by Andy Adams
After a seeming age to Dell, the required rifle range was reached, when the cronies flattened themselves in the short grass and allowed the horses to graze to their rope’s end. Sargent indicated a sentinel buck, presenting the best shot; and using his elbow for a rest, the rifle was laid in the hollow of Dell’s upraised hand and drawn firmly to his shoulder, and a prompt report followed. The shot went wild, throwing up a flash of dust before the band, which instantly whirled. The horses merely threw up their heads in surprise, attracting the startled quarry, which ran up within fifty yards of the repeating rifle. In the excitement of the moment instantly following the first shot, Dell had arisen to his knee, unmindful of the necessity of throwing another cartridge into the rifle barrel. “Shoot! Shoot!” whispered Sargent, as the band excitedly halted within pistol range. Dell fingered the trigger in vain. “Throw in a cartridge!” breathlessly suggested Sargent. The lever clicked, followed by a shot, which tore up the sod within a few feet of the muzzle of the rifle!
The antelope were away in a flash. Sargent rolled on the grass, laughing until the tears trickled down his cheeks, while Dell’s chagrin left him standing like a simpleton.
“I don’t believe this gun shoots true,” he ventured at last, too mortified to realize the weakness of his excuse. “Besides, it’s too easy on the trigger.”
“No rifle shoots true during buck ague season,” answered Sargent, not daring to raise his eyes. “When the grass comes next spring, those scars in the sod will grow over. Lucky that neither horse was killed. Honest, I’ll never breathe it! Not for worlds!”
Sargent’s irony was wasted. Dell, in a dazed way, recovered his horse, mounted, and aimlessly followed his bunkie. On reaching their saddles, the mental fog lifted, and as if awakening from a pleasant dream, the boy dismounted. “Did I have it?—the buck ague?” he earnestly inquired.
“You had symptoms of it,” answered Sargent, resaddling his horse. “Whenever a hunter tries to shoot an empty gun, or discharges one into the ground at his feet, he ought to take something for his nerves. It’s not fatal, and I have hopes of your recovery.”
The two turned homeward. Several times Sargent gave vent to a peal of laughter that rang out like a rifle report, but Dell failed to appreciate the humor of the situation.
“Well,” said the older one, as they dismounted at the stable, “if we have to fall back on corn beef for our Christmas dinner, I can grace it with a timely story. And if we have a saddle of venison, it will fit the occasion just as well.”
The inner line was ridden at evening. The cattle were caring for themselves; but on meeting the lads from headquarters, an unusual amount of banter and repartee was exchanged.
“Killed an antelope two days before you needed it,” remarked Sargent scathingly. “Well, well! You fellows certainly haven’t much confidence in your skill as hunters.”
“Venison improves with age,” loftily observed Manly.
“That’s a poor excuse. At best, antelope venison is dry meat. We located a band or two today, and if Dell don’t care for the shot, I’ll go out in the morning and bring in a fat yearling.”
“Is that your prospect for a Christmas roast?” inquired Manly with refined sarcasm. “Dell, better air your Sunday shirt tomorrow and come down to headquarters for your Christmas dinner. We’re going to have quite a spread.”
Dell threw a glance at Sargent. “Come on,” said the latter with polished contempt, reining his horse homeward. “Just as if we lived on beans at The Wagon! Just as if our porcelain-lined graniteware wasn’t as good as their tin plates! Catch us accepting! Come on!”
Sargent was equal to his boast. He returned the next day before noon, a young doe lashed to his saddle cantle, and preparations were made for an extensive dinner. The practical range man is usually a competent cook, and from the stores of the winter camp a number of extra dishes were planned. In the way of a roast, on the plains, a saddle of venison was the possible extreme, and the occupants of the line-camp possessed a ruddy health which promised appetites to grace the occasion.
