’m a silent partner in this ranch. Anything that Wells Brothers owns is yours for the asking. Am I right, boys?”
“If Mr. Lovell needs the water, he is welcome to it,” modestly replied Joel.
“That’s my partner talking,” said Forrest; “that was old man Joel Wells that just spoke. He’s the senior member of the firm. Oh, these boys of mine are cowmen from who laid the rail. They’re not out to rob a neighbor. Once you hear from the head of the Stinking Water, you can order the herds to pull out for the Platte.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Lovell, somewhat perplexed. “Yes, but let’s get the water on the Beaver clear first. What does this mean? I offer a man his price to water my cattle, and he answers me that I’m welcome to it for nothing. I’m suspicious of the Greeks when they come bearing gifts. Are you three plotting against me?”
“That’s it,” replied Forrest. “You caught the gleam of my axe all right. In the worry of this drouth, you’ve overlooked the fact that you have five horses on this ranch. They were left here last fall, expecting to pick them up this spring. Two of them were cripples and three were good cow horses. Now, these boys of mine are just branching out into cattle, and they don’t need money, but a few good horses are better than gold. That’s about the plot. What would you say was the right thing to do?”
Mr. Lovell turned to the boys. “The five horses are yours. But I’m still in your debt. Is there anything else that you need?”
The question was repeated to Forrest. “By the time the herds reach here,” said he, mildly observant, “there will be quite a number of tender-footed and fagged cattle. They could never make it through without rest, but by dropping them here, they would have a fighting chance to recuperate before winter. There won’t be a cent in an abandoned steer for you, but these boys—”
“Trim the herds here on the Beaver,” interrupted Mr. Lovell. “I’ll give all my foremen orders to that effect. Cripples are worthless to me, but good as gold to these boys. What else?”
“Oh, just wish the boys good luck, and if it ever so happens, speak a good word for the Wells Brothers. I found them white, and I think you’ll find them on the square.”
“Well, this is a happy termination,” said Mr. Lovell, as he alighted at the tent. “Our water expense between Dodge and Ogalalla will not exceed five thousand dollars. It cost me double that getting out of Texas.”
Secure on the Beaver, the brothers were unaware of the outside drouth, which explained the failure of the herds to appear on the trail as in other years. It meant the delay of a fortnight, and the concentration of a year’s drive into a more limited space of time. Unconscious of its value, the boys awoke to the fact that they controlled the only water between the Prairie Dog and the Republican River—sixty miles of the plain. Many of the herds were under contract and bond to cattle companies, individuals, army posts, and Indian agencies, and no excuse would be accepted for any failure to deliver. The drouth might prove an ill-wind to some, but the Beaver valley was not only exempt but could extend relief.
After supper, hosts and guests adjourned to the tent. Forrest had unearthed the winter struggle of his protégés, and gloating over the manner in which the boys had met and overcome the unforeseen, he assumed an observant attitude in addressing his employer.
“You must be working a sorry outfit up on the Little Missouri,” said he, “to lose ten per cent of straight steer cattle. My boys, here on the Beaver, report a measly loss of twelve head, out of over five hundred cattle. And you must recollect that these were rag-tag and bob-tail, the flotsam of a hundred herds, forty per cent cripples, walking on crutches. Think of it! Two per cent loss, under herd, a sleet over the range for six weeks, against your ten per cent kill on an open range. You must have a slatterly, sore-thumbed lot of men on your beef ranch.”
Mr. Lovell was discouraged over the outlook of his cattle interests. “That was a first report that you are quoting from,” said he to Forrest. “It was more prophecy than statement. We must make allowances for young men. There is quite a difference between getting scared and being hurt. My beef outfit has orders to go three hundred miles south of our range and cover all round-ups northward. It was a severe winter, and th
e drift was heavy, but I’m not worrying any about that sore-fingered outfit. Promptly meeting government contracts is our work today. My cattle are two weeks behind time, and the beef herds must leave Dodge tomorrow. Help me figure it out: Can you put me on the railroad by noon?” he concluded, turning to Joel.
“Easily, or I can carry a message tonight.”
“There’s your programme,” said Forrest, interceding. “One of these boys can take you to Grinnell in time for the eastbound train. Wire your beef herds to pull out for the Platte. You can trust the water to improve from here north.”
