by B. M. Bower
CHAPTER IV. THE TRAIL-HERD
Thurston tucked the bulb of his camera down beside the bellows andclosed the box with a snap. "I wonder what old Reeve would say to thatview," he mused aloud.
"Old who?"
"Oh, a fellow back in New York. Jove! he'd throw up his dry-point headsand take to oils and landscapes if he could see this."
The "this" was a panoramic view of the town and surrounding valley ofBillings. The day was sunlit and still, and far objects stood up withsharp outlines in the clear atmosphere. Here and there the white tentsof waiting trail-outfits splotched the bright green of the prairie.Horsemen galloped to and from the town at top speed, and a long, grimyred stock train had just snorted out on a siding by the stockyards wherethe bellowing of thirsty cattle came faintly like the roar of poundingsurf in the distance.
Thurston--quite a different Thurston from the trim, pale young man whohad followed the lure of the West two weeks before--drew a long breathand looked out over the hurrying waters of the Yellowstone. It was goodto be alive and young, and to live the tented life of the plains; itwas good even to be "speeding fleetly where the grassland meets the sky"--for two weeks in the saddle had changed considerably his view-point.He turned again to the dust and roar of the stockyards a mile or soaway.
"Perhaps," he remarked hopefully, "the next train will be ours." Strangehow soon a man may identify himself with new conditions and new aims. Hehad come West to look upon the life from the outside, and now his chiefthought was of the coming steers, which he referred to unblushingly as"our cattle." Such is the spell of the range.
"Let's ride on over, Bud," Park proposed. "That's likely the Circle Barshipment. Their bunch comes from the same place ours does, and I want tosee how they stack up."
Thurston agreed and went to saddle up. He had mastered the art ofsaddling and could, on lucky days and when he was in what he called"form," rope the horse he wanted; to say nothing of the times when hisloop settled unexpectedly over the wrong victim. Park Holloway, forinstance, who once got it neatly under his chin, much to his disgust andthe astonishment of Thurston.
"I'm going to take my Kodak," said he. "I like to watch them unload, andI can get some good pictures, with this sunlight."
"When you've hollered 'em up and down the chutes as many times as Ihave," Park told him, "yuh won't need no pictures to help yuh rememberwhat it's like."
It was an old story with Park, and Thurston's enthusiasm struck him asa bit funny. He perched upon a corner of the fence out of the way, andsmoked cigarettes while he watched the cattle and shouted pleasantriesto the men who prodded and swore and gesticulated at the wild-eyedhuddle in the pens. Soon his turn would come, but just now he wascontent to look on and take his ease.
"For the life of me," cried Thurston, sidling gingerly over to him, "Ican't see where they all come from. For two days these yards have neverbeen empty. The country will soon be one vast herd."
"Two days--huh! this thing'll go on for weeks, m'son. And after all isover, you'll wonder where the dickens they all went to. Montana is somebigger than you realize, I guess. And next fall, when shipping starts,you'll think you're seeing raw porterhouse steaks for the whole world.Let's drift out uh this dust; you'll have time to get a carload uhpictures before our bunch rolls in."
As a matter of fact, it was two weeks before the Lazy Eight consignmentarrived. Thurston haunted the stockyards with his Kodak, but after thefirst two or three days he took no pictures. For every day was but arepetition of those that had gone before: a great, grimy engine shuntingcars back and forth on the siding; an endless stream of weary, youngcattle flowing down the steep chutes into the pens, from the pens to thebranding chutes, where they were burned deep with the mark of their newowners; then out through the great gate, crowding, pushing, wild to fleefrom restraint, yet held in and guided by mounted cowboys; out upon thegreen prairie where they could feast once more upon sweet grasses anddrink their fill from the river of clear, mountain water; out upon theweary march of the trail, on and on for long days until some boundarywhich their drivers hailed with joy was passed, and they were free atlast to roam at will over the wind-brushed range land; to lie down insome cool, sweet-scented swale and chew their cuds in peace.
Two weeks, and then came a telegram for Park. In the reading of it heshuffled off his attitude of boyish irresponsibility and became in abreath the cool, business-like leader of men. Holding the envelope stillin his hand he sought out Thurston, who was practicing with a rope. AsPark approached him he whirled the noose and cast it neatly over thepeak of the night-hawk's teepee.
"Good shot," Park encouraged, "but I'd advise yuh to take anothertarget. You'll have the tent down over Scotty's ears, and then you'llthink yuh stirred up a mess uh hornets.
"Say, Bud, our cattle are coming, and I'm going to be short uh men. Ifyou'd like a job I'll take yuh on, and take chances on licking yuh intoshape. Maybe the wages won't appeal to yuh, but I'm willing to throw inheaps uh valuable experience that won't cost yuh a cent." He lowered aneyelid toward the cook-tent, although no one was visible.
Thurston studied the matter while he coiled his rope, and no longer.Secretly he had wanted all along to be a part of the life instead of anonlooker. "I'll take the job, Park--if you think I can hold it down."The speech would doubtless have astonished Reeve-Howard in more waysthan one; but Reeve-Howard was already a part of the past in Thurston'smind. He was for living the present.
