The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  He was hungry. If he wanted to eat with the Baylor outfit he would have to get started. All right. Perhaps they had fired at such long range to coax him into hunting down the marksmen, and what a fool he would be to ride up to the muzzles of three hidden sharpshooters! No, that would not do: they all would not have fired if they had hoped to lure him into a play like that. Only one man would have fired. Well, to hell with them: he was going to eat a hot supper with the BLR round-up crew. If there was a number four waiting for him to ride for it, he would give him a chance, but it would be a mighty slim one.

  He swung into the saddle, bending as low as he could, and sent the horse through the door in a leap. For the next half-mile he zigzagged like a crazy man, riding at full speed, and on the best cutting-out horse he had ever owned. It was adept at dodging and changing course quickly; much better at this sort of work than the animal he usually rode. Gradually the zigzags grew longer and less jerky, and he took good care not to pass too close to dangerous-looking cover. A mile was added to the half, and he then let the horse ease up; and half an hour later he was rocking along at the regular trail lope.

  The Baylor wagon was on a small branch of Crooked Creek for the sake of better water. At this period of the year the creek was very low, and the consequent concentration of iron was objectionable. Farther up, nearer to Iron Springs, one could see the rusty streak holding to itself in the clearer stream; but it slowly became diffused lower down and lost its identity. Crooked Creek had a strong trace of alkali which the addition of iron did not improve. The wagon was now working the west side of the valley, having cleaned up the other slope, and from now on to the end of the round-up its gathers would be light. The hard work was over.

  The straw boss, riding in toward his wagon, saw the horseman leave the wagon road and head his way. A moment's scrutiny revealed the newcomer's identity, and the straw boss kept on past the wagon and went out to meet him.

  Was the BLR mixed up in this range puzzle, actively mixed up in it? It was hardly probable, but it was possible. More likely, if it was mixed up in it, it was some of its outfit, individually, and not the BLR itself. A man never made a mistake in keeping his mouth shut. The straw boss, who was also foreman, could safely be told that which he already knew, or part of it, if he was mixed up in it. After all, Slade was a BLR rider.

  "Hello, Corson," called the straw boss, smiling broadly.

  "Hello, Jerry. I reckon th' worst of yore job's about over."

  "Yeah. We'll gather light from now on. How're th' other wagons makin' it?"

  Corson told him briefly, and a silence fell.

  Jerry finally twisted a little in the saddle and regarded his companion levelly.

  "Slade go on th' prod with you fellers?" he abruptly asked.

  "Yeah, a little," answered Corson, promptly. "I got somethin' to talk about, off by ourselves. But first: is Slade out there with th' cattle?"

  "Yeah."

  "How long's he been here?" asked the sheriff, watching the other closely through half-closed eyes.

  "Rode in just in time to eat dinner with us," answered the straw boss.

  Corson grunted. Evidently Slade had not been with the ambitious sharpshooters west of the old adobe trading post. That made it one less to consider.

  They rode slowly up the creek, toward the trail leading to the Baylor ranch, and while they rode, the sheriff told his companion about the cached herd in Bull Canyon, and nothing more. After listening to Jerry's comment, he asked a question, roundabout, putting it indefinitely in regard to identities.

  "Yon hire any extra help on th' ranch before th' round-up started?"

  "Why, yes. Black Jack Meadows an' his boys worked a little for us, helpin' to break in broomtails; but not as much as they did last year."

  "You didn't find anythin' suspicious when you combed th' ridge yonder?" asked Corson, waving his hand toward the east. He began to feel that the straw boss was straight. He had never heard anything against him, and the man's looks and words and actions were straightforward. The question he had just asked was more in the nature of a feeler, and the way in which it was answered banished any lingering suspicions against the integrity of the BLR foreman.

  "No," replied the straw boss, slowly. "I did reckon for a while that th' JM had more calves than nature intended for 'em to have; but th' next few gathers didn't give them any a-tall. They just happened to be all bunched up in th' first two."

  "Many mavericks?" asked the sheriff.

  "Yes, a few; th' reg'lar run for rough country."

  "Everythin' looked all right on yore own range?" persisted Corson.

