Читать книгу Settling The Score - George McLane Wood - Страница 21

Chapter Fifteen

Jeff, Smitty, Bo, and three Fort Davis cowboys, in early April, drove two bulls, two hundred fifty cows (half of them were pregnant heifers), and fifty-five four-month-old bull calves and heifers west over the rolling hills and valleys toward Jeff’s JN Brand cattle ranch in Casper County. Halfway there, Jeff stopped his men, built a fire, heated his branding irons, and branded his cows, bulls, and calves. They also castrated the bull calves. Then they laid over one day to rest their herd. Jeff had been observing the land daily and the gamma grass since leaving Fort Davis, and he was so far pleased with the looks of the surroundings. He hoped his land looked as good. They’d followed the Saber River northwest out of Fort Davis, where it’d forked back south of the fort and continued all the way into the Gulf of Mexico. They continued to ride west and parallel with the Saber on their southern flank.

About sundown, two days later, they stopped pushing the cattle, let them water at the river, and then settle down for the night. Bo appointed himself to ride around, and he finally found enough kindling wood for their cooking fire. First chore he did as soon as the fire was going was put on a pot of crushed coffee beans and water. They all had coffee, a can of beans each, and some fried bacon, thanks to Bo. Jeff posted the three hired cowboys to each take a take shift guarding the cattle till daylight. When the coffeepot was empty, Smitty and Bo rolled up in their blankets by the dying campfire. Jeff sat by the coals till after they grew cold before he slept.

At breakfast Bo remarked, “Firewood’s scarce in this part of the country, boys. We’ll have to cut back on our coffee makin’.”

Mack, the oldest one of the Fort Davis cowboys, remarked dryly, “You ain’t never cooked with chips, have you, Virginia?”

“You call me Virginia once more, and I’ll brain you with my skillet,” replied Bo.

“Sorry, saddle mate, I ’pologize to ya.”

“Now then, you mentioned chips? What’s chips?”

“Cow chips, buffalo chips, that’s what,” drawled the old cowboy.

“It still don’t explain to me what the heck a chip is, feller.”

“It’s dried cow pies and buffalo pies…you know…their pies of caca, that’s Mex. For shit, saddle mate.”

“You mean you can cook with that?”

“Shore ’nuff, iff’en it’s dried out chips. They won’t burn iff’en they’re fresh as well as hard to handle. Dried ’ens make a nice quick fire, burns hot. Us South Texas cowboys don’t never cook our coffee a using anythang else but chips. You wantin’ me to go and round up you some to use? I will, young friend, after I have my coffee, if you got a tote sack for me to be puttin’ ’em in,” Mack replied.

“I’d sure be obliged to you, Mack, if you would.”

“Fetch me a tote sack and as soon as I finish this coffee. I’ll be a scootin’ and brang ya back some.”

“Why does river water always make the best tasting coffee?” Bo asked.

“I don’t know that it does. Good old well water is plenty hard to beat,” replied Smitty.

“I agree, Smitty, but any camp coffee tastes good if the coffee maker doesn’t talk as much while he cooks the coffee,” remarked Jeff.

“Thanks, boss, I really ’preciate your compliments,” said Bo.

“Dang it, Jeff. This Southwest Texas sure is mighty purty country,” Bo remarked. “You reckon yer’s will look as good?”

Jeff laid his saddle down near Bo’s cook fire; he sat down and propped his left elbow on it and replied, “I hope so, my young friend. This land we’re camped on now looks mighty fine to me.”

Smitty had to agree. The land was spacious, almost treeless, yet lush with shin-high grasses that would guarantee to make cattle grow fast in no time. Jeff’s land, just over the next small rise, would have the same gentle, rolling hills. There was a hill and flat across the top. Mack said don’t ask him why, but the locals called that flat mesa Gun Barrel Hill.

That was his and where Jeff decided he’d build his ranch house. From that mesa, his land gently sloped all around. Toward the south was the Saber River, a gravel bed stream that was forty feet or so wide and usually no more than four feet deep at the deepest end. The river water was crystal clear and sweet to taste. Huge fish could always be seen swimming in it. Jeff was extremely glad he’d picked these sections. It was hard to imagine if any other ranchland around looked any better than his.

They’d lived out of their chuck wagon while four busy carpenters from Fort Davis, with three wagons stacked high with posts and lumber, began nailing together Jeff’s ranch. Jeff told ’em to build their bunkhouse first, plus two two-seat outhouses. Next, he wanted two round corrals, one for cows and one for horses, then the hay barn with an attached blacksmith shop. Jeff’s ranch house would be special and the last built. The JN Brand Ranch was taking shape. The beginning herd count was adequate for starting out. Their grass for cows was almost knee-high, the weather was warm at that time of the year in South Texas, and their rainfall was plentiful. The pregnant cows by then were swollen with their calves. They soon dropped a hundred and four calves, sixty heifers, and forty-four bull calves that late spring-early summer. The two JN bulls would be enjoying themselves, and they’d certainly earn their keep when the breeding time rolled around.