Читать книгу The Diamond Hitch - Frank O'Rourke - Страница 15

CHAPTER FOUR

THREE DAYS were spent at the main ranch, shoeing horses and sewing up jackets and chaps—in fact, there was a sight more sewing done than in most any Ladies’ Aid on a Tuesday afternoon. Dewey had no spare time either, cooking three meals a day and preparing for the Cherry Creek move.

“There’s about ninety thousand acres on this ranch,” Hank told him, “and Cherry Creek is the big job. It’s a two-day drive straight east through Hole-In-The-Ground Camp, twenty-two miles as the crow flies, but we ain’t flyin’. Make sure you get everything tied down tight, Dewey. She’s a rough ride.”

Hank didn’t lie. They started next morning, driving burros and saddle horses, Dewey and Squab bringing up the rear as usual. They made Hole-In-The-Ground Camp the first night, riding all day through brush and trees into rough country cut all to pieces with arroyos and canyons and crazy-angled ravines. The Hole was six sections of rough country three to eight hundred feet lower than the surrounding land; it was literally a hole in the ground, cut off by sheer cliffs except for the one pass in and out. Cattle drifted in but they rarely got out.

While Dewey cooked supper, George Spradley and Thornhill scouted around through the maze of canyons and arroyos, trying to get a fair tally on the cows. They got back just in time for supper with a good report, and Hank decided on staying two days. During that time the boys rode out every canyon and ravine, doing no roping or driving, just making a close count of the cattle. On the third morning they climbed from the Hole and headed east for Cherry Creek. It was a rough trail, but Squab knew a few short cuts and led Dewey down a long approach in late afternoon, around a big sandstone bluff, into permanent camp.

Dewey saw a clear stream of water, good corrals on the far slope, and rising above the slope a sheer six-hundred-foot wall of brownish-gray sandstone rock. That high bluff was the result of God alone knew how many centuries of water rushing down the dry arroyo in yearly bursts, just wearing away the soft rock until the little stream now flowed innocently at the bottom.

Unpacked and camp set up, Dewey crossed the creek for a look at the corrals and the wall. Squab pointed to the Indian picture cut halfway up the wall. Dewey saw the crude outlines of an eagle and snake, carved taller than a man, and the eagle had a long arrow shot through its body.

“Indian letter,” Squab said. “Means snake shot an arrow through eagle.”

“Oh, sure,” Dewey said.

He wondered what it really meant. He doubted that Squab knew. But most of all, he wondered how those ancient Indians ever got down the side of that sheer cliff some three hundred feet to carve the picture. That was the wonder in his mind; that was another mystery of the west.

“You don’t think so?” Squab asked.

“I don’t think what?”

“That snake shot eagle?”

Dewey grinned. “I guess it makes no difference. But I sure know what does . . . we better get to work.”

Then Squab grinned. “Dewey shot arrow through Squab!”

“You damned right,” Dewey said. “Let’s get the firewood. I want dinner fixed so I can start on the broncs.”

Just like Black Brush Camp, the boys had killed and dressed a beef before Dewey arrived. He threw together a fast dinner and, after the boys ate at noon and headed out again, got to work with the broncs.

But first he checked up on the kitchen burros. If old Benstega figured on rifling camp while he was out, well, that old demon had another guess coming.

“Squab,” Dewey said. “We both keep an eye on ’em. If they come sneaking in, sing out.”

“Maybe not today,” Squab said. “Look—”

Benstega had led the others down the creek into the cottonwood and willow trees. They were chewing at the cottonwood bark and Jim Toddy reached around and took a bite off a willow tree. That willow bark was bitter and Dewey thought he finally knew why burros never seemed to get the scours. Their droppings were always well molded, as if they were constipated, but that wasn’t true. Maybe it was because they ate such things as willow bark and dishrags.

“I still don’t trust ’em,” Dewey said. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

Dewey crossed the creek and got to work. He roped and hackamored two broncs. He left twenty-foot drag ropes on them, and stretched a rope between two posts to tie them up so they wouldn’t break their necks before next morning. Hank nodded approval at suppertime and said, “Before you start on ’em, ride out with us in the morning, see how it goes in case we need you.”

“Different from the Black Brush?” Dewey asked.

