The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  "Checked up on th' calf tally?" he asked, instead.

  "Yeah," answered Nueces, grinning in the dark. "I know right close how many we're goin' to get in th' next couple of days. When we're all through we'll be four, five dozen under th' estimate; but I never yet seen an estimate that was right."

  "No, nor I," growled Corson. He savagely jerked at a weed growing near his feet.

  "That don't change th' lay of th' cards none, Bob," said the straw boss, reading some of his companion's thoughts. He read them because he had the same kind.

  "No?" asked the sheriff.

  "It just means that we've cleaned damn' close, an' that nobody had time to drive 'em off after they was force-weaned."

  "Looks that way from what we found," grunted the sheriff, nodding.

  "Yeah. You keep right on ridin', Bob. This ain't th' first time that folks have figgered you out to be a damn' fool an' then wished they hadn't. Keep right on ridin', just like you are. An' it won't be long now before you'll have a little playmate to keep you company any time you get lonesome. Th' round-up's just about over, an' Shorty can run things at th' ranch. You savvy me? An' yore little playmate will be another damn' fool, like yoreself; an', like yoreself, he shore will like th' stingin' stink of burned powder. Waugh!" he grunted in an altered voice, pretending to be an Indian. "I have spoken."

  Corson's hand reached out in the dark and gripped the bony shoulder. His fingers closed like pincers as he stood up. Then, without a word, he strode toward his saddle, to get his blanket roll and become another cocoon on the dark, cool ground. When he came back again he found Nueces stretched out full length on the earth, a gently breathing, silent figure. Corson rolled up beside his straw boss. This was the way for a man to sleep. His mind flashed him the picture of the JC ranch house. It was dark and silent and lonely, for all its gleaming white paint. Never before had he thought of it in just that way, but he had to admit that it was lonely.

  CHAPTER XV

  CORSON rolled out of his blankets as the sun cleared the high horizon, and found that he was the last man to get up. The tantalizing odor of coffee was doing things to his olfactory nerves, and he discovered that he was very hungry. The cook's standard range meal confronted him, but somehow a man's appetite was not blunted by steak three times a day, not as it was prepared as this artist cooked it; not when sleeping in the open and riding hard from early morn to night were the hones and strops that keened the edge of a man's hunger. And steak was proper food to stick to a rider's ribs. The cook found his variety in the other dishes, and no one complained. The JC wagon was a little more generous than the usual run in its use of canned vegetables and fruits. It was a good outfit to work for.

  Corson ate in silence, his mind reaching out over miles of country, scrutinizing it again and again, as he had done so many times before. Cattle were material things, occupying space. They had to eat, and in country such as this that meant a great deal of space. To a man accustomed to the turf pastures of the East, that space was surprising. A herd of any size would require miles for its feeding. Figuring twenty-five acres to a cow, for year-round feeding, the average range would not support more than twenty-six animals to the section. A section is, of course, a square mile.

  This kind of figuring meant an assumption, of course, that a herd was being considered; a herd segregated from the other animals on the range. A more elementary and much simpler way would be to let the cattle run on their own, proper ranges, and to rustle them as needed; but this, in turn, meant smaller operations, stealing on a lesser scale. Somehow Corson's mind persistently considered the puzzle from the viewpoint of a herd, of segregated cattle. But this was absurd, on the face of it: the whole range had been too well swept by the round-up crews for this to be possible; yet his thoughts ran that way. That had been the basis for his facetious remark to the Bar W foreman that strength of mind was a characteristic of the Corson family.

  He carried his dishes to the wreck pan, and then, sitting on the ground with his back against a rear wheel of the wagon, rolled a cigarette and watched the men catch their circle horses in the flimsy rope corral. They were soon saddled up and riding off toward the appointed line. The straw boss, standing beside his saddled horse, watched them leave and then, turning, strode over to his employer's side.

  "Got you buffaloed, huh?" he asked with a smile as he looked down at the sheriff.

  "Yes," grunted Corson, tipping his head back and grinning up at his horse-faced friend.

  "If all th' wagons cleaned up as good as we did, there wasn't no place overlooked," said Nueces, thoughtfully, stating a simple fact simply. "Mebby one or two of 'em wasn't so careful."

