Home Ranch (25 page)

“I can see how that would keep you going in a straight line,” I said, “but I still don't understand how you'd know when the wind changed as little as one point.”

“Watch your horse's mane; that'll tell you.”

Mr. Batchlett's sorrel was just about worn out, and an hour's rest and grazing didn't help him much. He was sluggish on his feet, his wind was bad, and he got spraddle-legged if Mr. Batchlett put him into a hard run. Blueboy seemed as strong as he had been before the dust storm. He didn't fight me much, and answered the reins pretty well, but he wasn't much good with cattle. He acted as if he hated them, and when I'd try to cut an animal out of a bunch, he'd charge in like a wild stallion, raking in all directions with his bared teeth.

It was nearly sundown before we had our cattle sorted out from the range stock and driven back to Middle Rush Creek, but it didn't make any difference. The creek had turned from a dry ribbon of sand to a brown, raging river, that frothed and boiled through the cottonwoods along its banks.

The ten cattle we'd rounded up along the creek that morning were still bunched, and had grazed their way half a mile to the north. The creek was too high and fast to ford, so there was nothing to do but to throw the ten in with the twenty-three we found on the prairie, and go into night camp. With the cattle half-starved and weary from the dust storm, there wasn't much work to herding them. I kept watch while Mr. Batchlett slept three or four hours, then he took over for the rest of the night.

By morning the Middle Rush was low enough to ford, and we had no trouble in finding the twelve cattle we'd left on the South branch. The drive from there to the Big Horse was slow, because we had to range far out in both directions to be sure we didn't miss any of our stock. When we reached Big Horse Creek in the late afternoon we were driving fifty-seven cattle—all in pretty fair shape—and there was only one unaccounted for. We might have missed a living one somewhere, or one might have drifted far out and died in the storm.

Mr. Batchlett's sorrel was hardly able to cover the last few miles to our old camp, but Blueboy seemed none the worse for the storm and hard work. The full day and a half of rest and grazing had done wonders for the horse string. Even old Pinch was his ornery, crabby self again.

There was no sense in trying to start out until the sorrel had a night's rest and grazing, so we spent the rest of the day loafing, while Mr. Batchlett changed his plans for the trip. “No use in us tryin' to make the Purgatory after losing two days,” he told me. “I said we'd be back to the home ranch by a week come Saturday, and I aim to be there. Reckon we'll follow the Big Horse till we sight Nero Hill, then cut south to hit the valley east of Rocky Ford. Ought to be some good tradin' up along the valley. If we've made our trades by the time we hit the mouth of Black Squirrel Creek—and if there's water in it—we'll trail up it towards the home place. I'm sure sorry I fetched you along on so rough a trip!”

“I'm not a bit sorry!” I told him. “I'm only sorry we lost thirteen head of stock.”

“Turn of the cards!” Mr. Batchlett said. “No man can hope to draw aces every time, and if them range cattle we seen are anything to go by, we might still hold a winnin' hand. That kind o' herd needs improvin', and young White Face bulls ought to be pretty good trade stock. Did you take note that we didn't lose a single bull?”

Mr. Batchlett was as right about the demand for White Face bulls as he had been about where to find them in the dust storm. Before we'd reached the Arkansas Valley, he'd traded fifteen of them for fifty head of range steers, and he sold the steers for cash at Rocky Ford.

Of course, I didn't have anything to do with the trading, but Mr. Batchlett went to every ranch we passed in the valley. I'd hold the herd while he was gone, and when he came back he'd usually have the rancher and a couple of milk cows with him. Sometimes they'd haggle and talk for an hour or two before the deal was made, and sometimes Mr. Batchlett would give a few dollars to boot, but the rancher always left his cows and drove back one of our bulls or a couple of steers.

I had to hold the herd for three or four hours while Mr. Batchlett was selling the range steers in Rocky Ford. But after he came back I told him I needed to ride into town for half an hour. I'd brought my sixty cents with me, and fifty-five of it was money that Hazel had won from me the first day we hunted cows and calves on the home ranch.

Mr. Batchlett didn't ask me why I wanted to go into town, but told me to take my time. I didn't need very much time, because I knew what I wanted. The first store I went into had some real nice calfskin gloves, with long gauntlets that had big red stars sewed on them. There was a pair that I thought would be just about Hazel's size, but they were sixty-five cents. When I said I guessed I'd have to look at something else because they cost too much for me, the man in the store asked, “How much did you aim to spend, Sonny?”

“Sixty cents,” I told him; “that's all I've got.”

“Want 'em for your best girl?” he asked.

“Well—” I said, “I haven't got a best girl—but—for a girl—she's my best friend.”

While he listened, the man began wrapping up the gloves, as if I'd said I'd take them. “If she was your best girl, they'd be four bits,” he told me, “but bein' she's only your best girl
friend
they'll cost you sixty cents.”