“And you?” inquired the drover, addressing his foreman.
“I’ll take the buckboard and go north until I meet Paul. That will cover the last link in the trail. We’ll know our water then, and time our drives to help the cattle. It’s as clear as mud.”
“Just about,” dubiously answered Mr. Lovell. “Unless I can get an extension of time on my beef contracts, the penalty under my bonds will amount to a fortune.”
“The army is just as well aware of this drouth as you are,” said Forrest, “and the War Department will make allowances. The government don’t expect the impossible.”
“Yes,” answered the old drover with feeling. “Yes, but it exacts a bond, and stipulates the daily forfeiture, and if any one walks the plank, it’s not your dear old Uncle Samuel. And it matters not how much sleep I lose, red tape never worries.”
The boys made a movement as if to withdraw, and Forrest arose. “The programme for tomorrow, then, is understood,” said the latter. “The horses will be ready at daybreak.”
It was midnight when the trio sought their blankets. On the part of the brothers, there was a constant reference to their guest, the drover, and a desire, if in their power, to aid him in every way.
“I wanted you boys to meet and get acquainted with Mr. Lovell,” said Forrest, as all were dozing off to sleep. “There is a cowman in a thousand, and his word carries weight in cattle matters. He’s rather deep water, unless you cross or surprise him. I nagged him about the men on his beef ranch. He knew the cattle wouldn’t winter kill when they could drift, and the round-up will catch every living hoof. He was too foxy to borrow any trouble there, and this long yell about the drouth interfering with delivery dates keeps the trail outfits against the bits. Admitting his figures, the water expense won’t be a drop in the bucket. It affords good worrying and that keeps the old man in fighting form. I’m glad he came along; treat him fair and square, and his friendship means something to you, boys.”
CHAPTER XIV
AN ILL WIND
The start to the station was made at four o’clock in the morning. Joel accompanied the drover, the two best horses being under saddle, easily capable of a road gait that would reach the railroad during the early forenoon. The direct course lay across country, and once the sun flooded the Beaver valley, the cowman swung around in the saddle and his practical eye swept the range. On sighting Hackberry Grove, the broken country beyond, including the sand hills, he turned to his guide.
“My boy,” said Mr. Lovell, “you brothers have a great future before you. This is an ideal cattle range. The very grass under our horses’ feet carries untold wealth. But you lack cattle. You have the range here for thousands where you are running hundreds. Buy young steers; pay any price; but get more cattle. The growth of young steers justifies any outlay. Come down to Dodge about the first of August. This drouth is liable to throw some bargains on that market. Be sure and come. I’ll keep an eye open in your interest on any cattle for sale.”
The old drover’s words bewildered Joel. The ways and means were not entirely clear, but the confidence of the man in the future of the brothers was gratifying. Meanwhile, at the little ranch the team stood in waiting, and before the horseman had passed out of sight to the south the buckboard started on its northern errand. Dell accompanied it, protesting against his absence from home, but Forrest brushed aside every objection.
“Come on, come on,” said he to Dell; “you have no saddle, and we may be back tonight. We’re liable to meet Paul on the Republican. Turn your ranch loose and let it run itself. Come on; we ain’t halfway through our figuring.”
Joel returned after dark. Priest had left Ogalalla, to the north, the same day that Forrest and his employer started up the trail from the south, and at the expected point the two foremen met. The report showed water in abundance from the Republican River northward, confirming Forrest’s assertion to his employer, and completing the chain of waters between Dodge and Ogalalla. Priest returned with the buckboard, which reached the Beaver after midnight, and aroused Joel out of heavy sleep.
“I just wanted to say,” said Priest, sitting on the edge of Joel’s bunk, “that I had my ear to the ground and heard the good fighting. Yes, I heard the sleet cracking. You never saw me, but I was with you the night you drifted to the Prairie Dog. Take it all along the line, wasn’t it good fighting?”
“Has Dell told you everything?” inquired Joel, sitting up in his blankets.
