The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  They saw the cook throw his hat in the air, and it seemed to be the signal for a race, and a race it became. The circle of riders around the loosely held gather had gradually become lop-sided as they forsook their places and worked around to the camp side, leaving the cattle in the care of two men. Now the lucky first-to-eat energetically threw the dust behind them and strung out on a bee line for the chuckwagon. Their position in the race depended on their start and on the speed of their mounts.

  Nueces and Corson drew rein and let them stream past. A good straw boss thinks first of his horses, the quality of the food, and the welfare of his men. The eager riders raced past, caring nothing about saving their tired horses, since they all would have remounts after dinner. They shouted loud greetings and quips, and stopped just short of the sacred wagon. When the two bosses finally rode in, the hungry line-up was already in motion past the tailboard and the hot ovens.

  "There's too damn' many cucumbers in these here pickles," growled the BLR rider, finding the cook's stern and unrelenting eye on his fishing. He kept what the fork had stabbed, not daring to fish again, and left the pickle barrel to the next man in line, growling that he never did have any luck, anyhow.

  Nueces and Corson each took a plate and cup, bread and pickles, and finished loading up at the crackling ovens. They joined the seated circles, crossed their legs, and aided in maintaining a high-tension silence. After a few moments a gusty exhalation announced the finish of the first heat, and a cheerful man, cleaning the last drop of sorghum from his plate with the last bit of bread, placed his empty dish beside his empty cup and reached for the makings. The man on his right got up stiffly, deposited his plate and knife in the big pan, and, meticulously wiping the bottom of his cup on dusty trousers, bailed himself another serving of coffee. He drank it standing, put the cup in the wreck pan, and rolled himself a smoke.

  "Santa Claus left us somethin', over in Bull Canyon, Bob," said Big Jim, shoving the glowing match deep down into the sand. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the BLR rider, who was showing interest.

  "Yeah, so I heard," said Corson. "Throw th' CA Circle Star irons in th' fires this afternoon, an' I'll take a couple of th' boys an' go after 'em. Cook says forty-two head."

  The BLR representative stirred restlessly and spoke. He seemed to be a little nervous.

  "I say it's a damn' shame to give all them cattle to th' Association," he declared. "We all know they came from this section of th' country. Stands to reason they belong to somebody down here."

  "That's shore right," said another voice.

  "Rules is rules,"'snapped Nueces, finding nothing strange in his swift change of front.

  "Three of them yearlin's came from our range," persisted the Baylor rider. "I've seen 'em a dozen times."

  "You'll shore see 'em ag'in this afternoon, an' then you can kiss 'em good-bye, if you wants," countered Nueces, swiftly. "They're Association animals an' they're goin' down th' river."

  "Looks to me like some thrifty hombre was layin' 'em away for a rainy day," said the Turkey Track man. He chuckled. "Hell, they never figgered that it don't never rain down in this country. You got any cigarette papers, Jim?"

  "Yo're shore right, Turkey," said the cook, his cold eyes resting on the smiling face of the stray man. "It never rains. That means that there ain't no water in my barrels. There's two buckets under th' rear axle, an' th' spring is just exactly eighty-one paces from th' wagon tailboard."

  "Yo're plumb wrong," contradicted the Bar W rider. "It's seventy-eight. I counted 'em, myself, this mornin'."

  "Eighty-one is right," said the cook, flatly. "Yo're laigs is too long."

  "How in hell do you know how many steps it is?" asked the Baylor man, nastily. "You never got close enough to that spring to do no countin'."

  "I'll tell you how I know it, Cucumber!" retorted the cook. "I allus take a good look at any water I'm usin', in case it has to be skun; an' eighty-one is plumb official."

  Turkey Track arose, walked to his saddle and fumbled with it a moment. When he returned he gravely handed the peeved cook a first-class big piece of pitch pine which he had that morning picked up on the mesa, and then he resumed his seat with an air of confidence. It was justified.

  The cook looked at this precious chunk of tinder, glanced at the small piece near the rear axle, and turned stern eyes on the BLR rider. That new tinder had been like a gift from heaven.