“Some,” Hank said. “But hell, nothin’ ever turns out the same. We’ll want breakfast at four-thirty.”

That cut the night short. Dewey dished out breakfast on time, saddled the old sorrel, and rode out at five o’clock to watch the boys catch wild cattle on water. They took twenty burros, and the over-all plan was somewhat like the method used in the Black Brush.

They topped out on a mesa not far east of camp, where a known water hole stayed filled the year round. Hank deployed everybody around the hole, and the boys began working down from all sides. If they could hold any cattle thus found they would throw the burros right into the bunch. The burros were all surcingled before leaving camp, the cinches loose, of course, until they hung beef, but ready to go. So, if this trick worked, the boys just moved around the caught bunch a couple of hours, getting the wild cattle accustomed to men and horses and burros. Then Hank put two boys in the lead, two behind, and others on the flanks.

“We just ease ’em along,” Hank said. “Let the burros lead out. Never rush these wild cattle. If one busts past a boy, then it’s time to rope and either tie that cow to a burro or flail hell out of her. If the same cow busts loose a second time and we’re lucky enough to ketch, then we damned sure tie her to a burro. Sometimes, if we have good luck on these morning water-hole hunts, we can bring the bunch into camp by ten o’clock.”

But they had no such luck that morning. There was one old cow at the water hole, and Dewey had to make tracks back to camp and begin dinner. Squab had the saddle horses out grazing along the creek on fresh grass, and the four quarters of beef were all cleaned and covered well with blankets and packs. The fire was built and the burros hadn’t sneaked into the flour. Dewey waved his thanks to Squab and got his beef on the fire, washed up the breakfast dishes, and began fixing a big pot of beans.

The biggest Dutch oven was fourteen inches deep. Dewey put beans and suet in the oven, clapped the lid down tight, and put a small fire underneath, live coals on top, and covered the oven over with hot ashes. No steam got away and he never added water because he covered the beans three inches deep at the start.

In about four hours he had tender beans, and then he tossed a few boiled potatoes into the pot. They never got mushy or came apart, probably because no fresh air reached them. Dewey didn’t salt his beans until tender, and when he did salt that morning he knew the pot was coming out fine. But watching beans and cooking dinner left no time for bronc work that day. The boys came in, ate and changed horses, and hurried out for the afternoon. Dewey just got across the creek once that afternoon, then came back in a hurry when Benstega tried a raid on the biscuits and flour. Dewey said, “The hell with it,” and let the broncs go.

“Getting started on ’em?” Hank asked him at supper.

“Tomorrow,” Dewey said.

“Don’t bust a leg,” Hank said.

Dewey grinned. “Mine or the bronc’s?”

“Well,” Jim Thornhill said. “Them broncs is hard to find so draw your own conclusions.”

Next morning, once the boys had saddled up, Squab took the two broncs to the rope stretched between the posts. Dewey got his dinner on, checked the burros, and went right to work.

He followed his old routine, same as back in New Mexico. The first morning he tied up a foot while the broncs were on the stretched rope. He put a rope around their necks, got behind them, and let them drag that rope until it came between their hind legs. He picked up the loose end and went for the left hind foot if possible, running to that side and putting the rope into the loop around the bronc’s neck and pulling that left hind foot up snug against the belly.

Then Dewey got a pack saddle, cinched it up on the bronc, and started throwing a blanket over and under him. He got the bronc mad, made him rear and fight, and in doing so naturally got the bronc pretty well sweated down. Dewey rolled a smoke and went back to camp for a look at dinner, and then returned to the bronc who was standing there on three legs, eyeballs rolling white, sweat glistening on his shaggy coat. Dewey kept up the routine for two days, the broncs being turned out at night to get their feed, and on the third morning Dewey proceeded to the next lesson.

He saddled the broncs and turned them loose, let the left hind foot down, and allowed them to buck all they wanted while getting used to the saddle feel. That afternoon he tied the left hind foot up again, put a length of rope on the pack saddle to use as a rough stirrup, and began getting up and down on them. That was always a touchy moment, coming up close, feeling them tremble and bunch their muscles as they smelled him so nearby.

