The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  They left camp in a noisy bunch on the night horses. They took the hobbles off the cavvy, drove it in and up to the wagon, made a flimsy corral with lariats running out from the wagon, and began to pick their mounts for the day's work.

  "We got right rough goin' today, an' hard ridin'," said the straw boss, slowly. "Pick out yore best runnin' hosses for th' circle. Curley, you an' Bill have been on th' outer circle too blame' much. Swap places today with a couple of th' lazy hounds that have been huggin.' th' middle of th' line."

  "Just you wait till we get down into that real country," replied Curley, grinning. "You'll see me in th' middle there, all right."

  "That won't be long," said the Iron Springs rider. "Damn th' chaparral."

  "There won't be much of it," said Nueces. "They changed th original round-up plans an' gave us th' best of it."

  "You oughta be glad it ain't th' beef round-up," chuckled a companion. "It's a case of too much ropin' an' tyin' then. We got it easy now."

  The day wrangler was once more in charge of the cavvy, now minus the cook's four work horses, and he drove it off toward the next wagon stop, grazing it as it went. The others saddled up, swung away from the wagon, and rode briskly down the draw, headed north, toward the scene of the day's work. Two men rode off at an angle, to take over the day herd and to relieve the last night guard. As the latter rode rapidly toward the wagon for their breakfast, the day herd was moving north, spread out and feeding as it went. The two riders would help the cook load his wagon, hitch up, and start him on his way to the next camp spot. He was to be there in time to bake a batch of bread and have dinner ready for the hungry riders. It behoved him to waste little time.

  Corson and the straw boss rode ahead of the outfit, setting a brisk pace.

  "How are they comin'?" asked the former, a question he would have asked before, except that he had had other things on his mind. The placidity of the straw boss had been a tacit admission that nothing of any consequence was wrong.

  "Tallyin' good," answered Nueces, feeling in a pocket and digging out some folded sheets of paper. He handed them to his companion. "We've branded near fourteen hundred in th' JC mark, includin' up to last night. Accordin' to th' number of cattle in our brand, 'specially th' cows, there's about seven hundred more to come. That's a rough guess, kinda. We're two-thirds through, as far as JC numbers are concerned."

  Corson nodded, glanced at the sheets, and gave them back to the straw boss. Knowing that there were roughly twenty-five hundred cows in the JC brand, and estimating eighty-four per cent of them would bear calves that would live, he found his companion's estimate about right.

  He pictured the cachena herd, and wondered if anyone was working his range, driving calves from their mothers before they were weaned. The only proof of ownership to a calf is its presence with its mother, whose brand covers both. If the calf is weaned before branding time there is no indication of ownership. If anyone was working his range they would not gain as much by this practice now, if the Association rules were strictly carried out; unless they herded the newly made mavericks and hid them better than they had hidden this little bunch. Well, he would have a better knowledge of this phase of the cattle business after he had obtained the complete calf tally for entry into the tally book at the ranch.

  He raised a hand in salute and turned off to the left in the direction of the ranch.

  "So-long, Nueces; so-long, boys!" he called.

  He did not go to the ranch, however, but circled the buttes and ridges and swung around them back through Horsethief Gap. At the entrance of Bull Canyon he stopped and rode in a steadily widening circle, closely scrutinizing the ground. He had little hope of picking up any signs that would tell him anything: too much time had elapsed.

  Riding into the canyon, he examined the tracks in the now dried mud near the little spring. Nueces had protected them with a barrier of stunted piñons and brush. They were on the far side of the spring, in a small V-shaped opening between two great rocks, which accounted for the cattle not having trampled them out. They were in a good state of preservation, and he dismounted to study them better. After a few minutes' close scrutiny he believed that he had memorized them as well as it was possible to do; and he found no particular satisfaction in that: there was nothing distinctive about them, and the riders who had made them would have more than one riding horse in their string, and would not have to ride the same animal all the time. If they wished to play safe, they could rip the shoes off and throw them away. Outside the canyon he felt there would be little hope of being able to track them back the way they had come: the round-up would have obliterated such signs. He mounted, wheeled, and rode down the canyon, thinking things out as well as he could.

