Читать книгу The Diamond Hitch - Frank O'Rourke - Страница 14

CHAPTER THREE

NEXT MORNING the boys put on thick leather jackets and batwing chaps, and flat little hats with floppy brims and throat latches that snugged firm under their jaws. They shoved piggin strings under right chap legs, and nobody bothered toting a gun. Ropes were wound in tight coils on the saddle fork and were shielded by the right knee. Saddling up, every man laced heavy leather tapaderos over his stirrups to protect his feet. During breakfast Hank gave Dewey a quick run-down on the nature of the work ahead.

“These cattle are renegades,” Hank explained. “Been out here since the year one, a lot of ’em. It ain’t an easy job and it goes like this. . . .”

Jumping a steer, Hank explained, they whipped the little loop out about eighteen inches and laid it right back over the right shoulder. When old bossy hit an open space it was just one quick swing to open a reasonable loop, then squeeze it down as it left the hand. If they caught, fine; if not they’d take off again, winding up rope on the run. The brush was a kind of blackjack oak with little limbs that grew out and then curled inward, so hard you could scarce cut it with a sharp knife. When one of those limbs hooked a boot or shirt, it tore deep. “It’s rough work,” Hank said, “an’ the boys come in hungry, Dewey. Don’t ever just cook enough. Cook more.”

Hank and the boys left after breakfast, driving seventy head of burros and the extra saddle horses. Dewey had an idea and rummaged through the storeroom, found a little sheep bell, and hung it around Benstega’s neck. “Good,” Squab said. “Others won’t leave him, Dewey, this way we hear him easy all the time.”

They packed supplies for eight days and took off, Squab leading and Jim Toddy ambling out first behind Squab’s horse. But inside of twenty steps Jim Toddy stopped abruptly and old Benstega took the lead, the sheep bell tinkling under his neck. Not far down the trail Benstega bent his packbox around an outthrust limb and the other burros repeated that maneuver, stepping exactly in Benstega’s tracks. Dewey realized that a man might be trailing burros and figure he was following maybe two, when there could be six or more. Riding that morning, he watched them closely and began what was to be a long, rewarding—and sometimes maddening—education.

They traveled a wild country where timber grew on the north slopes, piñon and cedar, and ponderosa that went up thirty feet but no more. When they topped out on Wild Horse Mesa the country changed abruptly and sheered off into brush, and Squab led them on a downward trail that headed straight for Jesus into the Black Brush country. Dewey saw the tiny limbs that hooked out and waited to rip holes in a man. It was rough, wild country but it was free and open and clean. No fences, no houses, no people. It made him feel free inside and hope that nothing ever happened to change the sweep of canyons and mountains and endless brush flats.

They hit the regular camp at two o’clock and found it a cleared space above a nice spring that ran off down a ravine and formed a tiny stream. The boys had already killed a beef and hung the four quarters on tree limbs; and far out in the surrounding brush, floating inward once in a while, came the sounds of Hank and the boys chasing cattle. Dewey unpacked the burros and watched them head for a sandy place and take their roll. They went down like a horse but turned over all the way like a cat, and once they were dusted good Benstega led them into the trees where they rubbed necks and backs against the trunks. They were still shedding winter coats and the warming weather probably made their hides itch under the thick hair.

Dewey set up his camp just as he’d done back in New Mexico. He placed two kyack boxes on the ground and put one on top. He stored his flour, suet, and extra pans and pots in the bottom boxes; he kept cold biscuits in the top box for any boy who might come in during working hours with a pulled shoe. A man was always hungry when he had a few minutes to breathe, and Dewey wanted meat and biscuits on tap every hour of the day. Squab gathered flat rocks for the cooking fireplace and from that job headed out to pick up dry wood. Just as Dewey turned to the fresh beef he saw the rider coming down the slope into camp. Squab said, “Indian Tom,” and dropped an armload of wood beside the rocks.