  "Well, not exactly," slowly answered the straw boss. "You know, a bunch of cattle will kinda get to feel at home on one section of th' range. A man can go out lookin' for a certain bunch, an' know just about where to find 'em."

  "Yes, if th' place is better than other parts of th' range," replied the sheriff. "No, I won't even make that exception. It goes as you said it."

  "Shore. Now," said the straw boss, "there's a little pasture at th' head of Broken Jug Creek where quite a bunch of Whitefaces, cows an' calves, hang out. They range through it an' around it, but if a man heads for there, it won't take him long, generally, to locate that bunch of cattle. An' they allus work back there to water."

  Corson nodded understandingly but said nothing.

  "One of my boys," continued the straw boss, "was ridin' there th' day before th' round-up started, comin' back from th' Kiowa. He had his choice of th' two trails around the butte, an' just for a change he took th' one goin' up th' Broken Jug. It was a little longer an' some harder, but he went up along it. When he got to that pasture he didn't see no cattle. Well, they mighta watered and then drifted back, out of his sight. Cattle can get outa sight right easy, over there. He looked th' place over and figgered they wouldn't stay away very long, because th' feed looked right good."

  Corson nodded again as the straw boss paused, and again said nothing.

  "Well, as a matter of fact," said the BLR foreman, "when he did speak about it, some days later, an' I got to questionin' him right close, he allowed that th' feed looked too damn' good; looked like nothin' had been in there grazin' for quite a spell. He didn't say any hin' about it when he got home to th' ranch that day, because we was all lathered up gettin' ready to go out with th' wagon th' next mornin'. He had been loafin' on his breakin' job, an' had to put in most of his time breakin' in th' green hosses that he'd drawed for his string."

  "When he spoke about it later, like I said, I didn't work up no sweat over it. We were right in th' middle of heavy gathers, an' I knew, too, that we would be workin' that part of th' range inside of a week. Well, we did work it, an' we reckoned that we got them critters, but I'm gettin' less shore of that every day. When we haul th' wagon back to th' ranch, I aim to spend some time ridin' round over there. An' from what you've just told me, I wish I'd done th' ridin' round before now, round-up or no round-up. So far as th' JM's concerned, you can ride easy: they ain't got an animal that don't belong to 'em. Anyhow, not up on that ridge range."

  "Has Black Jack Meadows, or any of his boys, worked for you since th' round-up layout was first given out?" asked Corson, curiously.

  "Yeah: Black Jack's not very much on size, but he's shore handy with a forge. I had him put our wagon in shape for th' spring work."

  "Did he work for you after th' original assignments were changed?" persisted the sheriff.

  "No; he didn't; but everybody knowed about th' change right quick. It warn't no secret."

  "Yes. How did you work th' ridge?" asked the sheriff.

  "Took it in sections, along th' bottom, first," answered the straw boss. "You throw worked cattle uphill an' they'll likely work back down. That means that you'll gather a lot of th' same critters over an' over ag'in, if you work from th' top of th' ridge down. We worked north along th' bottom, throwin' th' cattle behind us an' below us. Then we turned an' worked back over th' middle benches. Then we turned ag'in an' went back alo
ng th' top of th' ridge, throwin' back th' cattle on th' downhill side. Th' Bar W was workin' th' same way over on their own side of th' ridge."

  "Then you made three sweeps, north an' south?" asked the sheriff.

  "Yeah; an' we shore swept clean."

  "An' now yo're all through between this creek an' th' ridge," muttered Corson without intending to put it into question form. He himself would have worked that ridge, bottom to top, in a straight line, taking it as it came; but he had nothing to do with the layout of the work at the BLR wagon.

  "Yes, we're plumb through, over there, an' glad of it," replied the straw boss.

  Corson nodded. He turned and looked at his companion, a steady, level look.

  "Just between me an' you, Jerry, three ornery hombres loosened up at me at long range, damn' long range, back at th' old 'dobe ruins. They could shoot right good, too. They used glasses, too, because they saw every move I made. Yo're right shore that Slade ate dinner with you?"