  "Yo're dead right, Baylor," the cook slowly and meaningly admitted. "But I figger on checkin' up on you when you start, which will be right soon. Eighty-one is wrong; seventy-eight might be right; but we'll count yore laigs, both comin' an' goin', an' call th' figgers final."

  A man from over Iron Springs way sauntered to the wreck pan and reached for a dish cloth. The BLR rider picked up the buckets and slouched off toward the spring. Belts were being retightened. Nueces watched the day wrangler stop the cavvy just the other side of the wagon, and looked meaningly around the small circle. Man after man went off to pick out his best cutting-out horse. They saddled up and hastened toward the herd, to relieve the two hungry men with it. Nueces called to the last pair that rode away, and motioned toward the beef cut, up the draw. He swung his arm in a half-circle as he called out to them.

  "Take that bunch to th' ranch an' turn 'em into th' big pasture. Get back as soon as you can."

  They nodded and loped away. The straw boss and Corson waited for the wrangler and the four herd riders to eat, and then helped the former drive off the horse herd, going with him for a short distance. All the horses were well broken, and once started, knew what they were expected to do.

  Swinging around, the two men were about to start for Bull Canyon to look over the cached herd of yearlings, when Nueces chanced to glance back at the wagon. He saw the Baylor rider slam down the buckets so hard as to slop water on the cook's boots. They were too far away to hear what was said, but the gestures were emphatic.

  Nueces glanced at his companion.

  "Kinda sorehead, he is," he growled. "Cook can handle him part way; if an' when he gits past that mark, I'll take him over. Seems to reckon common punchers are right scarce, an' good range cooks plentiful. I'll lay that hombre out as straight as a wagon tongue if he lifts his front laigs too far off th' ground!"

  "He's sore about them three yearlin's he said he recognized," said Corson, shortly.

  "He was damn' sore about somethin'," admitted the straw boss. "Sweet as black-strap, he was, till we come onto that little bunch in th' Bull. He went sour right then an' there, an' he's been gettin' worse steadily."

  "Still," said Corson thoughtfully, and after a moment's silence, "he wanted to brand 'em in Baylor's mark; an' once that mark is on a hide, it can't be made into anythin' else that's reasonable. It would just be sayin' good-bye to 'em."

  Nueces was studying his friend and boss.

  "Yeah?" he asked, slowly. "You mebby figgerin' he knows somethin' about 'em?"

  "No. I mean it looks like he's loyal to Baylor; but still, he mighta wanted to play safe on his own account. Huh!" he mused. "Bull Canyon!"

  "Shore, an' that's th' hell of it," growled the straw boss. "It's right smack into our territory, with th' Chain outfit workin' th' territory south of us. Why, four days ago we was close enough together to see each other's dust. Why would anybody cache that bunch of yearlin's right plumb into th' thick of th' round-up, with two wagons workin' all around 'em? They might know them yearlin's would be found. An' they mighta knowed that they couldn't drive em off with us on one side an' th' Chain outfit on th' other. It looks locoed to me."

  "Mebby there's an explanation," said Corson, a light suddenly breaking through his cogitations. "I said mebby."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. You know what th' original plans were?" asked the sheriff, and then answered his own question. "Th' Chain wagon was to start where it is now. We were to work th' north section first, an' come down this way. All that time th' Chain would be workin' south, away from th' Bull. After four, five
days, th' Chain would be outa th' way, an' we wouldn't be nowhere near that canyon. That would give 'em a chance to drive east or west. Now wait a minute! Baylor's wagon woulda been over on Crooked Creek, an' th' Turkey Track would be workin' away over across th' Wilson Trail, other side of th' desert section. But shucks: that don't tell us anythin'. They could have driven that bunch west, east, or south. Th' Bar W, bein' on th' river, wouldn't have let them through in that direction. It don't tell us where they came from, or where they was goin'; but it does tell us that changin' th' round-up layout at th' last minute made their hand into a four-flush. Let's go an' look at 'em. There'll likely be somethin' worth seein'."

