Читать книгу The Ranch on the Beaver - Andy Adams - Страница 6

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The foreman was late in reaching the wagons. There was no longer any danger to the westward; where the fire had jumped the guard at dawn every margin was critically examined. Fire was found smouldering here and there, some of which might have rekindled to a blaze. Every trace, even of smoke, was whipped out on the home side of the fire-guard.

The camp was a desolate sight. The wagons were cached on the burnt ground, and the men had unsaddled over the line, in rank grass. They lay about, as if they had fallen in an Indian massacre. A number of men from the Republican River, compelled to return for their mounts, were among them. Sargent seemed immune, an iron man, fully familiar with the sleep of exhaustion, and merely rode by to satisfy himself, dismounted and kindled a fire.

It was noon before many of the men awoke. ‘Let me have four hours’ sleep,’ said the foreman to Joel, the first one to awake, ‘and this afternoon we’ll ride south into the sand-hills. I want to see the end of the back-fire. If it looks safe, we’ll camp to-night at The Wagon and go home in the morning. Better send a wagon out and gather any plunder that we abandoned north of here. Let them take a keg of water along and drown out any smouldering fires. Call me promptly. I’ll be asleep in that heavy grass across the creek.’

* * * * * * * * * *

December passed without a move on the part of the cattle. Several light snows fell, storms threatened, each passing away with an angry horizon, but leaving the herd contented. Joel met Manly each morning, and Sargent during the evening ride, when every phase of the weather was discussed.

‘What do you think of the weather?’ became a standing inquiry on the part of Joel, when meeting either one on the line.

‘I’m not even the son of a prophet,’ was Manly’s evasive answer. ‘Try it yourself, and you’ll find out that you’re earth-born; that you lack the gift of prophecy.’

‘You never ask my opinion on a cow or horse,’ replied the foreman, when pressed with the regular question, ‘and don’t try and flatter me into turning weather prophet. Possibly the mantle of the prophet Joel has fallen on your shoulders; he was a range man. You try it this winter. It always makes me out a liar.’

The boy knew his limitations and avoided all nonsense. ‘Manly will have to go to the railroad with his monthly report, and the very first chance I want to go to the Republican. We both can’t leave at once. I wish we knew ‘

‘Turn weather prophet,’ insisted Sargent. ‘Forecast a bad storm, and if it doesn’t come, we’ll hail you as a good prophet. We’ll ride the lines just the same, anyhow.’

Early in the year, Manly went to the railroad with his December report. It was flattering in the extreme; typical of the pastoral contentment which reigned on the Beaver. Two days were allowed for the round trip, which, under normal conditions, was ample time. On this particular trip. Manly started at dawn, and as the day wore on an uneasiness was felt, not only by the courier afield, but by those remaining behind. Every hour carried the harbinger of a change of weather; and even when the riders parted on the lines at evening, it was still an open question what the day might bring forth.

This time the expected happened. The day ended as balmy as a spring morning. The cattle were ranging out on the watershed to the north and to the burnt country above the upper line camp. When the patrols returned to their respective quarters, only a few scattering bunches of cattle were in sight, all of which was well north of the Beaver.

With the falling of darkness, a change in the weather could be sensed. Within an hour after nightfall, a wind swept out of the north, raw to the freezing point, and every man in the outfit, absent or present, was aware of the task that confronted them. The different camps were alert to the necessity of the hour. Quinlin was serving as a substitute at Trail Camp, and before ten o’clock that night, Dell and Sargent rode into headquarters, bringing their relay horses and blankets.

‘What do you think?’ hailed Joel, busy outfitting a wagon, as the others dismounted.

‘I think we’ll play in big luck if we head the drift on the Prairie Dog,’ answered Sargent. ‘The storm struck early, and out on these flats the cattle must drift until they strike shelter. If they cross this valley, it’s good-bye, Irene, I’ll meet you on the Prairie Dog — possibly, perhaps. Unlash this bedding; my fingers are all thumbs from this cold.’

Sleep was out of the question. Dell and Verne Downs were to bring the wagon in the morning. ‘Pilot the commissary in to the emergency camp,’ said Joel to his brother, ‘and then ride for the Upper Prairie Dog. If the cattle are adrift, the rest of us will ride to their lead; if they’re moving broadside, we’ll turn in the flanks. If they’re bunched, we’ll turn them at the new Dog House, at the mouth of the dry ravine. Once you sight cattle, it will give you a line on the situation. And be sure and start your wagon an hour before daybreak.’