  "Yes, he did. You mean to tell me that you was shot at?"

  "Yeah. From three different places at near th' same time. I figgered it two, three ways; an' then I kinda expected a fourth shot, from a plumb different direction."

  "Yeah? You musta had a reason. My boys were all with th' cattle. Slade was settin' in camp when I rode in. I sent another rep. over to yore outfit as soon as I learned that Slade had cut his string. I'm goin' to tie a knot in his tail, first thing he knows. When I send a man out to another wagon, I expect him to stick with it till th' job's done. An' so he went sour right after Nueces found that cached herd, huh?"

  "Yes," answered Corson, nodding; "but he shore wanted to run yore brand on 'em, on all of 'em. He wanted to do that right bad."

  "Huh! He mighta been playin' to save his face; or he might not. We'll mebby find out which, later on; but him wantin' to put our brand on th' whole lot of 'em didn't make it look any too good for us, did it?"

  "Yo're right; it didn't," admitted Corson; "but I've played poker too long to believe everythin' I hear an' see. It struck me that Slade was bluffin'. You can save me quite a job if you'll kinda keep an eye on him. I can't be everywhere at once, an' this thing seems to take a lot of ridin'. It's spread out considerable. An' besides, I got to get this horse back on th' ranch. I been ridin' him purty hard, an' his forefeet are gettin' a mite tender. I shod him for workin' cattle, an' then never got th' chance to do it."

  "Go home by way of our headquarters," said the straw boss. "Tell th' boys there that I said for 'em to slap a pair of shoes onto him. It ain't very far outa yore way, an' you'll save fifty, sixty miles of barefoot ridin'."

  "Might do that, but I ain't shore till I see how things break," said Corson. "I'm figgerin' on yankin' his shoes off an' turnin' him out on th' range. My roan is a better trail horse. You reckon it's time to eat?"

  "Yeah; must be. Let's go back. Ain't no use of gettin' a good range cook all riled up for nothin'. What you think of this Association round-up idear?"

  "I think it's th' proper idear," answered the sheriff.

  "Yeah, it is; but there's one thing about it that I hate like I hate a heel-fly. It's a damn' shame to slap th' Association brand onto every maverick. That shore sticks in my craw."

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE hard press of work at the Baylor wagon was now over, and the riders showed it in various ways. No longer were the cattle coming so thick as to call for working the gathers in sections or holding a herd during the night. Up to now the stray herd had been a big one, but now it was growing no larger. It was grazing placidly on the bed ground, a swell rising up from the pasture floor, where the cattle were caressed by every movement of the wind. From now on the gathers would be made in the morning and the herds worked in the afternoons. The straw boss was holding nothing in the Baylor mark, since they were squarely on their own ranch, but turning them back on the range as soon as the branding irons were lifted. After a few days more the stray herd would begin to shrink rapidly as the various stray men went home with their drags.

  The men rode in to the wagon hungry, in good spirits. They acted as if a tension had been removed, the tension of hard and persistent work, as, indeed, it had. From now on to the end of the round-up it would be more or less of a romp, with plenty of time for fun.

  Signs of this became apparent when the Turkey Track rider loafed over to where the straw boss and the sheriff were idly talking. He nodded, dropped to his haunches, and pulled at a weed stem growing near his feet.

  "I ain't seen nothin' in our mark for five days," he said, suggestively.

  The straw boss nodded in turn. The statement was true. The wagon had worked well beyond the wanderings of any Turkey Track strays.

  "You want to cut yore string an' drag?" he asked.

  "Shore like to," answered the Turkey Track representative, "but not if you want me to stay."

  "No reason a-tall for you to stay," said the straw boss, smiling. "Th' work's gettin' lighter every day. If we should come acrost any of yore critters we'll slap on yore brand an' drive 'em home with us, an' hold 'em for you. There ain't no use of th' Chain rider stayin' with us, neither. We ain't picked up one of his animals since we made th' second sweep along th' ridge. Both of you boys might as well go home, an' tell my reps, with yore wagons to do th' same. I hope both of you boys will be with us ag'in in th' fall."