“Everything, including the fact that he got lost the night of the March drift, while going home after a pack horse. Wouldn’t trust poor old Dog-toe, but run on the rope himself! Landed down the creek here a few miles. News to you? Well, he admits that the horse forgot more than he himself ever knew. That’s a hopeful sign. As long as a man hearkens to his horse, there is no danger of bad counsel being thrust on him.”
The boys were catching, at first hand, an insight into the exacting nature of trail work. Their friends were up with the dawn, and while harnessing in the team, Forrest called Joel’s attention to setting the ranch in order to water the passing herds.
“I was telling Dell yesterday,” said he, “the danger of Texas fever among wintered cattle, and you must isolate your little herd until after frost falls. Graze your cattle up around Hackberry Grove, and keep a dead-line fully three miles wide between the wintered and through trail herds. Any new cattle that you pick up, cripples or strays, hold them down the creek—between here and the old trail crossing. For fear of losing them you can’t even keep milk cows around the ranch, so turn out your calves. Don’t ask me to explain Texas fever. It’s one of the mysteries of the trail. The very cattle that impart it after a winter in the north catch the fever and die like sheep. It seems to exist, in a mild form, in through, healthy cattle, but once imparted to native or northern wintered stock, it becomes violent and is usually fatal. The sure, safe course is to fear and avoid it.”
The two foremen were off at an early hour. Priest was again in charge of Lovell’s lead herd, and leaving the horse that he had ridden to the Republican River in care of the boys, he loitered a moment at parting.
“If my herd left Dodge at noon yesterday,” said he, mentally calculating, “I’ll overtake it some time tomorrow night. Allowing ten days to reach here—”
He turned to the boys. “This is the sixteenth of June. Well, come out on the divide on the morning of the twenty-fifth and you will see a dust cloud in the south. The long distance between waters will put the herd through on schedule time. Come out and meet me.”
The brothers waved the buckboard away. The dragging days were over. The herds were coming, and their own little ranch promised relief to the drover and his cattle.
“Mr. Quince says the usual price for watering trail herds is from one to three cents a head,” said Dell, as their friends dipped from sight. “The government, so he says, allows three cents for watering cavalry horses and harness mules. He tells me that the new settlers, in control of the water on the trail, in northern Texas, fairly robbed the drovers this year. The pastoral Texan, he contends, shared his canteen with the wayfarer, and never refused to water cattle. He wants us to pattern after the Texans—to give our water and give it freely. When Mr. Lovell raised the question of arranging to water his herds from our beaver ponds, do you remember how Mr. Quince answ
ered for us? I’m mighty glad money wasn’t mentioned. No money could buy Dog-toe from me. And Mr. Lovell gave us three of our best horses.”
“He offered me ten dollars for taking him to the railroad,” said Joel, “but I looked him square in the eye and refused the money. He says we must buy more cattle. He wants me to come to Dodge in August, and I’m going.”
Dell treated the idea of buying cattle with slight disdain. “You—going—to—buy—more—cattle?” said he, accenting each word. “Any one tell your fortune lately?”
“Yes,” answered the older boy. “I’m having it told every day. One of those two men, the gray-haired one on that buckboard,—stand here and you can see them,—told me over a year ago that this range had a value, and that we ought to skirmish some cattle, some way, and stock it. What he saw clearly then, I see now, and what Mr. Lovell sees now, you may see a year hence. These men have proved their friendship, and why stand in our own light? Our ability to hold cattle was tested last winter, and if this range is an asset, there may be some way to buy more cattle. I’m going to Dodge in August.”
Dell was silenced. There was ample time to set the ranch in order. Turning away from the old trail, on the divide, and angling in to headquarters, and thence northward, was but a slight elbow on the general course of the trail herds. The long distance across to the Republican would compel an early watering on the Beaver, that the cattle might reach the former river the following evening. The brothers knew to a fraction the grazing gait of a herd, the trailing pace, and could anticipate to an hour the time required to move a herd from the Prairie Dog to the Beaver.
The milk cows and calves were turned back into the general herd. The dead-line was drawn safely below Hackberry Grove, between imaginary landmarks on either slope, while on the creek, like a sentinel, stood a lone willow which seemed to say, “Thus far shalt thou go and no farther.” The extra horses, now in the pink of condition, were brought home and located below the ranch, and the house stood in order.