“All right,” Dewey said. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

He patted them between the legs, under the belly, on the neck. He talked to them, soft and easy, then gruff and sharp, he did everything they were leery of. If they came along well he led one into another corral, got his saddle, and saddled up that bronc with a hackamore and two reins. Then Dewey got up and down on him until the bronc stood and took it. If that happened fairly quick, Dewey could let the hind foot down, cheek the bronc, step on him with the foot down and see if he’d stand.

Dewey never rushed the broncs. When he got into the saddle, he let the bronc stand a bit, but kept his legs firm against the body just to let the bronc know he was all set for any funny business. He had a broad piece of leather, eighteen inches long, with a hand hold trimmed down on the end. If the bronc stood, Dewey let him alone awhile, then began whacking him with that leather. That was the only way to find out just how he really stood with the bronc.

If the bronc blew the plug and started bucking, Dewey let him go, rode him out, then worked him easy for an hour or so around the corral, reining him, stepping down to smoke a cigaret, stepping up again. Then Dewey put the hackamore back on, with the drag rope, and got the other bronc and went through the same routine.

If the boys came in for dinner and rode out again by one, it gave Dewey four hours of afternoon time with the broncs. But any time a boy rode in, he had to leave off and hurry back to camp.

During those days Squab rode the pasture fence, repairing breaks and checking the posts. When the boys got lucky and brought cattle in by ten o’clock, Squab always spotted their dust and got back in time to have the extra saddle horses waiting for the change. Then it was eat on the run, change horses, and get going. And it appeared that Hank knew every old renegade steer in the country. He always knew where the boys could ride out and rope a few wild ones, tie them to trees, and bring out the burros. And while that tough work was going on endlessly, Squab sometimes helped Dewey work the broncs around in the corral. Plus riding fence and getting horse changes ready, Squab somehow found time to carry firewood, help get water, and even wash up a little bit around camp.

The boys followed the same routine every day, once they had cattle in the pasture. They cut out around twenty-five head of burros, rounded up the cattle, and shoved the burros into the bunch. If a cow broke away she was roped and brought back. Then the boys just rode around the bunch and moved them three or four hundred yards, stopped, worked around again, moved again, stopped again. That was to gaunt the cattle down, gentle them, get them used to the burros. The boys were averaging around twenty head roped and caught each day, and they had a hundred and sixty head at the end of eight days.

“We can’t handle any more on the drive in,” Hank said that night. “We’ll start back in the morning, Dewey. Everybody has to turn out and help.”

“But we ain’t done here?” Dewey asked.

“No,” Hank said. “We’ll come right back, but cover another slice of ground.”

“Does it get tougher?” Dewey said.

“It sure don’t get no easier,” Hank said. “Pass them beans.”

Next morning everybody was on the job because, when they opened the holding pasture gate, that was the most likely place for a run. Hank cut out a good cow horse for Dewey, and Squab had the best horses ready for all the boys. First off, the boys tied twenty of the wildest cattle to twenty burros, and two boys—Spradley and Raymond—pushed them up close to the gate. Squab opened the gate on Hank’s signal and jumped right back on his horse, and inside the holding pasture Spradley and Raymond eased those tied burros and cattle outside where all the boys held them in a kind of barricade.

Then the loose cattle and burros were pushed out and held up against and behind the leaders, and made to sit still an hour. Every boy was ready, loops spread to catch a breakaway. Finally Hank nodded and the boys started moving the entire herd up the canyon. Dewey and Squab helped for a mile, and then Hank said, “All right, Dewey. Better get back and pack up.”

Dewey and Squab high-tailed back to camp, packed the kitchen burros, and followed along. Dewey cut off enough beef for two meals, and spread out the rest for the animals and birds. Ten days was about the limit for fresh beef in this country; after that it began to get sour and smell just a trifle high.

There was no dinner that day, and Dewey was lucky to manage supper. He and Squab had the kitchen burros and the horse remuda on their hands. Squab led out on a trail that took them pretty high, and never closer than a half mile to the moving herd. They worked along five miles and Squab cut out saddle horses and drove them down to the herd.

The boys came out one at a time to rope and change horses, and each time Squab leaped onto the gaunted horse and rode it back into the bunch, and finally drove all the work-out horses up the hill into the remuda where Dewey was holding horses and cussing burros at the same time.

They made Hole-In-The-Ground about five-thirty, threw the horses into the holding pasture, and got ready for the boys who had lagged behind today, easing those wild cattle along at a snail’s pace.