The start was made at midnight, with every extra horse under rope. Sargent took the lead, and with the wind at their backs the trio defied the elements. Bob Downs bringing up the rear.

‘Do you suppose those fellows at the lower camp will know enough to start to-night?’ insisted Joel, mounting his horse. ‘Manly’s gone, you know.’

‘If they’re cowmen, they will,’ answered the foreman. ‘The cattle won’t wait until morning.’

A sifting frost filled the air. Under an ordinary saddle gait, the horsemen would cross to the emergency camp in four hours. But as they neared the divide, the storm struck without mercy, the led horses crowded those under saddle, and the only relief was to shake mounts into a long gallop. On reaching the southern slope, a lull in the storm was noticeable, the dry wash was entered as if it were day, and an hour before schedule time the horses were under shelter and the men had kindled a fire in their own Dog House.

‘The wind has held from the same quarter,’ announced Sargent, ‘which is in our favor. We’ll turn any possible drift before noon.’

A breakfast was prepared from the emergency stores. Coffee is a staple in every cow-camp, and once the men were warmed up, fresh horses were saddled to await the dawn. Conjecture was riot as to whether the cattle were drifting or not, when Hamlet and Quinlin rode up and hailed the dug-out. They were benumbed in their saddles, having quartered the storm, but once the comfort of the shack and its bounty was theirs, the situation became known.

‘Cattle adrift?’ repeated Hamlet. ‘Why, Dale and I have run amuck drifting cattle every hour. We left our dug-out at ten o’clock. You fellows must have left before sundown.’

‘We’ve been here a little over an hour,’ said Joel, watch in hand. ‘You’re sure that the cattle are drifting?’

‘The creek bed’s full of them,’ answered Quinlin. ‘We struck it several miles below and had to grope our way up here.’

‘Come on,’ urged Sargent; ‘dawn will be here within half an hour. Once you fellows get warm, ride your own end of the line. Bob and Joel will go west, and I’ll ride south a few miles, in case any cattle have crossed the Prairie Dog.’

Daybreak found Sargent miles out on the flats, leading to the next divide south, without an animal in sight. An hour later the sun flashed forth, for a brief moment, but the sifting frost blinded the lone horseman. Satisfied that human vision was of little use in the present glare of icy sheen, he turned westward in the hope of picking up any possible trails. Meanwhile Joel had cut the spoor of drifting cattle, and while running it out, was overtaken by the foreman.

‘We’ll head this drift within an hour,’ consolingly said Sargent, on overtaking Joel. ‘Every hoof ought to be found over the next divide. There’s nothing adrift now but new, through cattle.’

On reaching the divide, a surprise awaited the pair. Within a mile, over the crest, a lone horseman had turned the drift of fully five hundred cattle. Shaking out their horses, the two rode to his assistance, conjecture running wild as to who it might be at such an early hour in the morning.

Sargent’s reasoning faculties, rather than his vision, solved the mystery. ‘It can’t be any one but old man Manly,’ said he, shouting into Joel’s ear. ‘That old boy couldn’t sleep in a warm bed, knowing that these cattle might be adrift. I can almost make out his horse. Yes, it’s old Joe!’

He was found, benumbed, speechless, bordering on a stupor, and unable, without assistance, to dismount. He was fairly dragged from his horse, rubbed with snow, raced around in a circle, the twinkle in his eye the only symptom of life. On recovering, it was learned that he had left the station, timing himself so as to reach the Prairie Dog at daybreak. He had come up the trail, riding into the eye of the storm, and only quartering it after turning westward. He reported the one in hand as the only drift, and was sent direct to the emergency camp.

Before noon, the lead of the drift was returned to the Prairie Dog. The wagon had arrived early, and with all hands in the saddle, the flanks were turned in, the country scouted far and wide, and by evening every hoof was bedded under the bluff banks of the creek. The cattle had reached the Prairie Dog, covering about the same front as their winter range on the Beaver, and were left scattered for the night.

Three days of raw weather followed. The wind continued from the north, lulling with a falling temperature at night, and of a necessity the line was held on the Prairie Dog instead of on the home range.

