Cattle-Ranch to College Part 23

John looked up quickly and saw standing in the narrow doorway a man whom he rightly guessed to be Barney Madden. He was a man over thirty, of medium height, rather slight, wiry build, showing good, hard condition; his face, decorated with a brown mustache, was a good one--determination, courage, and an abundant sense of humor could be seen there. He had deep-set, blue-gray eyes, which could be both stern and merry.

"I'm looking for you, I guess," the youngster answered, after a moment's pause, "if you're Barney Madden. My name's Worth, John Worth, and Mr.

Baker sent me out here to help you range-ridin'."

"Sure, I'm Barney Madden. I'm plumb glad to see yer; you look like a good, husky kid, and will help me a lot, I hope. Put your horse in the dug-out yonder, then come back and help me get supper," and he pointed to a little, cave-like house built to shelter the horses of the range-riders in winter.

Soon the sorrel was contentedly munching hay in the warm stables with three or four other horses.

Returning to the shack, John found Barney on his knees blowing the fire vigorously.

"Well, kid, you'd better go down to the creek for some water." Barney spoke in a disjointed fashion, between puffs. "Can you cook?"

The youngster said he could a little.

"Well, suppose you try on this supper. I ain't no cook, never was; don't like it. If you'll take care of the eatin' outfit I'll be satisfied all right."

The supper over, Madden expressed his complete satisfaction, and so John was installed chief cook and head (also foot) of the commissary department.

The following morning his work as a cow-puncher began. At mining, sheep-ranching, and horse and mule herding he had served a full apprenticeship, and he now became a full-fledged cowboy. Each of his previous occupations had helped to fit him for the present undertaking.

Almost from his babyhood he could ride, and about the same time he learned to "throw the rope," as the act of casting the lariat is called, and by constant practice had grown more and more proficient.

The duties of the range-rider, as he soon learned, were to cover a certain territory (which in this case was that section which lay between Saffron and Buffalo creeks) to see that the different bunches of cattle did not get into trouble, or, in case they did get into difficulties, to rescue them. Each morning the two rose with the sun, and after a very simple toilet--to put on a hat and a pair of spurs sufficed sometimes--a breakfast of bacon, bread, and coffee was dispatched. Saddling their mounts was the next thing in order, and each day the horse that had been idle the day before was selected. This operation is easier to describe than to accomplish, for, as a rule, the cow pony has a strong dislike for the clinging saddle, and especially for the hind cinch--it interferes with his free breathing and grips him at a tender spot. When the horse has been led out and the fifty-pound (or more) saddle is thrown over his back, the fun begins; he prances around as if on hot iron, and a keen eye and quick foot are needed to keep out of reach of hoofs or teeth; at length, during an unguarded second, the flapping cinch is captured and brought under his belly in the twinkling of an eye; the strap on the other side is rove through the ring, and with a quick pull tightened; but the pony, who has been expecting this, takes a deep breath, and at the same time humps his back. If the rider is inexperienced and secures the strap when the pony is thus puffed up he will come to grief when he tries to mount, the saddle promptly slipping round as soon as he puts his weight on the stirrup, and the knowing horse empties his lungs and straightens his back. John was up to all such tricks, and when "Roany" (the sorrel's companion and the spare horse allotted to the young rider) blew himself up, he simply put his foot up against the pony's side and gave a tremendous and sudden heave.

It is a rather inconsiderate and humiliating method--for the horse.

Roany grunted protestingly; immediately his girth was reduced several inches and John made the cinch fast.

The horses saddled, the two riders went in opposite directions, visiting the well-known haunt of each bunch of cattle in the section of country committed to their care. In pleasant weather, when the feed was good and water plenty, this was by no means an irksome duty. The horse is fresh and full of life; the rider, exhilarated by the bracing air and swift motion, shouts aloud from pure joy at being alive. The day's circuit completed, he comes back to the shack, somewhat tired, but the possessor of an appet.i.te that would make a dyspeptic toiler in a city office still paler with envy.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A LITTLE BOX OF A CABIN IT WAS. (_Page 243._)]

But John began range-riding during the hardest season of the year, when keen, searching winds had to be faced, blizzards encountered, and work of the hardest, most depressing kind had to be done.