Indian Tom was part of the crew but had just come up from the reservation. He looked Dewey over when Squab introduced them, accepted cold beef and biscuits, and wolfed the food down. He was almost six feet tall and weighed about a hundred and seventy, and he was as bald-headed as any Indian Dewey ever saw. His neck hair was plaited in thin pigtails and Tom wore the ends under his leather jacket and batwing chaps, with big tapaderos on his stirrups. Tom finished his beef, took a swig of water, and rode off without a word of good-by.

“No talker,” Squab said. “Hard worker.”

Dewey nodded and got to work on the beef. He lowered the four quarters and took them down to the spring and washed each one thoroughly, then got his four drawstring canvas sacks and shook them out clean. He didn’t have time to cook a roast for supper, so he put a beef quarter in each bag, laid them on a blanket, and covered them over with spare blankets and pack covers. That kept the meat fairly cool during the day, and at night he would always hang them up in the trees.

Dewey got out the cold beef and biscuits for supper. He built up the fire and had coffee going strong just before the boys rode in from their first day’s work. From today on Dewey would follow a regular cooking schedule. He’d cut meat in the morning, cook dinner and supper together. That way he would always have meat left over from dinner to warm for supper. They never moved meat from one camp to another in this country, so when that time came Dewey would take enough meat for one meal and leave the rest for animals.

When the boys rode in Dewey saw just how tough the job was—fresh rips in jackets and chaps, deep gouge marks on the rounded noses of the tapaderos. They ate and smoked and rolled up in their blankets, all of them dead-tired and half-morose in their weariness. Hank lingered over coffee and finally said, “Get your cuttin’ horse in the morning, Dewey, come on out and see how the work’s done.”

“I’d like that,” Dewey said.

“But you don’ want no part of it,” Hank said. “I’m just warning you.”

Dewey grinned. “I’m the cook, Hank. I reckon that’s true. I might go lally-gagging out there and bust a leg. Anyway, I’ll have a nice roast day after tomorrow.”

Next morning Dewey rode out and saw the renegade cattle tied up to trees. “We got a dozen,” Hank said, “and plenty got away. Today we’ll start things moving. You watch now, in case you ever need to help out.”

Dewey watched, and solved the mystery of bringing so many burros along. The boys had twelve cattle, no young stuff, all old cows and bulls and steers. Driver Gobet and George Spradley came up driving twelve burros and held them on one side while Jim Thornhill and the others closed in on the first cow.

By the time a cow had fought the tree all night, its head was pretty sore and some of the fight was soothed down. Raymond sawed off an outside horn, leaving a little stump about four inches long. During this time Driver Gobet was putting a surcingle around a burro, with a breast strap in front and britching behind. There was a four-inch steel ring braided into the right side of the surcingle, halfway down the burro’s side.

Then Thornhill rode up to the cow and dallied off, and Driver Gobet caught the free end of Thornhill’s fifteen-foot rope and pulled it through the steel ring and led the burro up against the cow. Gobet grabbed a six-foot length of rope and tied one end to the ring and the other around the cow’s horns, anchoring the cow about three feet from the burro. Thornhill took off the long rope, and they turned cow and burro loose.

Dewey saw that the only trouble the burro had was in the beginning minutes. If the cow tried to jab that horn nub into the burro, the burro just hauled off and kicked him in the belly about ten times, and that settled matters. The cow might fight two or three times, but no more, and then every time the burro took a step the cow went right along.

Dewey watched the first pair fight it out, then the burro lined straight for the the main ranch where he’d been fed all that good cotton-seed cake and oats. That was the simple reason for bringing the cake and oats, and feeding the burros so good before work started. Dewey went back to camp and started dinner, but he watched operations while he cooked. It didn’t take the boys long to tie up twelve burros and cows, and after that they all disappeared into the deep brush to rope more cattle through the balance of the day.

Squab had fresh horses ready when the boys came in for dinner. They ate fast, changed mounts, and took off again. It was routine work settling into a rough and tough pattern, and Dewey realized that day how much difference there was in this country compared to New Mexico. And he woke to the fact that, compared to these men, he was about zero so far as being a real cowboy. It made him buckle down all the harder and do his best to carry his share of the load.

