Читать книгу So Far from Spring - Peggy Simson Curry - Страница 12

CHAPTER V

September. A few early snows had dusted the peaks with white. The cattle began their slow drift to lower country, wandering along the creeks, moving through the open gates into the meadows and onto the flats. It was an inevitable and unhurried homecoming.

The lush green feed of summer range was now cured and had a greenish-brown color. This was the feed that hardened the fat on cattle and put them in shape for the long drive to shipping points. The hair on the cattle was long and in bloom, shining darkly as though it had been oiled, for maturity came early in the high country where any summer night might carry the breath of snow.

By the middle of the month it was roundup time at the Red Hill Ranch. On a clear, still morning, before daylight, Kelsey sat at breakfast with Monte Maguire, Jake, and the other punchers. Outside the yard fence other cowpokes were gathered around the chuck wagon of the Big C outfit from Wyoming, for the Big C ranch cattle drifted onto the summer ranges of the Park. In turn, some Park cattle made their way to the grazing grounds of the Big C. In the meadow below the ranch house the Big C cavvy mingled with the horses of Monte Maguire’s riders, feeding on the short second crop of grass that came up following the haying season.

“You got any chaps?” Monte looked at Kelsey, the yellow lamplight shining on the tan of her face.

It was the way she always threw a question at a man, he thought, giving him no warning.

“There’s an old pair of angoras in the bunkhouse,” Jake said. “I don’t wear angoras any more. Like the batwing leather ones better.”

Tommy Cameron frowned. “What would he want with a pair of fuzzy pants? They’d look like hell on a man fixing fence. Our fences gotta be tight for the weaning.”

“Any fool can fix fence,” Monte said. “I want him to learn cow business.”

Kelsey’s heart quickened with pleasure. Then he saw the red come up in Tommy’s face. “It’s your money,” Tommy said to Monte. “If you want to throw it away so’s a hired man can play cowpoke it’s no skin off my nose.”

“I don’t throw money away,” Monte said curtly. “I invest it.” She pushed back her chair and stood before the kitchen stove, methodically rolling a cigarette. The men looked down at their plates. It was quiet in the kitchen. Then the still morning was broken by the clear sound of bells.

“Wrangler’s bringin’ in the cavvy,” Jake said. He smiled at Kelsey. “Always bell a few horses so’s the wrangler can find ’em in the dark. You come to the bunkhouse and we’ll try those chaps. I got an old pair of boots you can have. What about a saddle?”

Kelsey turned to Tommy. Here was a man with a fine saddle, and never using it, for Tommy ran the ranch and let the cowboys handle the cattle. Kelsey wet his lips. “I’d appreciate it—” he began.

Tommy’s fork paused midway between the plate and his mouth. He gave Kelsey a long, cold look and then went on eating his breakfast.

Kelsey’s face burned. Then he heard Hilder speaking. “Yust take mine,” Hilder said. “Is not so fancy, but it will do. You take it, Kelsey, and welcome to it.”

Light was breaking when Kelsey left the bunkhouse with Jake. He felt happy in the worn yellow angora chaps and the run-over boots. There was excitement in him as they walked past the Big C chuck wagon, where the air smelled of smoke and bacon and a few punchers lingered over an extra cup of coffee.

At the corral men were already flipping the wide loops of their lariats over the heads of milling horses. Beyond the tossing heads and the clouds of dust a faint streak of red lay in the eastern sky.

“Cowpokes take off in pairs to gather cattle,” Jake said. “That way a man can ride a green colt by snubbin’ him to the saddle horn of the other fella, who’s ridin’ a settled-down horse. If a horse gets used to goin’ along beside another horse, he soon quiets. Each rider’s got a string of six or seven saddle horses, and he’s got to break out two or three colts every year to keep his string in top shape.”

As Jake said this Kelsey saw two punchers mounting horses outside the corral. The horses went wild, rearing up to paw the air and then come down hard, ducking their heads between their front legs and humping their backs.