"By gum! this beats all," said Barney one morning, some months after John joined him. He got out of his bunk, and, walking over to the single window, looked out. "Snowin' yet. Here this thing's been goin' on fer ten days steady; gra.s.s all covered up, cattle near done, and horses worn out--and it's snowin' yet! Seem's if Providence was down on us," and Barney proceeded with his morning toilet, pulling on his boots and grumbling under his breath.

John had something of the same idea in his mind; he began to think all this terrible weather was punishment meted out to him for running away from home. For two weeks the two riders had been in the saddle fourteen hours a day, and the strain was beginning to tell on both men and beasts. This was the terrible winter of 1886-87, when many cattlemen were almost ruined.

"Come, kid; get a move on," said Barney rather wearily. "It's tough, but it's got to be done."

They tramped out into the blinding flurry of flakes and routed out their unwilling horses. There was no frisking, and no tricks to avoid saddling; the poor beasts stood resignedly and allowed their masters to put them into their bonds without a protest.

"So long," shouted John.

"S'long," returned the other.

And so they separated. John followed the frozen Saffron Creek. It was lined with brush which afforded some shelter for the half-starved cattle that were collected in compact bunches at different points for the sake of warmth. Six hundred head of cattle were thus scattered along the two creeks. Each of these John visited, and with shouts and blows urged them from the cover where otherwise they would stay--dazed, stupid, gradually growing weaker till they died in their tracks. Once in the open, they moved more briskly, b.u.t.ting and crowding each other till their blood got circulating again, and they took some interest in searching for the scanty gra.s.s revealed by their trampling hoofs.

This morning, after riding a half mile or so from the shack, John came upon a bunch of stock. He shouted at them and slapped those nearest with his hat; soon all were moving towards the open. All went well till a big snow bank was encountered; this the shivering cattle, weakened by hunger, refused to tackle, so John drove his horse into the white bank, and by floundering through two or three times a trail was made. Still the stock refused to go through; but at last, with much urging and pushing by Roany, breast to rump, three were forced to the other side and the others reluctantly followed. One old cow still remained, weak, wavering, her last calf sapping her vitality; back went John and Roany; the rope was uncoiled and the noose dropped over her horns. A couple of turns having been taken round the saddle horn, Roany scratched and tugged, the old cow struggled a bit, and in a jiffy the brave little horse "snaked" her through.

A little further on the same thing was done with another bunch.

From time to time, as he rode along, John saw queer mounds partly or wholly covered with snow: they were the cattle that had succ.u.mbed. Many more then living he knew would give up, try as he might and did to protect them.

Further on he noted a fresh victim, and as he drew near two gray, slinking forms left it.

"Hold on, Roany; we'll have to get a shot at those," and suiting the action to the word he pulled his steed up and drew his six-shooter. The wolves were moving off slowly, licking their b.l.o.o.d.y chops and snarling at the interruption of their feast, their heads turned back toward the boy, their teeth showing, their yellow eyes gleaming. _Crack_ went John's pistol, and one fell over kicking. The other bolted for cover.

_Crack_, _crack_, the shots rang out, and he too dropped. In a minute both wolves were skinned by making a cut along each leg and down the belly, and then with a strong pull yanking the pelt off. The legs were tied together and both skins hung over the branch of a nearby tree, the location being carefully noted. Then the boy rode on his melancholy task.

As the daylight began to wane, the effect of the hard day's work was felt by both horse and rider, and John looked forward to the time, but a couple of hours off now, when he would return to the warm shack and satisfy his already ravenous hunger. They were still many miles from shelter, and he knew that travelling must be difficult, if not dangerous.

"Come, Roany, old boy, brace up!" he called cheerily to his f.a.gged mount, giving him a friendly pat on the neck at the same time. "We've got to get home." And he touched him lightly with his quirt. The good horse responded bravely and floundered through the deep snow, emerging on a bare, wind-swept spot where he could make much better time. The pace was so good that John could almost feel in imagination the warm glow of the fire and smell the fragrance of frying bacon.

As they went on their way they reached a steep little hill, the sides of which were covered deep with snow; down this they plunged with ever-increasing speed. Suddenly Roany stopped, stopped so short, indeed, that John was thrown over his head into a bank of snow. As soon as might be he picked himself up, dug the snow out of his eyes, ears, and mouth, and looked to see what the trouble was. Roany was struggling violently.