Right after breakfast Raymond and George Spradley took off for the main ranch to meet the burros coming in with their cows, where they’d turn the cows into the pasture, feed the burros good, and bring them right back to camp. That was how it worked, roping the cattle, tying them to burros, taking turns going back to the main ranch and meeting the burros. Dewey sent the boys off with a big breakfast and then got started on his roast.

He put a twelve pound rib roast on the fire and mixed his dressing. When the roast was done he poured the dressing all around and over the meat, and set the oven in the coals for thirty minutes of browning. No flavor got away and when the boys rode in at noon and began eating, their faces made Dewey grin with pleasure.

“By God,” Thornhill said. “You can cook.”

“I get by,” Dewey said modestly.

“Got enough for supper?” Hank asked.

“It’ll stretch,” Dewey said. “You like that corn-bread dressing?”

“Fine,” Hank said. “You New Mexico cowboys can do somethin’ right.”

The boys went out for the afternoon work and Dewey spent the rest of the day cleaning up camp, burying refuse and burning odds and ends. He watched the burros and felt he was getting on their good side. He was always kind to them, fed them cold biscuits and pieces of beef, but he knew he’d never get one to be real friendly. They were independent and their motto seemed to be: “You let me alone and I won’t bother you.” They were not like horses, but then, they were smarter in some respects. Damned smart, Dewey decided the next morning.

He rode out with Squab to help bring in the saddle horses for the noon change. When he got back, Benstega and the other three had ransacked camp. Old Benstega was standing out behind a tree, flour all over his face and ears, and the others were close by, giving Benstega wistful looks because he’d beaten them to the good pickings. And they had left their calling card—a pile of droppings—right beside Dewey’s bedroll. Dewey knew he’d have to recook his bread, and was just lucky they hadn’t bothered anything else because supper was on the fire and too hot to grab.

“You thieving bastards!” Dewey shouted. “I’ll—”

Then he sat down on his bedroll and looked at Squab, and had to laugh. He’d been warned and plumb forgot to protect stuff, and old Benstega had offered him a sample of the life burros could lead an honest man. That night after supper he got Hank talking about burros, knowing that Hank knew more about the little devils than anybody else. They lay back on the blankets, drinking coffee, and Hank told about his growing up days around Winslow and how he roped wild burros for practice.

“There’s always a leader,” Hank said. “A lot like wild horses, Dewey. Out on guard on some high knoll, you can pop up over a hill right in his face and there’s a good chance he’ll give you a close inspection before he turns to lead his bunch away. At the same time he’s looking you over, his bunch is moving off just like he gave them some signal you can never make out. And they never run and buck. Little burro colts won’t do anything except stick their noses close to the ground, wring their tail, and run like hell.”

“They sure will eat most anything,” Dewey said.

Hank smiled. “Been feedin’ them good?”

“Plenty,” Dewey said disgustedly. “So they turn around and rifle camp.”

“Hell, that’s their nature,” Hank said. “Every time you leave camp, they’ll try to rob it. And they don’ miss a thing. It’s funny the way they seem to know. They can be way off grazing and maybe you sneak out to break broncs, and when you come back, there you’ll find ’em with flour in their ears. And when you finish eating, they’ll be around looking for that handout. Missed your dishrags yet?”

“Not yet,” Dewey said.

“You will.”

Dewey said, “The hell I will! Say, what size bunches do these wild burros run in?”

“Oh, eight to ten,” Hank said. “They’re like deer in many ways. When it comes time to have a colt the mare’ll go off by herself but the bunch won’t be too far away. Just as soon as she’s had the colt and it can wobble along, she’ll rejoin the bunch again. Dewey, you noticed how their ears stand up?”

“Sure,” Dewey said. “It appears they got mighty keen hearing.”