  The JC wagon had the territory running west to the top of the divide between Coppermine Canyon and the Kiowa, beyond. The Bar W had been assigned the entire watershed of the Kiowa. The BLR outfit was responsible for the territory between that of the Bar W and Crooked Creek, running north to the road through Saddlehorn Pass. They had Durhams on their north range and Herefords on their south.

  Baylor's range-bred Herefords had begun to run small of bone, and he had been tipped off regarding a foreclosure sale in the next county west, where he had bought his Durham sires at a price which made them a bargain, especially to a man whose one hope was to improve his original breed by crossing. The basis of his herd had been at the beginning, of course, a trail herd up from Texas, a trail herd of mixed cattle for range stocking. It was possible because of the nature of the country around his ranges that the longhorns had not all been combed out by his round-up crews, and that some of the original longhorn strain persisted unchanged.

  The Turkey Track believed in Red Polls, a breed new to that whole section of country, and Corson doubted if there was a single longhorn bull or steer left on its more open ranges. The Bar W were running Herefords, and the new syndicate had been thorough in its round-ups and breeding. Corson himself had Durhams; and it had been a long time since he had seen longhorn steers or bulls on his ranch. The Chain's herd had been bred up by Angus bulls.

  The Baylor rider's unreasonable demand came to him. If the Baylor outfit had been concerned in the handling of that cached herd, then the cattle had not come from the west. He had never heard anything to make him suspect the BLR. If a rider or two from that outfit was on the rustle, then it was possible for the thieves to have made up the little gather on their own ranges. Otherwise, the combination of the three breeds would have levied upon the Bar W for the Whitefaces, the JC for the Durhams, and some wild, rough country for the longhorns. It was all very plain as far as it went, but it did not go far enough.

  He left the canyon and struck straight for the escarpment which lay a mile or more on the other side of the Branch Trail. Any cattle coming in from the south, southwest, west, or northwest would have had to pass between the mouth of the canyon and the slope of detritus at the foot of the sheer wall behind it.

  Reaching the escarpment, he rode a zigzag course from one side to the other, and then back and forth until he came to the canyon through which the Jimmy Branch flowed and the trail ran. There were no readable signs suggesting that the cached herd had passed this way, and he swore under his breath at the interval of time which must have elapsed. The round-up had not helped to preserve any tracks.

  Well, there was Bull Canyon and its branches. The rest of the day would give him time enough to examine it thoroughly. Examine it he did, found nothing of a positive nature, and at last looked back and down into it. He was upon the mesa beyond its head. It was twenty miles to the JC ranch houses, and nearly that far to the JC wagon. South of him was the Chain wagon, and he began to figure out its probable location. It was late afternoon now, and he had to make up his mind quickly. He swung his horse away from the canyon's edge and pushed it to the top of the ridge, the highest point on the mesa. Looking southwestward, he saw the faint dust sign which told him where to find the Chain outfit. Judging from the dust, they must still be
working the herd. He wanted to have a talk with its straw boss, anyhow, and to do so now would be to cut his necessary riding in half. He kneed the horse and rode down the southern slope.

  The Chain outfit had worked their gather by the time Corson rode up to their wagon. Franchère, the JC representative with this crew, was the first man to come in. He swung off his tired cutting-out horse and smiled at his boss. The cook gave the visitor hearty welcome without pausing in his duties. Franchère walked to Corson's side, to drop prone on the earth and relax.

  "You see any signs of a forty-head steer herd, comin' in from th' west?" bluntly asked the sheriff.

  "No," answered Franchère, rolling over on his side to look at his boss. "Why?"

  "You worked that part of yore territory th' first week, didn't you?" asked Corson.

  "Yeah," replied the rider. "They coulda come in through Horse Canyon without leavin' any sign. It's a reg'lar runway."

  Corson nodded.

  "Whiteface, Durham, an' longhorns. Yearlin' mavericks, an' right well selected. There was nothin' accidental about it."

  Franchère showed more interest.

  "Durham?" he asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Then that means Baylor, or us," he grunted, speculatively. "You see 'em, or just hear about 'em?"