John soon found that he had stepped into a deep badger hole, the sides and top of which, frozen hard, were unyielding, and held the poor beast's leg like a vise, twisting and breaking the joint badly. The boy saw at once that Roany would have to be killed; that there was no help for him. It would be a mercy to put him out of his misery, for he could feel him quivering, and his eyes bulged out with pain. It was a hazardous position for himself, but for the moment he forgot it in his distress for his horse.

"Roany, old boy, I've got to kill you," he said, feeling that he must justify his act--really one of mercy. "You'll freeze to death if I don't."

He drew his six-shooter from the holster, put the muzzle against the horse's forehead, then, turning his face away, pulled the trigger. A few convulsive struggles and Roany's sufferings were over.

John loosened the cinch, and with considerable difficulty pulled the saddle from under and hung it to a nearby poplar; the bridle was treated likewise; then he stood up and looked around him, wondering what he should do next.

It was no time for sentiment, so he gave his whole thought to the best way of reaching the shack. He was already tired and hungry; the wind was blowing the still falling snow so that it was blinding, and there were seven miles of rough country to cover before shelter could be reached.

John set his teeth, and, after giving a final glance at his faithful horse, he set out. This time, fortunately, he had but himself to think of and look out for, and if he could cover the distance before freezing all would be well. He struck off to the right, and, after floundering through drifts, sliding down steep places, and fighting the biting blast in the open, he came to the creek that ran past the shack: he had but to follow it. Hour after hour he toiled along, his body bathed with sweat, his hands, feet, and face icy cold. The snow blown in his eyes blinded him, hidden obstructions tripped him, and hunger took away his strength.

Late that night he stumbled through the door of the shack into the warmth and light.

Barney was wide awake and watching.

"By G.o.d! I'm glad you're in," he said, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him forward; then, as the lamp-light shone on him clearly, he turned him round and pushed him out again.

"Your face is white: it's frozen. Get snow on it, quick."

John thought he had had enough snow on him that day--face and all--to last him the rest of his life, but he submitted to the rough rubbing that Barney gave him without a word, and soon the chalky look gave way to the glow of red blood circulating freely.

He was thoroughly exhausted, but the food and fire prepared by his partner revived him somewhat, and he turned into his rough, hard bunk and slept like a hibernating bear.

When the sun came out bright and warm and the snow began to melt, the havoc wrought by the storm became manifest. Only the strongest cattle remained alive, and of these most were males. The survivors were weak and their bones almost punctured their worn-looking skins. In the more sheltered spots lay many once st.u.r.dy cows and heifers that later became a heap of whitened bones. Though the thaw revealed all these horrors, it also uncovered the herbage, and little by little the remaining animals began to gain strength and weight.

Now the range-riders were kept busy pulling the foolish ones out of big holes. Each day the various bunches of cattle were visited, and with discouraging frequency some of them would be found mired helplessly, weakened by their long fast and rendered crazy by fright; their struggles to get out of the sticky mud only sunk them more deeply. It now became the cowboy's duty to throw his rope over the mired beast's horns, make the other end fast to the saddle horn, then to urge the st.u.r.dy little cow-pony forward with whip and spur. The pony tugs, the cow struggles, and soon she is standing on _terra firma_, exhausted, indeed, but safe. This is hard work for the pony and its rider, to say nothing of the cause of all the trouble--which is looked upon merely as so much beef to be saved.

With steady spring weather came the opportunity to visit the home ranch, and John was glad enough to take advantage of it. It was a long time since he had seen Frank, and, of course, there was much to talk of. It was Sunday, in the forenoon, and work, for the time being, was slack.

Eight or ten cow-punchers were at the ranch and were amusing themselves with a little buckskin-colored horse. His viciousness had earned him the t.i.tle of "Outlaw"--that is, he was considered unbreakable.

He was in the corral, small of stature, and, to the uninitiated, innocent enough in appearance; but for all that he had just bucked off Greaser Tony, as good a rider as one could find in a long day's journey.

The cow-punchers sat on the fence and egged each other on to tackle the unconquerable little beast; such an exhibition was great sport to the looker-on, but of doubtful pleasure to the partic.i.p.ant.

"Try him, Billy Iron-legs," said one. "You can stick him."

"Try him yourself," responded Iron-legs. "You're lookin' for fun, and that breakfast you put away needs a little shakin' up."