  "My boss shore will be glad to see me ag'in," said the stray man, with a grin. "He's just been waitin' for this here round-up to get over, so he can send some of us up th' trail after some registered cows he's bought. He's shore spendin' money; but he's gettin' th' stuff."

  "Is French goin' in for registered stuff?" asked Corson.

  "Little bit," answered Turkey Track. "He figgers on raisin' our own registered bulls."

  "Good idear; cost him less, an' they'll be acclimated," said the straw boss. He turned to the sheriff. "You been doin' that for two, three years, ain't you?"

  Corson nodded and smiled a little.

  "Yes. I been raisin' registered bulls for Baylor without him knowin' it," he admitted, laughing gently, "against th' time when he'd have to cross his Herefords; an' then he went over west an' picked up his Durhams at a sheriff's sale."

  The straw boss chuckled, looked thoughtfully at the stray man, and nodded.

  "Cut yore string, an' get yore cattle together right after breakfast. It's too late to do anythin' now."

  "Yeah. I'll do that in th' mornin'. Me an' th' Chain rep. will throw in together, an' split 'em near th' Alkali Holes."

  "All right: that's yore own business," said the straw boss, and turned to Corson. "How old are them registered bulls you reckoned you was raisin' for us?"

  "Two years," answered the sheriff.

  "Be about right for us next year," grunted the straw boss. "We didn't pick up enough Durhams, over west, an' Baylor an' me have been talkin' about gettin' more of 'em. It's a tough enough breed, but even so, we'd rather have them that was born an' raised right here in this part of th' country. I'll talk to th' old man when we get back home."

  "Come an' get it!" bawled the cook with leather lungs, and was instantly obeyed.

  After supper was over Corson listened to the conversation going on about him, particularly to what Slade had to say, and to whom he talked. The man had grown a little sullen when he had ridden in and found the sheriff at the wagon in conversation with the straw boss, and Corson had felt the rider's eyes on him all during the meal. It was light yet, and would not be dark for two hours. The straw boss had paid Slade no more attention than he had to any other man present; but after the extra cups of coffee were disposed of and tobacco smoke began to rise into the air, he turned suddenly and faced his representative to the JC wagon.

  "How come you cut yore string, Slade?" he demanded, coldly.

  Slade's sullen eyes flicked to Corson and then back to his boss.

  "They got to ridin' me too damn' hard," he growled.

  "When did you leave their wagon?" persisted the straw boss.

  Sl
ade told him, and the straw boss became thoughtful. After a moment he spoke again, crisply.

  "What did you do with yore drag?"

  "Turned it loose on our range," answered the rider.

  "Oh, then you came home by th' south?"

  "Yeah. I come up th' Kiowa an' through Brown Canyon," said Slade.

  Corson's expressionless face remained expressionless at the calm enunciation of this most palpable lie. Slade had come home through Packers Gap, and if he had turned his little herd of stray cattle loose on Baylor range, then he must have been riding a bird instead of a horse. He had gotten rid of the cattle before the sheriff had seen him at the JM ranch. Had he turned his little stray herd loose on Baylor range, where he said he had, and then got back to the JM, it would have taken him at least one full day more than he had had at his disposal.

  "You see any numbers of our cattle, over where you worked?" asked the straw boss, casually.

  Slade shot a venomous look at the sheriff, thought swiftly, and decided to play safe and to tell what he held to be the truth, since it might have been already told by Corson.

  "Yeah; forty-two of 'em in one bunch," he growled. "Right up on th' fringe of th' JC range, holed up as slick an' purty as you ever saw. Struck me as bein' damn' funny!" He was now looking Corson squarely in the eyes. "I wanted to slap our brand on 'em, but that damn' Nueces wouldn't hear of it."

  "Meanin'?" gently asked the sheriff.

  "I don't know just what it means!" retorted Slade, angrily. "But mebby you do."

  "Yeah," answered the sheriff, smiling thinly. "Mebby I do."

  "Anythin' to show that they belonged to us?" asked the straw boss.

  "I knowed three of 'em right well!"

  "That's good," grunted the straw boss. "An' they wouldn't let you burn 'em in our mark, huh?"