  "Saw 'em. Cached in Bull Canyon. They're Association cattle now."

  "Damn shame!" snapped Franchère, and then explained himself quickly. "Some of them Durhams was ours."

  "How you know?" asked Corson, looking curiously at his rider.

  "Bull Canyon's on th' fringe of our range," explained Franchère. "If any bunch are throwin' a wide loop down in this country, they shore ain't workin' one range steady. Look at th' layout: Whitefaces an' Durhams. Whitefaces from th' Baylor herds or th' Bar W; Durhams from th' Baylor cattle or our own. No Red Polls or Angus among 'em?"

  "No."

  "That tells us somethin'. They ain't botherin' th' Chain or th' Turkey Track: too far away, mebby." Franchère thought for a moment. "Them Maverick Whitefaces, now, they look small of bone?"

  "No," answered Corson. "An' they didn't have any Durham blood in 'em. Yo're thinkin' Baylor. So did I. But there are yearlin' steers on th' fringes of his range that ain't Durham crosses, an' some of 'em are right big cattle. All these yearlin's were right well selected. Baylor's got some heavy yearlin's on his range, an' some of 'em are straight Hereford crosses. I thought that all out when I saw th' herd, an' I'm keepin' it in mind in case I find another cache. There's plenty of brains back of this business."

  "Uh-huh," grunted Franchère, sitting up. A string of riders was leaving the herd and heading for the wagon. "Here comes th' boss an' th' boys."

  "You ever hear of th' JM?" asked Corson, carelessly.

  "No," answered Franchère, getting to his feet and moving away.

  The tired riders dismounted near the wagon and soon flung themselves on the ground, nodding a grunted welcome to their visitor. Rube Shortell spoke to the cook, glanced around, and walked over to the sheriff's side, where he sat himself down cross-legged.

  "How you boys makin' it?" he asked.

  "Heavy, on our own range," answered Corson.

  "By Gawd," said Shortell, "we had one gather that we had to split in two before we could work it, an' up here that's remarkable."

  "Many strays?" carelessly asked the sheriff.

  "That's funny," said Shortell. "Third day we was out, near th' head of Horse Canyon, we run into a bunch of Whitefaces. Cows an' calves. Holed up slick and purty in a side draw, over on th' west end of th' circle. Three of my boys found 'em, an' I was savin' up th' news for you." He shook his head. "Th' cows wasn't branded."

  "Look like Durham-Hereford crosses?" asked Corson.

  "No, sir! Straight Herefords, an' heavy!"

  "My head's beginnin' to go around," said Corson. After a moment he spoke again. "That's a long way from th' Bar W," he growled. "More so, when you consider that our range lies plumb in between." He thought again. "No Durhams with 'em?"

  "Not nothin' that looked like one," answered Shortell, "in that bunch; but I can tell you somethin' funny."

  "I'm listening," grunted the sheriff, idly watching the men at the washbasin. He saw Franchère take his turn after a bit of horseplay with the next in line.

  "Two of my boys routed out a bunch of calves an' drove 'em on in with th' other cattle. They didn't have no mothers; but by the time th' herd quit chousin', an' settled down, they had all been smelled over an' adopted!"

  Corson swore under his breath. Here was a strong indication that forced weaning was being done. Someone was heartily cursing the reallotment of the roundup wagons.

  "Rube, will you keep all this under yore hat?" asked the sheriff, suddenly.

  "Shore. Them boys of mine are close-mouthed, too. You smellin' somethin'?"

  "Ain't you?" countered Corson.

  "Kinda," grunted Shortell, thoughtfully. "What brought you down here, Bob?"

  "Th' smell."

  "Uh-huh. Well, grab yore plate an' fill yore belly."

  CHAPTER V

  AS THE crow flies it was forty miles from the Chain wagon to the Baylor ranch. As a horse traveled, it was seventy, up and down, here and there, as the erooked canyon trails led. From the BUR ranch to their wagon, operating down on Crooked Creek, it was another twenty miles, and this twenty lay at right angles to the first course.