  CHAPTER III

  ALICE MEADOWS put away the last dish and turned to look out of the window, through the strong evening light, at the corral gate, visible at the mouth of the little side draw. Four saddles and other riding equipment lay close up against the base of the pickets. Her stepfather and stepbrothers were inside the corral, out of her sight, selecting saddle horses from the remuda they had just driven in. She well knew the animals they would choose: the best and surest mounts, trained and tried night horses, as expert in handling cattle, almost, as the men who rode them. If the quality of the JM cattle was equal to that of some of its horses, it would be a better thing for the ranch.

  The frown on her face deepened, and she sighed as she started to tidy up the small room. The men folks had been in an ugly temper during the last two weeks, and she most fervently wished they would do their riding in daylight. When they got home around dawn they expected breakfast to be ready, and that meant early hours for her. Well, there was one consolation : the moon was dark part of the time, and that cut down a deal of their nocturnal riding.

  The little house was anything but pretentious. It was just a four-room adobe building, squat, square, ugly, and gray, and it matched the color of the draw in which it stood. Any stray riders going along the little-used trail up the arroyo might easily overlook it. No whitewash ever had been used on it. Its hard-packed clay floors were bare of any covering.

  Her stepfather and his sons had four bunks built against the walls of one room. The cubbyhole next to them was her own. Then came the sitting room, and lastly and most important was the combination kitchen-dining room, the heart of the establishment.

  Around the shoulder of the main arroyo, and a few. miles to the east, and at a much higher level, lay Packers Gap. Traces of the old trail were still to be seen on both sides of it, where camps had been made in the old days. Picturesque and slovenly Mexican, Indian, and breed muleteers had found that way to the far distant settlements of the Mississippi Valley, all hungering for the profits to be found on the rough frontier of a mightier nation and an alien race.

  Then had come the hardy plainsmen and mountaineers, packing in powder, lead, tobacco, and cotton goods on the westward journey, and peltry and Spanish dollars on the eastward. They slowly passed out of the picture as wheeled vehicles came in, drawn by mules and later by oxen. The great wagons had found the Gap too hard a nut to crack, unless they had to crack it; and forthwith discovered an easier and more practical way. Any breed of men who could take wagons over Raton Pass could have mastered the Gap with much less effort; but the same need did not apply at the latter. A little more than five miles north and east was Saddlehorn Mountain, and here the wagons had quickly found a better way. This old. road was still much in use and took its name from the mountain above it. Packers Gap, almost overnight, had become nothing but a local, short-cut trail, and was now scarcely ever used except by the girl's menfolks and their infrequent visitors. And the more infrequent those visitors were, the better she liked it.

  The Meadows herd, branded JM on the left hip, was too small to have supported five people, but in this regard they were fortunate. Black Jack Meadows had a small inheritance invested securely somewhere in the East, and four times a year an important envelope reached the post office at Bentley, to find that it was being waited for impatiently. The check made a drawing account in Bentley's one general store, to be taken out in trade.

  The JM cattle were of small account, and in such an out-of-the-way part of the country that they practically were forgotten by all but their owners except when some round-up crew was foolish enough to sweep across their high, rough range.

  For the last few months her stepfather had spoken vaguely but hopefully of a lucky turn which had increased his invested capital, and he was looking forward eagerly to the day when they all would be able to leave this part of the country and enjoy a more pleasant existence. She most fervently wished that day godspeed, for it could not come too quickly for her.

  She heard the clatter of hoofs at the corral. They sounded for a few moments and then abruptly died out as the shoulder of the main arroyo was passed. This told her that they were riding east, headed for the Gap. When they rode westward toward Bentley the sounds of their horses died out gradually, and at one place were thrown back loudly and unexpectedly by an echo.

  She turned to look around her for one final check-up on the tidying, and her gaze finally settled upon an iron hook lying on top of the tools in the box against the wall. Instantly it brought a picture to her mind that was clear and sharp.