‘What’s the difference?’ said Sargent, pleading for delay before starting the drift homeward. ‘The corn tastes just as sweet to the horses here as at home. We have our own Dog House, and even if we do sleep a little cold, it’ll make us get up earlier. When it warms up, the cattle will want to go home. As long as we know where the teepee is, and have the cattle in hand. I’d as lief be lost as found.’

The Dog House was a comfortable shelter. ‘I know it’s not good manners,’ said Manly to Joel, ‘to complain of your chuck, but the architect who planned this emergency camp entirely overlooked the comforts of a guest-room. Here I must sit on a sack of corn or on buffalo skulls. At my sunny home on the Pease River, we wouldn’t treat a Mexican horse wrangler this way. And I’m your only guest.’

‘Verne,’ said Sargent austerely, ‘to-morrow rack up more of those buffalo seats. Build a little platform of skulls at the corner of the fireplace, for the guest of honor. Build it high enough so that Colonel Joe can issue orders from a throne of skulls. Let no one, for a moment, lose sight of the fact that Joe’s our guest, from the far, sunny South.’

A second storm, accompanied by sleet, followed, not severe enough to drift the cattle, but compelling the outfit to remain a week afield. The weather faired off the third day, when the wintered cattle, led by cows, began the homeward drift. Coming voluntarily on the part of the herd, it was looked upon as a good omen.

‘There’s the advantage of a few cows,’ said the foreman to Dell, when the homeward drift was noticed. ‘As long as there is a cow present, a steer is always quiet and contented or willing to be led by the horn. A cow will go back to the same spot, year after year, to give birth to her calf, while a steer is a roving rascal. A bell mare has just the same influence over saddle horses. A mare and colt will hold a remuda of horses better than a wrangler. But the moment one gets out of hearing of the bell, he’s a gone gosling and will nicker like a lost child.’

All signs fail in bad weather. One week after the first storm struck, and only a few hours later at night, the harbinger of a blizzard turned the homeward drift to the shelter of the Prairie Dog. The change was sensed within the dug-out, the entire outfit turning out and noting every phase of the situation.

‘Farewell, Beaver, farewell. Prairie Dog,’ lamented Sargent. ‘We love you, but we must leave you!’

‘This is more than we bargained for,’ said Joel; ‘and we have no emergency camp to-morrow morning.’

‘We can make the railroad our next base of checking the drift,’ suggested Manly. ‘Better load the wagon now and start a few hours before daybreak. The cattle are adrift this minute.’

It required stout hearts the next morning to take out a wagon and defy the elements. That the major portion of the herd was adrift there was no question neither was there a moment’s hesitancy to saddle and try and ride to the lead. Four o’clock in the morning was the hour agreed upon, and, leaving Bob Downs and Quinlin to hold the line on the Prairie Dog, men and horses humped their backs and took the storm. It was possibly not so cold as the first one, but the velocity of the wind was more severe, enough to whip the cattle into a trot across the flats and exposed places. Given a seven hours’ start, there was little hope of overtaking the drag end of the herd under thirty miles. The cattle were off of their home range, away from known shelters, and those instincts of life which taught them to flee from an enemy also warned them to drift with a blizzard.

An outline on the herd, after the first storm, revealed about half the cattle on the Prairie Dog. The latter line was covered by Quinlin and Downs at dawn, the trial of the morning being to turn a second drift from the Beaver. Among the latter were hundreds of brands, unknown to the detailed men, but, given the advantage of light, the drift was checked, two thirds of the cattle coming down the dry arroyo, and turning in to shelter above and below the dug-out. While patrolling the line, the detail was joined by two horsemen from the north, who reported themselves as belonging to an outfit from the Republican River, then encamped at Wells Brothers’ ranch on the Beaver. The men from the Republican predicted that the present would be remembered, for years to come, as ‘the big drift of January, ’88.’

Meanwhile, the main outfit had held together until dawn. Again leaving Dell to pilot the wagon and saddle stock, a quartet of horsemen gave free rein to their best mounts and rode on with the storm. Trails of drifting cattle were seen, stragglers were passed, the railroad reached, with no knowledge of the extent of the drift. Without a halt a wide circle was made to the south, hundreds of cattle were caught, moving with that sullen stride which knew no relief until the storm abated.

‘What do you think?’ inquired Joel of Manly, on meeting at noon.