Christmas day dawned under ideal conditions. Soft winds swayed the dead weeds and leafless shrubs, the water trickled down the creek from pool to pool, reminding one of a lazy, spring day, with droning bees and flights of birds afield. Sargent rode the morning patrol alone, meeting Joel at the halfway point, when the two dismounted, whiling away several hours in considering future plans of the ranch.
It was high noon when the two returned to their respective quarters. Dell had volunteered to supervise the roasting of the venison, and on his crony’s return, the two sat down to their Christmas dinner. What the repast lacked in linen and garnishment, it made up in stability, graced by a cheerfulness and contentment which made its partakers at peace with the world. Sargent was almost as resourceful in travel and story as Quince Forrest, and never at a loss for the fitting incident to grace any occasion.
Dell was a good listener. Any story, even at his own expense, was enjoyed. “Whether we had corn beef or venison,” said he to Sargent, “you promised to tell a story at dinner today.”
“The one that you reminded me of when you shot the rifle into the ground at your feet and scared the antelope away? No offense if I have to laugh; you looked like a simpleton.”
“Tell your story; I’m young, I’ll learn,” urged Dell.
“You may learn to handle a gun, and make the same mistake again, but in a new way. It’s live and learn. This man was old enough to be your father, but he looked just as witless as you did.”
“Let’s have the story,” impatiently urged the boy.
“It happened on a camp hunt. Wild turkeys are very plentiful in certain sections of Texas, and one winter a number of us planned a week’s shooting. In the party was a big, raw-boned ex-sheriff, known as one of the most fearless officers in the state. In size he simply towered above the rest of us.
“It was a small party, but we took along a commissary wagon, an ambulance, saddle horses, and plenty of Mexicans to do the clerking and coarse handwriting. It was quite a distance to the hunting grounds, and the first night out, we made a dry camp. A water keg and every jug on the ranch had been filled for the occasion, and were carried in the wagon.
“Before reaching the road camp, the big sheriff promised us a quail pot-pie for breakfast, and with that intent, during the afternoon, he killed two dozen partridges. The bird was very plentiful, and instead of picking them for a pot-pie, skinning such a number was much quicker. In the hurry and bustle of making the camp snug for the night, every one was busy, the sheriff in particular, in dressing his bag of quail. On finishing the task, he asked a Mexican to pour some water, and the horse wrangler reached into the wagon, at random, and emptied a small jug into the vessel containing the dressed birds.
“The big fellow adjourned to the rear and proceeded to wash and drain his quail. After some little time, he called to the cook: ‘Ignacio, I smell kerosene. Look in the wagon, please, and see if the lantern isn’t leaking.’
“‘In a minute,’ answered the cook, busy elsewhere.
“The sheriff went on washing the quail, and when about halfway through the task, he halted. ‘Ignacio, I smell that kerosene again. See if the lantern isn’t upset, or the oil jug leaking.’
“‘Just in a minute,’ came the answer as before. ‘My hands are in the flour.’
“The big man went on, sniffing the air from time to time, nearly finishing his task, when he stopped again and pleadingly said: ‘Ignacio, I surely smell kerosene. We’re out for a week, and a lantern without oil puts us in a class with the foolish virgins. Drop your work and see what the trouble is. There’s a leak somewhere.’
“The cook dusted the flour from his hands, clambered up on the wagon wheel, lifted the kerosene jug, pulled the stopper, smelt it, shook it, and lifted it above his head in search of a possible crack. The empty jug,
the absence of any sign of leakage, gradually sifted through his mind, and he cast an inquiring glance at the big sheriff, just then finishing his task. Invoking heaven and all the saints to witness, he gasped, ‘Mr. Charlie, you’ve washed the quail in the kerosene!’
“The witless, silly expression that came into that big man’s face is only seen once in a lifetime,” said Sargent in conclusion. “I’ve been fortunate, I’ve seen it twice; once on the face of a Texas sheriff, and again, when you shot a hole in the ground with your eye on an antelope. Whenever I feel blue and want to laugh, I conjure up the scene of a Mexican, standing on a wagon wheel, holding a jug, and a six-footer in the background, smelling the fingers of one hand and then the other.”