  She stood motionless, jealously reviewing each detail, each word. He had been as a man should be, straight, lithe; frank and calm and assured. There was nothing furtive about him in looks, words, or actions, which was something of a treat to her after the months she had lived in this house. At last she sighed, turned reluctantly away, and picked up a homemade willow basket filled with darning. Stepping through the kitchen door, she looked down the trail for a long moment, closed her eyes for an instant, and then sought the box up-ended against the outer wall of the house, to take up the darning where she had left off and to utilize until the last moment the slanting rays of the sun, now passing over her head to paint the top of the ridge until it resembled molten iron.

  Nueces and Corson glanced again at the wagon and saw the Baylor rider going toward the herd.

  "Yo're all through here," said Corson, looking out over the range.

  "Yeah," answered the straw boss, thoughtfully. "Th' wagon will move on to th' spring on that bench in Horsethief Canyon, about halfway between here an' where th' branch trail turns off."

  Corson knew the round-up itinerary by heart. He rode stirrup to stirrup with his companion, puzzling over the problem presented by the cached herd of maverick yearlings. They cut and followed the branch trail where it started to climb up over the watershed, and then forsook it to enter Bull Canyon. The rise was sharp, so sharp that it masked the canyon entrance to anyone riding carelessly along the trail below it; and so sharp that it brought back to the mind of one rider another steep pitch, and what it had led to.

  They pushed on, past a pocket in the east wall, and soon swung to the left and entered the narrow, steep-walled portals of a side canyon. Two trees deftly felled on opposite sides of the narrow opening effectively blocked it. The two riders pulled up close to the barricade and looked through it.

  "Slick-ears, an' yearlin's, at that," muttered Corson.

  "That shore makes 'em mavericks, accordin' to my dictionary." He paused for a moment. "They're a mixed lot, too. Some straight longhorns, some Herefords, an' some Durhams."

  "Th' feed in there is mighty near done, too," observed Nueces, his practical cowman's eyes sweeping over the little canyon. "Now if you or me was to throw a bunch like this into a place like that an' block 'em in, we'd shore figger on gettin' 'em out ag'in purty soon, unless we wanted 'em to starve."

  "Yes," replied his companion, slowly. "A cowman shore would think of that. Most fellers down in this part of th' country are cowmen. They would think of that. Th' fellers that threw this herd together was cowmen: they would think of that. This bunch shows careful pickin'. All of which means that they never intended to hold this bunch in there as long as this. An' what's th' answer to that?"

  "Somethin' shore as hell interfered with their plans," growled
the horse-faced straw boss. "Somethin' they just didn't figger on. You was right, Bob, about th' round-up shift."

  "Reckon so; anyhow, it looks that way," said Corson. "I ain't got much to go on, except what we find right here; but as it stands, I'm willin' to believe that these animals were driven away from their mothers, holed up somewhere until they was weaned, an' then pushed across th' range at night, and left here, temporary. If I believe that, then I won't get a chance to work with th' outfit. If I believe it, then that means other kind of work for me. Every dollar I've got is in th' cattle business, an' I was elected sheriff of this county to protect th' belongin's of every man in it. Changin' th' round-up layout raised hell with their plans. They didn't dare try to get this bunch out of here an' on its way. That seems to be right plain."

  "Yeah, shore does," said Nueces, loosening his rope. "No use goin' after any of th' boys to handle this bunch. Me an' you'll drive 'em. We'll slap th' Association brand on 'em an' send 'em down th' river. When these are thrown into th' Association's herd, there'll be quite a bunch for somebody to bid in."

  He dropped his rope over the stump of a shattered branch, his companion's rope following his own. The two horses turned, headed in the other direction at a sharp angle, and pulled. One of the two trees swung slowly, as if on a pivot, and in a moment was dragged aside, and the portal cleared sufficiently. A few minutes later the little herd was moving toward and through the opening, and then down the sloping floor of the main canyon. They crossed the Branch trail, followed it down, rounded the edge of the ridge, and stopped between the wagon and the scene of the branding operations. The little herd had been checked on good grazing ground, and almost immediately fell to grazing.

  Nueces faced the distant fires, raised his hat, and moved it to his right, twice. Two men left the gather in the basin and rode swiftly to answer the summons. They approached the herd at a walk and stopped at the side of the straw boss.