“No snubbin’ for them,” Jake said, chuckling. “They’re gonna do it the hard way. You always see a few fellas ridin’ their damnedest come roundup time.”

As they rode onto the flats the sunrise met them, drenching the white-tipped west peaks in red. And the stillness held, with no wind rising up from the floor of the Park to nag at them in their riding. Cowboys from neighboring ranches came across the gray land, some already pushing a few cattle before them.

“Gatherin’ goin’ on all over the flats this mornin’,” Jake said. “East cattlemen are working the east side; south-end ranchers are ridin’ the south flats of the Park. We work the north and northwest.”

All morning he rode with Jake, giving the cowpony its head, letting it move around the straying cows and calves they found in the ravines and on ridges of Independence Mountain. By early afternoon a milling, bawling herd of cattle was bunched against an old fence on the flats, and ranchers cut out their own and hazed them toward their home places. Dust and the smell of crushed sagebrush filled the air.

“They don’t need to look too close for brands,” Jake said, sitting easily in the saddle at the edge of the herd. “If you notice, Kelsey, you’ll see the big outfits got other marks to go by. Some of ’em got ear marks and some got wattles. Wattle’s a small piece of hide that’s been cut and let hang loose on the animal. You can see ’em danglin’ on jaws or necks or briskets. Monte don’t use no wattles. She’s got an ear mark besides her brand. Swallow-fork ear mark is what Monte uses—a V on the end of each ear. We ear-mark ’em when we brand. All big outfits like to use ear marks. Makes it easier to cut out their cattle when the hair’s long and brands get hard to see.”

Monte, who had ridden up, rolled a cigarette and said, “I don’t need any mark to tell my cattle from the rest of ’em. Maybe all cattle look alike to a greenhorn like you, Kelsey, but those of us who breed cattle try to get a certain type. We’ve all got our own ideas about the kind of bulls we want, and the kind of calves. After you been in the business for years, your cattle stand out from the other fella’s cattle. Hell, I can look at that stuff they got bunched and tell you every cow that’s mine without giving a thought to brand or ear mark. And Jake’s just as good.”

Jake was pleased but tried to look modest and said, “I ain’t quite that good, Monte.”

“Well, damn near it.” She shifted in the saddle, looked at Kelsey, her eyes narrowed to cool blue slits in the cigarette smoke, and added, “We figure to ship while the bloom’s still on. Mostly we start the drive to Laramie around the first of October.”

“There’s a steer from the Davis outfit in the south end,” Jake said, pointing. “He sure enough drifted from his home range. Musta come fifty miles.”

“Well, we’ll work the flats today, and when we have the field roundup tomorrow we’ll kick anything that don’t belong to us toward Walden, have the jackpot for unclaimed stuff there, as usual, and turn those mavericks over to the brand inspector for him to sell.”

“If nobody gets a chance to claim them mavericks and slip ’em into his herd,” Jake said, grinning.

“Nobody’ll get the chance,” Monte said. “We got too many sharp cowmen from different outfits. Nobody’s gonna lay claim to an unmarked calf and get away with it.”

In the early dusk Kelsey and Monte and Jake rode toward the Red Hill Ranch. Before them and behind them riders from the Big C slumped in their saddles, quiet coming over them now that the day’s work was over and the long night was ahead. For Kelsey the free, wonderful day of gathering cattle had ended too soon. He wished that he might be beginning all over again, with the horse under him, the sunrise in his eyes, and the wide gray plains ahead.

Weariness settled on him at the supper table, but after eating he went to the bunkhouse, where the punchers had gathered; some were playing poker, and others rehearsing in detail this roundup and other roundups.

“It was easier gatherin’ than last year.”

“Maybe. I sure hope I make the drive to Laramie this time. I ain’t been there since last year. Wonder what’s new at Corinthia’s place.”

“It won’t be new; it’ll just seem that way to you.”