"Well," Park retorted, "it'll be your own funeral if yuh get fired.Better stake yourself to a pair uh chaps; you'll need 'em on the trip."
"Also a large, rainbow-hued silk handkerchief if I want to look thepart," Thurston bantered.
"If yuh don't want your darned neck blistered, yuh mean," Park flungover his shoulders. "Your wages and schooling start in to-morrow atsunup."
It was early in the morning when the first train arrived, hungry,thirsty, tired, bawling a general protest against fate and man's modeof travel. Thurston, with a long pole in his hand, stood on the narrowplank near the top of a chute wall and prodded vaguely at an endless,moving incline of backs. Incidentally he took his cue from hisneighbors, and shouted till his voice was a croak-though he couldnot see that he accomplished anything either by his prodding or hisshouting.
Below him surged the sea of hide and horns which was barely suggestiveof the animals as individuals. Out in the corrals the dust-cloud hunglow, just as it had hovered every day for more than two weeks; just asit would hover every day for two weeks longer. Across the yards near thebig, outer gate Deacon Smith's crew was already beginning to brand. Thefirst train was barely unloaded when the second trailed in and outon the siding; and so the third came also. Then came a lull, for theconsignment had been split in two and the second section was severalhours behind the first.
Thurston rode out to camp, aching with the strain and ravenously hungry,after toiling with his muscles for the first time in his life; for hishad been days of physical ease. He had yet to learn the art of workingso that every movement counted something accomplished, as did theothers; besides, he had been in constant fear of losing his hold on thefence and plunging headlong amongst the trampling hoofs below, a fatethat he shuddered to contemplate. He did not, however, mention thatfear, or his muscle ache, to any man; he might be green, but he was notthe man to whine.
When he went back into the dust and roar, Park ordered him curtly totend the branding fire, since both crews would brand that afternoon andget the corrals cleared for the next shipment. Thurston thanked Parkmentally; tending branding-fire sounded very much like child's play.
Soon the gray dust-cloud took on a shade of blue in places where thesmoke from the fires cut through; a new tang smote the nostrils: therank odor of burning hair and searing hides; a new note crept into theclamoring roar: the low-keyed blat of pain and fright.
Thurston turned away his head from the sight and the smell, and piledon wood until Park stopped him with. "Say, Bud, we ain't celebrating anyelection! It ain't a bonfire we want
, it's heat; just keep her going andsave wood all yuh can." After an hour of fire-tending Thurston decidedthat there were things more wearisome than "hollering 'em down thechutes." His eyes were smarting intolerably with smoke and heat, and thesmell of the branding was not nice; but through the long afternoon hestuck to the work, shrewdly guessing that the others were not having anyfun either. Park and "the Deacon" worked as hard as any, branding thesteers as they were squeezed, one by one, fast in the little brandingchutes. The setting sun shone redly through the smoke before Thurstonwas free to kick the half-burnt sticks apart and pour water upon them asdirected by Park.
"Think yuh earned your little old dollar and thirty three cents, Bud?"Park asked him. And Thurston smiled a tired, sooty smile that seemed allteeth.
"I hope so; at any rate, I have a deep, inner knowledge of the joys ofbranding cattle."
"Wait 'till yuh burn Lazy Eights on wriggling, blatting calves for twoor three hours at a stretch before yuh talk about the joys uh branding."Park rubbed eloquently his aching biceps.
At dusk Thurston crept into his blankets, feeling that he would like thenight to be at least thirty six hours long. He was just settling intoa luxurious, leather-upholstered dream chair preparatory to tellingReeve-Howard his Western experiences when Park's voice bellowed into thetent:
"Roll out, boys--we got a train pulling in!"
There was hurried dressing in the dark of the bed-tent, hasty mounting,and a hastier ride through the cool night air. There were long hours atthe chutes, prodding down at a wavering line of moving shadows, whilethe "big dipper" hung bright in the sky and lighted lanterns bobbed backand forth along the train waving signals to one another. At intervalsPark's voice cut crisply through the turmoil, giving orders to men whomhe could not see.
The east was lightening to a pale yellow when the men climbed at lastinto their saddles and galloped out to camp for a hurried breakfast.Thurston had been comforting his aching body with the promise of restand sleep; but three thousand cattle were milling impatiently in thestockyards, so presently he found himself fanning a sickly little blazewith his hat while he endeavored to keep the smoke from his tired eyes.Of a truth, Reeve-Howard would have stared mightily at sight of him.
Once Park, passing by, smiled down upon him grimly. "Here's where yuhget the real thing in local color," he taunted, but Thurston wastoo busy to answer. The stress of living had dimmed his eye for thepicturesque.
That night, one Philip Thurston slept as sleeps the dead. But he awokewith the others and thanked the Lord there were no more cattle to unloadand brand.
When he went out on day-herd that afternoon he fancied that he wasgetting into the midst of things and taking his place with the veterans.He would have been filled with resentment had he suspected the truth:that Park carefully eased those first days of his novitiate. That waswhy none of the night-guarding fell to him until they had left Billingsmany miles behind them.