CHAPTER XIX
AN INDIAN SCARE
The year closed with dry, open weather. The cattle scattered wide, ranging farther afield, unmolested except by shifting winds. The latter was a matter of hourly observation, affording its lesson to the brothers, and readily explained by the older and more practical men. For instance, a north or the dreaded east wind brought the herd into the valley, where it remained until the weather moderated, and then drifted out of its own free will. When a balmy south wind blew, the cattle grazed against it, and when it came from a western quarter, they turned their backs and the gregarious instinct to flock was noticeable. Under settled weather, even before dawn, by noting the quarter of the wind, it was an easy matter to foretell the movement of the herd for the coming day.
The daily tasks rested lightly. The line was ridden as usual, but more as a social event than as a matter of necessity. The occasional reports of Manly to his employer were flattering in the extreme. Any risk involved in the existing contract hinged on the present winter, and since it was all that could be desired, every fine day added to the advantage of Wells Brothers. So far their venture had been greeted with fair winds, and with not a cloud in the visible sky. Manly was even recalled by Mr. Stoddard early in February.
Month after month passed without incident. Spring came fully a fortnight earlier than the year before. By the middle of March, the willows were bent with pollen, the birds returned, and the greening slopes rolled away and were lost behind low horizons. The line-camp was abandoned, the cattle were scattered over the entire valley, and the instincts to garden were given free rein. The building of two additional tanks, one below the old trail crossing and the other near the new camp above, occupied a month’s time to good advantage. It enlarged the range beyond present needs; but the brothers were wrestling with a rare opportunity, and theirs was strictly a policy of expansion.
An occasional trip to the railroad, for supplies or pressing errand, was usually rewarded with important news. During the winter just passed, Kansas had quarantined against Texas cattle, and the trail was barred from that state. Early in May information reached the ranch that the market interests of Dodge City had moved over the line into Colorado, and had established a town on the railroad, to be known as Trail City. A feasible route lay open to the south, across No-Man’s-Land, into the Texas Panhandle, while scouting parties were out with the intent of locating a new trail to Ogalalla. It would cross the Republican River nearly due westward from headquarters, and in the neighborhood of one hundred miles distant.
“There you are,” said Sargent, studying a railroad folder. “You must have water for the herds, so the new market will have a river and a railroad. It simply means that the trail has shifted from the east to the west of your range. As long as the country is open, you can buy cattle at Trail City, hold them on the Colorado line until frost, and cross to your own range with a few days’ travel. It may prove an advantage after all.”
The blessing of sunshine and shower rested on the new ranch. The beaver ponds filled, the spill-ways of every tank ran like a mill race, and the question of water for the summer was answered. The cattle early showed the benefits of the favorable winter, and by June the brands were readable at a glance. From time to time reports from the outside world reached the brothers, and among other friendly letters received was an occasional inquiry from the commission firm, the factors named under the existing contract. The house kept in touch with the range, was fully aware of the open winter, and could easily anticipate its effects in maturing cattle for early shipment.
The solicitors of the firm, graduates of the range, were sent out a month in advance of other years. Wells Brothers were advised of a promised visit by one of the traveling agents of the commission house, and during the first week in July he arrived at headquarters. He was a practical man, with little concern for comfort, as long as there were cattle to look over. Joel took him in tow, mounted him on the pick of saddle horses, and the two leisurely rode the range.
“What does he say?” inquired Dell, after a day’s ride.
“Not a word,” answered Joel. “He can’t talk any more than I can. Put in all day just looking and thinking. He must like cattle that range wide, for we rode around every outside bunch. He can talk, because he admitted we have good horses.”