“Say.” Jake stirred from his customary place in front of the stove. “Remember the time old Frank Blutcher was with us when we shipped that trainload of steers to Omaha? We were all in the caboose, waitin’ for the train to start, and this girl comes in sellin’ The War Cry. We all gave her a buck. She hit us just right. Then old Frank, he follows her out of the caboose. A little later he comes back with his face all scratched to hell.”

The men burst into laughter. “He oughta known better than try to make a Salvation Army girl.”

“Well,” Jake said softly, “you never can tell about a woman until you try. Wonder what happened to old Frank?”

“He went to Texas. Said he couldn’t take cold country no longer.”

A momentary silence fell over the men. From the poker table came the clink-clank of silver and chips. “Don’t any son-of-a-bitch check a cinch into me. What you so proud of, son?”

“Whores over fours. Can you beat ’em?”

“Shucks, I only got treys over deuces. Shake out something, Hank. I want to peek at a good hole card.”

A Big C puncher raised up from the tarpaulin-covered bunk where he had been half asleep. “Say, that little buckskin I was ridin’ threw me higher than a kite up in Ruby Gulch on Independence Mountain today.”

“How come?”

“Slim and I run onto a black bear in the strip of willows at the spring below the aspen patch. We tried to rope him. Every time I got ready to spill a loop on him, my horse would jump sideways. He finally spun away, and I was usin’ the spurs on him when he flipped his tail over the rope. Jesus! I didn’t have a chance. He tossed me halfway to heaven. Then he bucked all the way to the willows, with me tearin’ along right behind him. A fella can run like hell when he’s on foot and thinkin’ a bear is about to snort in his flank with every jump.”

“I’d like to ’a seen it. Your horse was lucky he didn’t bust a leg among all them prairie-dog holes.”

“Most of our punchers was wearin’ their forty-fives. I could have shot him. Y’know, Jake, you oughta carry a gun when you’re ridin’ rough country. If a good horse breaks his leg, only kind thing a man can do is shoot him.”

Jake nodded. “I know, but I just don’t take to packin’ pistols. A man should, for if he gets throwed and hung in the stirrup, havin’ a gun to kill a horse might be the thing would save his life. But I guess I’ll go on takin’ my chances with myself and my horses. I figure the only men who oughta pack guns are the men who really know how to handle ’em. Y’know, when the West opened up and wagons was crossin’ to California and Oregon, they had more damn fools kill people by accident just because men had guns and didn’t know how to use ’em. Hell, you’re always hearin’ about Indians killin’ people on wagon trains, but you don’t hear much about people killin’ each other because they got careless with guns or was plumb ignorant about usin’ them.”

Again there was a lull in conversation. No sound came from the poker table, where the men held their cards close, studying them carefully.

Jake yawned. “Must be a flock of full houses and flushes out in that hand of draw. Well, boys, tomorrow we do the field roundup here, cut the stuff for shippin’, and any strays that go into the jackpot. Suppose the Big C figures on shippin’ about next week.”

“Yep. More ridin’. A man spends half his life in the saddle.”

“Far as I’m concerned,” Jake murmured, “it’s as good a place to spend it as any.”

Kelsey moved away from the stove, into the frosty fall night. He walked slowly down the worn path to the ranch house and stood for a moment, looking up at the stars. They were big and close and very bright. He thought of Prim and of the harbor, where the night sky was soft and the sound of the sea was always with a man.

The yard gate creaked, and he saw Monte Maguire walking toward him. She came to stand beside him, saying nothing, looking out across the land. He wondered what thoughts ran in her mind. Did she think only of cattle on a night like this—or of the man who had been her husband? Did the enormous silence of the world here, so close to the sky, make her lonely; was a part of her crying for things the mind could never define?

She turned her head and looked at him, and he knew she tried to see into his face. His heart suddenly felt big and crowding to his throat. Then, quickly, she brushed past him and went into the house.