“You watch a burro’s ears,” Hank said. “He’ll tell you if anything is happening or somebody’s comin’. A burro can be standing out yonder asleep, let something happen way off on the hillside and he’ll point an ear like he’s looking that way, and it might be twenty seconds before he opens his eyes. I guess that’s because his hearing is best and it has to come on down into his brain before his eyes get the signal to take a look. An’ talking about dishrags, Dewey, you better watch everything. They don’t stop at nothin’ except anything rotten.”

“Dried fruit,” Thornhill said. “And grain. I remember one old burro on the Circle C that could open the granary door faster’n a man. They knew he was thirty-eight years old. He was out on pension, he just hung around, always in the way, sneaking grain.”

“Benstega’s pretty old,” Dewey said.

“Could be thirty,” Driver Gobet said. “I don’ know for sure. You can’t tell their age by their teeth. They got big teeth like a mule’s, but different from a horse.”

“Say, Hank,” George Spradley said sleepily. “How about that big red steer today. He sure was salty.”

“They’re all salty,” Hank said. “We just get luckier with some. That old black cow was a handful herself.”

Dewey lay back and drank his coffee, and listened while they discussed the red steer and went on to talk of others met and roped, or missed, during the day’s work. It went like that through the eight days of the Black Brush job, everybody talking slow and easy around the night fire, the burros in the trees nearby, horses outside the firelight circle in the grass, the raspy sounds from a tied cow rubbing against a tree deep in the brush. Indian Tom never talked. He’d come in for his food, go off by himself, and squat down like a coyote to eat. Hank very seldom gave Tom any orders. Tom savvied English and he’d catch the next day’s orders from general conversation, and about the only orders Hank ever gave him was in case somebody changed partners. Then Hank might say, “Tom, you work with so-and-so tomorrow.” But most of the time Tom worked by himself and got plenty done. He was all man, and Dewey liked and respected him. Near suppertime on the last day Dewey saw Tom come tearing through the brush, chasing a big brindle steer. Tom flipped that small loop and made the ketch and tied old bossy to a tree so fast it was like watching a speeded up moving picture scene of some joker riding a livery stable horse in a getaway.

That brindle steer was the last one roped during the eight days, and Hank told Dewey the tally at supper. They’d caught and sent in a hundred and twenty-one cattle, and Dewey didn’t need to be told it was a mighty high count for such country. Next morning when they topped off on Wild Horse Mesa, heading for the main ranch, the boys were far out on both flanks scouting the country for steers and burros that might have gotten hung up enroute. And to rope any cow that came along, Dewey knew, to raise that hundred and twenty-one total if possible.

About eleven o’clock Dewey and Squab, driving the kitchen burros, come up on Indian Tom’s horse where the trail wound near the edge of a big canyon.

“Hold up,” Dewey called. “Something wrong.”

Squab just pointed downward to a lower ledge. “Tom’s all right, Dewey.”

Dewey looked down and finally saw Tom standing on the ledge with a little square looking glass in one hand. Squab nudged Dewey and he looked on out across the country to the northwest and finally made out the rising dust.

“Indian roundup,” Squab said.

Tom was down there working that glass against the sun, up and down and sideways, and for a minute Dewey figured Tom was off his nut. Dewey watched him fifteen minutes, until Tom turned and climbed up beside them and shoved the looking glass into a front pocket.

“Three Flying A cows,” Tom said. “Two Flying A calves, Indian roundup.” Tom held up his fingers to show the count.

“That’s old R4,” Squab said. “Big Indian cowman roundup.”

Indian Tom grunted and rode away. Watching him go, Dewey began thinking about those looking glass signals that had come across ten or twelve miles of country to Tom, who must have signaled the roundup, asked a question, and got his answers the same way. Riding along, Dewey realized that those signals must have been learned during the days of Crook and Miles and Geronimo, when the army tried to catch the Apaches that way. Just a few years ago, Dewey thought, and now the Indians were like anybody else in this country, only it seemed they remembered everything they saw and got around to using it in one way or another. That was a pretty good way to judge the whole country, too, because men out here had a habit of using everything at hand. They had to, or they didn’t stick around long.