  "From what I hear, they swept as clean as we did." The sheriff chuckled. "You'd be surprised if you knew how many old mavericks, reg'lar old moss-headed outlaws, were turned up in this drag. I saw some that were twenty years old, if a day: reg'lar old moss-heads."

  "Yeah?" grunted the straw boss, and grinned. "We found a few ourselves, over in th' brakes, that didn't do our former round-up reputations no real good," he admitted. "You suspicionin' any particular part of th' range?"

  "Yeah."

  "You know how it was worked by th' wagon?"

  "Yes. It's a ridge range, and it was swept in three parallel belts," answered the sheriff.

  "From th' top down?" asked the straw boss, quickly.

  "No. From th' bottom up," answered Corson. "They threw th' worked cattle on th' downhill side."

  "Huh!" muttered Nueces. "Any particular brand runnin' on it?" he persisted, gently scratching his head.

  "Two. BLR an' th' JM."

  "Hell!" said the straw boss, suddenly grinning. "Th' JM ain't got more'n two, three cows, an' they're scrubs." He chuckled. "I don't know how they fill their bellies on th' JM."

  "Quarterly remittances from th' East," explained Corson.

  "Yeah? Still livin' off th' bottle, huh?"

  "Bottle?" asked the sheriff. "What you mean?"

  "Still pullin' at th' nursin' bottle," grunted the straw boss, with contempt. "They ain't got guts enough to wrestle out their own livin' for themselves."

  "Black Jack's quite a hand at stud-hoss," said Corson.

  "That so?" quickly asked the straw boss, his face lighting up. "Where at does he hang out?"

  "Bentley. Don't you get too excited, you old horse-thief: he makes a good livin' out of playin' stud-hoss, or at least it looks that way."

  The swift change of expression on the face of the straw boss bespoke a certain restrained admiration. Any man who made a good living playing stud-horse regularly—well, he certainly was no infant.

  "Reckon that takes him off'n th' bottle," he grudgingly admitted. "I don't wonder he ain't pesterin' hisself, associatin' with no cows." He again scratched his head and nodded understandingly. "Lookin' after th' cattle is what his boys are good for."

  "They don't stay with th' cattle," corrected the sheriff. "They're too busy totin' walnut, playin' bodyguard for their old man."

  "Huh!" snorted the straw boss, with deep contempt. "Then that puts him back on th' bottle. What's he need a bodyguard for?"

  "I don't know, but I shore aim to find out," replied the sheriff, slowly, thoughtfully. "That was one of th' things that didn't smell right, to me. There wasn't no sense to it, unless there was a hell of a lot. There's one thing shore, Nueces: a man that's pickin' up a cow here an' a cow there don't need no three-man bodyguard; but if he was mixin' in with quite a bunch of fellers, then mebby—aw, hell!"

  Nueces studied his boss in grave silence. He himself was nobody's fool, and he knew by experience that the sheriff was squarely in the same category. One little sound not quite right will catch an engineer's ear in a roar of sound. One overemphasized gesture or word, one little action out of place or character, has the same challenge to observant men. The great curse of acting is overacting. Nueces' mind was working swiftly, bridging gaps, taking short cuts. He knew how his companion's thoughts were running. Here was what some might regard as an i
nconsequential statement, which appealed to him with the force of visual, definite proof. In race-track parlance it might have been called a hunch; but it had a much better and deeper warrant than that. He thought it might be a good idea to winnow but some of the possibilities.

  "Heavy winner, Black Jack?" asked the straw boss, his eyes narrowing from intensive thought.

  "Don't know," answered the sheriff; "but he does tote quite a lot of hard money—yellow money."

  The possibility was still a possibility.

  "Huh! Does he play square?" persisted the straw boss, his thoughts now leaving the preservation of wealth and considering the need for a bodyguard from another direction. And he knew that he was talking to a master hand at poker.

  "Far as I could see, an' I watched him right close."

  "Was he winnin' while you watched him?" persisted Nueces, his eyes glinting with interest.

  "Yes; right consistently."

  "An' you say you watched him close?"

  Corson nodded, smiling to himself at what a true bloodhound this foreman was.

  "Huh! A lucky stud-hoss player with a three-man bodyguard!" snorted the straw boss. "It's loco!"