Dewey built a fire and started cooking beefsteak, biscuits, and cream gravy. He threw some dried prunes into a potful of water and hoped they’d get soft in time, and warmed up his last pan of beans. Squab was across the creek cutting out another relay of horses. Dewey straightened up from the fire, his eyes burning from smoke, in time to see Squab head down the trail with the horses. He couldn’t make out where Squab met the herd, but pretty soon the Indian boy rode in with the gaunted horses and turned them into the corral. And while he watched that, Benstega sneaked up and snaked a dishrag off the low branch of a tree.

“Hey!” Dewey yelled. “Get away from there!”

He threw a few stones at Benstega and the others, until they moved off a ways, and then he was busy as a one-armed paper hanger turning beefsteaks, watching his biscuits, and making gravy.

The boys pulled in at sunset, dust roiling up above the herd, turning orange and red in the slanting sunrays. They put the herd into the holding pasture, untied the burros from the wild cows, and came stiff-legged for camp. Then it was time to eat like hungry wolves, unroll the beds, and just plain fall down. Nobody lingered over coffee. They were bone-weary, caked with dust and dried sweat, and even Raymond was too tired to click his teeth and slobber. Hank lay on one elbow, unbuttoning his shirt, and nodded sleepily.

“We’ll stay two days,” Hank said. “Got to rest ’em up.”

“Boys or cattle?” Dewey said.

Hank managed a wry grin. “A little of both, Dewey.”

They camped two days before moving the herd on to the main ranch. Dewey left the pack outfit and burros in the Hole, hung everything high, and helped drive the herd back. It was a one-day trip to turn the cattle into the big main ranch pasture; and one night’s rest was all Hank allowed.

Next morning Dewey packed provisions on a horse and rode straight to Hole-In-The-Ground. Dewey and Squab spent that afternoon working over the supplies, getting set for a morning move. He had no time until after supper and then it got dark before he did much more than putter with the two half-broke broncs. Raymond brought along the shoeing tools and sewing kit, and everybody worked before and after supper.

“It’ll be the same routine,” Hank said. “But we move over and sweep fresh ground.”

“Same time?” Dewey asked.

“Eighty-nine days,” Hank said. “With luck. But I wish we could handle more cattle. We just cain’t drive a bigger bunch than the last. That’s what takes the time.”

“Can we finish up in ninety days?” Dewey said.

“Got to,” Hank said. “Them’s the orders . . . sure, we can do it.”

Dewey said, “I ain’t breaking many broncs, Hank.”

“Never mind,” Hank said. “Cooking comes first. Do what you can, Dewey. A man’s only got two hands.”

Dewey sat beside the fire and watched Hank fall asleep the moment his head hit the folded jacket. The other boys were already sleeping, Raymond snoring through his teeth, George Spradley curled up like a bear, Thornhill flat on his back, making no sound. Indian Tom was off somewhere alone, using that single blanket, apparently never bothered by stones or sticks.

Squab drifted in silently with an armload of wood, stacked it beside the fireplace, and sat down on his blankets. Squab pulled off his moccasins and rubbed his dirty feet, staring downward at the flattened toes, eyes reddish in the fireglow. The kitchen burros moved nearby and the horses stomped restlessly in the thin grass beside the water hole. Dewey poked the fire and then lay back and looked at the sky and the stars. He wondered if they could do the job in ninety days; it seemed like a lot of work for their number of boys.

“Squab,” he said. “Can we get the job done on time?”

“Sure,” Squab said, “if nobody gets hurt.”

“We been lucky,” Dewey said. “Mighty lucky.”

He thought on ahead to the Las Vegas show. He was getting in great shape, not real hard yet, but working toward it. He began adding up the contestants who’d be at Las Vegas, all the top riders and bulldoggers, and for once he knew he would stand a good chance of pulling down first money. The McCarty string of bucking horses was scheduled for the show, and Dewey knew those horses, old Midnight and Overall Bill and Deertrail and all the rest. To go in there sober and hard, with no bruises or cracked ribs or other worries, was a chance he might never get again.

“You asleep?” Squab asked.

“Not yet,” Dewey said. “Just thinkin’.”

“What about?”

“Nothing much,” Dewey said. “Good night, Squab.”

“‘Night, Dewey.”