Again the lesson that contact teaches was accented anew. At parting the following morning, in summing up the outlook, the solicitor surprised the brothers. “The situation is clear,” said he quietly. “You must ship early. Your double-wintered beeves will reach their prime this month. You may ship them any day after the 25th. Your single-wintered ones can follow in three weeks. The firm may be able to advise you when to ship. It’s only a fourteen-hour run to the yards, and if you work a beef-shipping outfit that’s up to date, you can pick your day to reach the market. Get your outfit together, keep in touch with the house by wire, and market your beef in advance of the glut from the Platte country.”
The solicitor lifted the lines over a livery team. “One moment,” said Joel. “Advise Mr. Stoddard that we rely on him to furnish us two men during the beef-shipping season.”
“Anything else?” inquired the man, a memorandum-book in hand.
“Where are the nearest ranches to ours?”
“On the Republican, both above and below the old trail crossing. There may be extra men over on the river,” said the solicitor, fully anticipating the query.
“That’s all,” said Joel, extending his hand.
The stranger drove away. The brothers exchanged a puzzled glance, but Sargent smiled. “That old boy sabes cows some little,” said the latter. “The chances are that he’s forgotten more about cattle than some of these government experts ever knew. Anyway, he reads the sign without much effort. His survey of this range and the outlook are worth listening to. Better look up an outfit of men.”
“We’ll gather the remuda today,” announced Joel. “While I’m gone to the Republican, you boys can trim up and gentle the horses.”
The extra mounts, freed the fall before, had only been located on the range, and must be gathered and brought in to headquarters at once. They had ranged in scattering bunches during the winter, and a single day would be required to gather and corral the ranch remuda. It numbered, complete, ninety-six horses, all geldings, and the wisdom of buying the majority a year in advance of their needs reflected the foresight of a veteran cowman. Many of them were wild, impossible of approach, the call of the plain and the free life of their mustang ancestors pulsing with every heart-beat, and several days would be required to bring them under docile subjection. There were scraggy hoofs to trim, witches’ bridles to disentangle, while long, bushy, matted tails must be thinned to a graceful sweep.
The beginning of work acted like a tonic. The boys sallied forth, mounted on their best horses, their spirits soaring among the clouds. During the spring rains, several small lakes had formed in the sand hills, at one of which a band of some thirty saddle horses was watering. The lagoon was on the extreme upper end of the range, fully fifteen miles from headquarters; and as all the saddle stock must be brought in, the day’s work required riding a wide circle. Skirting the sand dunes, by early noon
all the horses were in hand, save the band of thirty. There was no occasion for all hands to assist in bringing in the absent ones, and a consultation resulted in Joel and Dell volunteering for the task, while Sargent returned home with the horses already gathered.
The range of the band was well known, and within a few hours after parting with Sargent, the missing horses were in hand. The brothers knew every horse, and, rejoicing in their splendid condition, they started homeward, driving the loose mounts before them. The most direct course to headquarters was taken, which would carry the cavalcade past the springs and the upper winter quarters. The latter was situated in the brakes of the Beaver, several abrupt turns of the creek, until its near approach, shutting out a western view of the deserted dug-out. The cavalcade was drifting home at a gentle trot, but on approaching The Wagon, a band of ponies was sighted forward and in a bend of the creek. The boys veered their horses, taking to the western divide, and on gaining it, saw below them and at the distance of only a quarter-mile, around the springs, an Indian encampment of a dozen tepees and lean-tos.
Dell and Joel were struck dumb at the sight. To add to their surprise, all the dogs in the encampment set up a howling, the Indians came tumbling from their temporary shelters, many of them running for their ponies on picket, while an old, almost naked leader signaled to the brothers. It was a moment of bewilderment with the boys, who conversed in whispers, never halting on their course, and when the Indians reached their ponies, every brave dashed up to the encampment. A short parley followed, during which signaling was maintained by the old Indian, evidently a chief; but the boys kept edging away, and the old brave sprang on a pony and started in pursuit, followed by a number of his band.