‘We may have the lead in hand, and again we may not,’ replied the latter. ‘One thing sure, we have reached our limit away from the wagon. We must make it back to camp before dark. And it’s going to be slow work, drifting cattle against this wind.’

Dell joined them in the middle of the afternoon. He reported having camped the wagon about a mile north of the railroad. A dry creek bed had been found which would afford shelter for the cattle, fuel had been gathered, as the night must be weathered in the open.

The back trail required patience. The herd had split into contingents, and to pick up and turn them homeward was no light task. The main herd turned a dozen times, but the men dismounted and fought them until the cattle yielded, facing the storm in preference to the mastery of man. Toward evening, the sun burst forth for an hour, and with the scattered bunches under herd, now numbering over a thousand head, five horsemen lined them out for camp. It was dark before the hungry herd bedded down, Dell and Sargent taking the first watch on guard.

‘How do you like it out West?’ inquired Sargent of his bunkie, as they met on the beat. ‘Do you think we’ll ever see The Wagon again?’

‘You ought to have been with us two winters ago,’ chattered Dell, his voice quivering. ‘There was a winter with whiskers on it. Talk about cold!’

The herd was bedded in the bend of a dry creek, and one man awake until midnight was sufficient patrol. Fortunately there was but little snow, tarpaulins were spread about the fire, tired men snuggled into their blankets, and the night blotted itself out.

It was fully thirty miles to the emergency camp, and a start was made with the dawn. The necessity of grazing the cattle was urgent, and scarcely one third of the distance was covered by noon. The wagon had taken the lead, dinner was waiting, and without a halt mounts were changed and the snail’s pace of the cattle was maintained. The wagon was excused, and after a final change of horses for the day, Dell followed with the saddle stock.

When darkness fell, some five miles to the south, the cattle were freed for the night. The weather had faired off, and on reaching camp the men from the Republican were still present. Reports were compared, and from the figures at hand, random as they were, it was openly admitted that the brothers had lost cattle during the present drift.

‘Well, suppose we have lost some,’ said Manly, ‘there’s still a grain of comfort; we did all we could. And they say that angels can do no more. It simply means that we must cover the spring roundups.’

‘In the winter of eighty-five and six, cattle drifted from the Niobrara down on to the Republican,’ remarked one of the men from the latter river.

‘You’ll have to go south to the Arkansaw River,’ suggested Manly to Joel. ‘Throw out your drag-net and throw it wide.’

Another day was lost on the Prairie Dog. The recovered cattle were brought in, the flanks turned closer, and toward evening the entire holdings, covering a ten-mile front, were started north. Camp was abandoned the following morning, the weather having moderated, many of the cattle not being overtaken before noon. Once the general drift was safely within the original, outer lines on the Beaver, the cattle were abandoned, and every one touched at headquarters before continuing on to their respective camps.

The outfit from the Republican had made a stand on the Beaver. Without molesting the home cattle, they had picked up nearly a thousand of their own, holding them under herd and penning at night in the old winter corral. A willing hand was lent them the next morning, and such cattle as had crossed to the Prairie Dog were gathered, the outfit starting home without the loss of an hour. Three storms had struck within a week, and no one could tell what a day might bring forth.

Joel was impatient to get a line on their own cattle. He and Bob Downs made several range counts, with the cattle scattered for twenty miles along the Beaver. Making due allowance for several hundred unclaimed strays among their own, the lowest possible count showed a thousand cattle short.

‘That would be about my guess,’ languidly agreed Manly, when informed of the count. ‘For the present, we’re short about that many.’

Joel drew a grain of comfort from Manly’s unconcern. ‘What are you going to say to Mr. Stoddard?’

‘I’ll write him that storms struck us in one-two-three order, and that we surprised ourselves by the good fight we put up. We weren’t caught asleep; no storm slipped up on the blind side of this ranch. I’ll tell my old man that you boys are planning to be represented at every round-up next spring where there is any possibility of a single Lazy H or Y being astray. I’d better suggest to Uncle Dudley letting me stay here until after the round-ups are over. What do you think?’

‘I wish you would,’ urged Joel. ‘We’ll need you then more than ever. You see, we never had occasion to go on the round-up. And don’t let Mr. Stoddard get uneasy. You feel sure, don’t you, that we’ll bring the missing cattle back?’

‘Bring them back!’ repeated Manly deridingly. ‘Well, we’re just about the boys who can bring home the bacon.’