  Corson could take the trail leading over Saddle Pass, cross his own range, ride through the town of Willow Springs and on to the Bar W, spend the night at that ranch, and make the rest of the journey on the following day, and save thirty miles. These thoughts were running through his mind as he lay in his blankets, listening to the tinny rattle of the cook's alarm clock. The strident bell had awakened him, and his mind was too busy to let him fall asleep again. He was conscious of a restless movement on his left: Franchère was moving under his covering. Corson sat up, throwing the blanket from him, and felt as a matter of habit for papers and tobacco. He turned his head suddenly and found Franchère watching him, and the puncher's grin came a little late.

  The circle horses were being rounded up and driven in, the cook was making certain preparations toward moving the wagon after breakfast was over, and the straw boss was looking aver the tally sheets of the day before. Breakfast was soon out of the way.

  Carson got his horse, coiled the picket rope, and threw on the saddle. Rube Shortell drifted over to him, his eyes on the hackamore.

  "That's a right neat piece of work," he said. "Make it yoreself?"

  "No. Bludsoe braided that," replied Corson. "He's right handy workin' up rawhide. I'm headin' north, Rube. Would you mind gettin' right suspicious an' keepin' yore eyes open? You can get word to me through Shorty, at th' ranch."

  "I don't have to get suspicious, Bob; an' I only close my eyes after I pull th' tarp over me at night."

  "If anybody should speak about it, I just drifted down here to pay you a neighborly visit," prompted the sheriff.

  "Uh-huh. Drop in ag'in, any time," invited the straw boss.

  "Reckon I'll head back for my wagon an' drift down to Cactus Springs," said Corson.

  "Give my regards to Zeke Pike," said Shortell.

  "I will if I see him," said Corson, swinging into the saddle. He looked around and saw Franchère saddling up not far from him. The two men exchanged nods, and Corson rode away.

  He soon struck the north trail that led around Bull Canyon on the east and joined the Jimmy Branch trail just below the entrance of the Bull. Half a mile farther on he had the choice of taking the trail over Saddle Pass and straight on past the JC ranch, Willow Springs, and the Bar W; or of following the Jimmy Branch trail down through Horsethief Valley, past his own wagon, and then a further choice of turning to the right for Cactus Springs, or to the left for his own range, Willow Springs, and the Bar W trail.

  He had had no intention of visiting Cactus Springs when he spoke of it, back at the Chain wagon. Some streak of caution had made him
speak as he had. Well, it was often good to carry a pretense a little farther. He would head for Horsethief, by way of the wagon, and then, instead of keeping on toward Cactus Springs, turn left, pass the JC, and go on to the Bar W.

  It was mid-forenoon when he reached the wagon, and he drew up to speak to the cook.

  "Got any word you want to send to Zeke Pike?" he called, forgetting that there was no love lost between the two men.

  "Nothin' except to tell him to go to hell!"

  "Oh, I plumb forgot!" exclaimed Corson, grinning apologetically. He looked out over the hilly range, now wreathed with dust. The gather of the day before was a little south of him, spread out and grazing placidly under the watchful care of two riders. "Well," he said, moving on again, "give my regards to th' boys. I'll tell Zeke what you said, if I see him," and then chuckled at the cook's reply.

  He turned off the trail so as to go well around the outer circle rider, passed him, and went back to the road again. When sheltered by the shoulder of the butte, he swung left and headed for Willow Springs; but instead of riding through the town, he went around it on the south and, five miles farther on, dismounted before the Bar W ranch house, located on a bend of the Kiowa.

  Red Perdue was loafing on the porch, his right wrist and hand hidden by bandages. He raised the left in grave salutation and grinned foolishly.

  "What's th' matter with you, Red?" asked the sheriff, his eyes on the bandages.

  "Wrist all sprained to hell an' gone," answered Red, cheerfully. "I was goin' down th' rope, looked backward like a fool, an' th' damn' calf acts up, an' th' rope took a loop around my wrist. How's things comin' over yore way?"

  "Right good. Is th' foreman here or at th' wagon?"

  "At th' wagon, but he oughta be ridin' in before long," answered Red.

  They talked of this and that until the foreman hove into sight and passed the corrals. Corson swung up in the saddle and rode off to meet the newcomer.