  "Shore," admitted the sheriff; "but I'm figgerin' that there's a good reason for th' bodyguard just th' same."

  "If there is, it's a reason that'll hang him!" snapped Nueces. "You reckon folks have begun figgerin' that yo're plumb loco?" he asked, eagerly, his thoughts again running obliquely.

  "Don't know," answered the sheriff; "but mebby some of them are, over on th' Bar W."

  "Hope so!" exclaimed Nueces, grinning broadly. "That's allus near a dead-shore sign that yo're on th' right hoss an' on th' right trail. I see yo're ridin' th' roan."

  "Yes. There's no chance now for me to try out my hand with th' cattle."

  "Well, we'll shore have a lot of broncs to bust," said the straw boss, with a grin. His mind flashed back to the other matter, and he spoke without preamble, knowing that preamble was not needed when he was talking with the sheriff.

  "That ridge is a mighty good place for hidin' cattle," he said, abruptly. "But if th' Baylor wagon cleaned it, an' said they did, then it was cleaned good. That Jerry is a top hand in a round-up."

  "Yes. Of course, if anybody's on th' rustle they could let 'em run, an' pick 'em up when they wanted to; but from now on they'll be faced with branded cattle."

  "Yeah; from now on," replied Nueces. "It takes a lot of country to graze a herd of any size."

  "They wouldn't have to graze 'em all year round," said Corson. "They could rest th' range half a year or more."

  "Yeah, that's so. You figgerin' a herd?"

  "I'm admittin' that I'm crazy," replied the sheriff.

  "That's a good sign!" snorted the straw boss. "In two, three days I won't have nothin' to do but go crazy with you." His grin threatened the safety of his ears.

  "Let th' broomtails wait awhile," said Corson, slowly. "We can break 'em later. Put th' boys to ridin' range, mostly after dark, in pairs. You know th' strategic points."

  "All right," replied the straw boss. "Shall we take time to pull th' shoes off th' cavvy?"

  "Yes. That won't take time enough to be considered."

  "Anythin' more on yore mind before I join th' boys on circle?" asked Nueces.

  "No. Crowd this work a little. Clean it up right soon, figger th' total tally, an' start th' range ridin'. I've arranged with th' Bar W to get word through to th' ranch, if an' when th' time comes."

  "We'll be waitin' for it," growled Nueces.

  "Well, now I've got some more ridin' to do," said Corson, getting up and moving toward the roan, already saddled.

  "I reckon you shore can do lots of it, on that hoss," said the straw boss, gazing admiringly at the handsome, mettlesome animal. "He's got th' purtiest action on th' range."

  Corson nodded and swung into the saddle. He watched his straw boss ride off toward the waiting circle riders, and then, raising his hand in a parting salutation to the cook, rode from the wagon.

  The mind is a peculiar sort of switchboard. Originating there, thoughts make their own connections, and die there; but they leave a trace of their passing.

  Other thoughts try to break in, perhaps unsuccessfully at first, but if they hammer persistently enough they may get through. Sometimes the opposite is true, and they slip through. Sometimes there appears to be no reason for the connections plugged in; but there is always a thread of continuity, except in those messages originating from objective stimuli. Even in dreams, when Reason is asleep at its post and the board running wild, the fantastic connections may have this thread. All this to state that Corson's mind was not engaged in the problem of rustling, or even in matters pertaining to the Meadows family in any of its persons, and to show that his mental state was a natural one.

  He was keeping time in his thoughts to the alluring and restful tempo of the hoofs of his horse. The ever-repeated tattoo and the rhythmic accent were soothing and, at times, almost soporific. Perhaps it was the casual remark of the straw boss about the roan's action which was responsible for the mental circuit; but for whatever reason, the sheriff was considering nothing else. He rode between constricting rock walls, and the hoofbeats came thundering back at him; and then he stiffened suddenly as the new and pertinent connection was plugged in. The new line had vainly sought for this connection, sought it for days, and now it was made. Memory was getting its message through.

  Although bombarded by the regular beat of the roan, shod on all four hoofs, with its own insistent and characteristic accent, he did not hear it; he was listening to other beats, to another horse; to the peculiar, double accent of a cutting-out horse, shod only on its rear hoofs; listening to a beat so distinctive as to have and to merit a meaning of its own. It had the merit, and now he suddenly realized that it also had its meaning; that to one pair of listening ears it was filled with meaning, was, indeed, a definite mark of identity.

  What a fool he had been to overlook so obvious a thing, more especially when it had hammered at him through his ears mile after mile, day after day! Unable to see clearly over the half-mile, almost, which lay between the door of the adobe ranch house and the trail in Lucas Arroyo, a trail which would allow her to see no more than a rider's hat, she had known of his approach only by the tossed echoes of the hoofbeats of his horse. And what horse had that been, to whose hoofbeats had that door opened? The bay, the cutting-out horse, with its bare forehoofs and its iron-shod rear ones; the bay, whose hoofs gave it a signature all of its own! It was the only horse, to his knowledge, shod in that fashion for miles around. With him the shoeing had been an experiment. What a fool he had been!

  The surprised roan leaped forward into its best speed. Horsethief Creek was behind and Willow Creek ahead. Now it was alongside, and the bend in the trail was ahead, now even, and now behind. Part way up the long, gentle slope of Horsethief Gap squatted the buildings of the JC ranch, the white-painted ranch house standing out like a beacon. The roan was too proud to slow down on the upward climb, but held its swift pace unflinchingly, although punished by it. Its rider finally came to his senses and smiled at the instant obedience of the horse, which dropped into the long, easy lope that was its normal traveling gait.

  The roan was a little surprised and somewhat disgusted. After the way it had run, it expected and deserved to stop at the corral; but it went on past this enclosure and on up the slope. Its rider turned it suddenly to the left and shook out his rope.

  The grazing bay raised its head inquiringly, its suspicions became certainty, and it forthwith trotted up the slope. The roan moved a little faster, the noose sailed out and dropped over the bay's head, and the instant the braided rawhide touched its skin, the bay stopped. It knew ropes, did the bay, and knew them well.

  Corson dismounted, rubbed the nose of the intelligent animal, and then substituted hackamore for lariat. It was not long before the roan was free to trot off to drink and to graze, and the bay carried its rider toward the JC bunkhouse. />
  Shorty loafed to the door, oozed through it, and leaned against the outside wall. He considered his approaching employer and grinned a welcome as Corson rode up.

  "You goin' out to chouse up th' cattle for th' boys?" he asked, impertinently. He well knew that his companion was as good a hand with cattle as any man on the range.

  "Goin' to climb down from here an' pull yore nose," said the horseman, grinning. He was in rare good humor now, and restless with a keen impatience. The new thought still had to be put to the test.

  "Yeah?" inquired Shorty, straightening up. "Better wait till I call th' cook."

  "Reckon you need some help?"

  "Reckon somebody oughta hold me from behind, so you can do it," answered Shorty, his grin growing.

  "Do what?" asked Corson, his mind on other things.

  "Pull m'nose."

  "It's too damn' long now," said Corson, insultingly. "You come on down to th' blacksmith shop, an' watch me take th' shoes off this horse's forefeet."

  "I can't learn nothin' from you," retorted Shorty. "Then you are goin' out to work with th' boys." He cocked an eye upward and then pushed away from the wall and headed for the blacksmith shop. When he got there he found his boss already at work on the shoes, and he moved a little faster.

  "Gimme that tool," he said, holding out his hand. "I can pull off three shoes while yo're scratchin' yore head. Gimme it."

  "I only want to take off two," replied Corson. He shoved Shorty back and bent down again. He straightened the clinched nails and reached for the nippers.

  The shoe came loose and fell with a clink on top of its mate. Corson picked them both up and hung them on a peg in the wall. Then he turned and looked at his cheerful companion.

  "Got somethin' to tell you," he said. "Keep yore big mouth shut, from now on. Nueces knows th' whole thing, or as much as I do. Until th' boys ride in with th' wagon, you stick right close to this ranch, here. Now then, you listen to me."

  Shorty listened, and his more or less bored expression vanished until, at last, it showed a frank and enthusiastic delight. When the last word had been said, and Corson had led the bay outside and swung up into the saddle, the puncher's face was beaming.