I didn't have any saddle bags, so I carried the gloves back inside my shirt, but that night I stowed them in my war sack.

Mr. Batchlett found the trading good all the way up the valley, and before we reached the mouth of the Black Squirrel, he'd traded what was left of our young stock for forty-seven milk cows. The creek had water in it until we were nearly to the place where we'd crossed on our way east, and from there we turned west toward the home ranch.

After the dust storm, Blueboy wasn't of any use for herding, because he hated cattle too much. But Pinch and Lady held up in better shape than either Mr. Batchlett or I expected. By early twilight on Saturday we came in sight of the home ranch, and Mr. Bendt and Hazel rode out to meet us.

Hazel didn't say she was glad to see me back, and I didn't tell her I was glad to see her either. I didn't even give her the gloves until after Sunday School the next day.

24

Four-Flush

W
HEN
Mr. Batchlett and I got back to the home ranch, we found Zeb and Sid there ahead of us. They'd come in during the afternoon, both had missed the dust storm, and they'd had pretty good luck trading—but Sid wasn't happy. Trinidad had taken his guitar to the chuckhouse at suppertime. He was still there, playing and singing, when Mr. Batchlett and I went in to eat. I didn't like Trinidad any better than I had from the first minute I saw him, but he could really sing and play that guitar—and it was easy to see that Jenny liked to listen to him.

Sid and I sat on the bunkhouse steps for a long time after the other men turned in, but Trinidad was still at the chuckhouse, playing and singing to Jenny and Mrs. Bendt. I tried to talk to Sid, and tell him about the dust storm and the gloves I'd bought for Hazel, but I don't think he heard a word I said. He just sat looking glum until the moon rose. Then he got up, and said, “Might as leave turn in, I reckon. With the moon up, that coyote'll prob'ly howl all night.”

It was lucky that Mr. Batchlett decided not to go all the way to the Purgatory, and that we got back to the home ranch Saturday night. Sunday noontime, when we were cutting out trail herds for the next trips, the station agent from Castle Rock rode in on a lathered horse. He brought a telegram, saying that Mrs. Batchlett was very sick, and that Mr. Batchlett had to get to Littleton as fast as he could. The agent had wired to have the one o'clock Santa Fé express stop at The Monument, and had nearly run his horse to death so Mr. Batchlett would have time to make it.

I'd seen men catch a fresh horse and change saddles fast, but I never saw one do it as fast as Mr. Batchlett did that Sunday. We could all see that he was worried and scared, but he didn't lose his head a bit. As he cinched his saddle onto Starlight, he called to Mr. Bendt: “Send Sid into the west end of the Arkansas Valley! Let Zeb work between The Springs and Pueblo! If I ain't back by Tuesday noon, turn my herd back to grass! I'll get word to you!” Then he flipped into his saddle and raced away to the east.

Maybe it was Mrs. Batchlett's being sick, or Trinidad's singing, but everybody seemed touchy and irritable that Sunday afternoon. Twice, Sid and Trinidad ran their horses together when they were taking away the trade cattle that Clay and I cut from the big herd. Even Zeb lost his temper. He told Hank to “Shut up,” when he was yelling at me for being slow in cutting out a steer.

After dinner Hazel and I rode out to the secret spring, but she was just about as ornery as the men. She said she liked the gloves I'd brought her, and that they were beautiful, but two minutes later she called me a fool for spending every cent I had and going broke. I'd had about all the riding I wanted in the last couple of weeks, and would have liked to stay at the spring and rest a little while, but Hazel couldn't sit still a minute. She wanted me to ride back and ask her father if we could practice the somersault trick. Then, when he said we couldn't, she got peeved—but at me instead of him—and went to the house, where Trinidad was playing his guitar and singing for Jenny and the other girls.

When I went to the bunkhouse, Sid was mooning around like a sick calf, and he kept it up all afternoon. He wouldn't talk, and three different times he got his pieces of leather out to work on, but he'd only fiddle with them a few minutes, then put them back into his war sack. But he must have found a chance to talk to Jenny before the rest of us went to the chuckhouse for supper. Anyways, he waited at the kitchen door after we'd eaten, and when the dishes were done, Jenny came out and went for a walk with him.

I tried to write a letter to Mother after supper, but all I could think of was our trip, and I knew she'd worry if I told her about that. I spoiled two or three pieces of paper, but, with the men all sitting around glum and working on their gear, I couldn't write anything worth mailing, so I gave it up and turned in early. I think I'd drowsed off once or twice before I heard Sid coming toward the bunkhouse, whistling like a meadow lark. A minute later, I thought we were going to have a free-for-all fight.

Sid was hardly through the bunkhouse doorway when Trinidad looked up from the bridle he was polishing, and told him, “Stay away from that little heifer, Redhead! I'm runnin' my brand on her!”

Sid was as feisty as a little terrier, and yipped right back, “You're workin' with a cold iron, Big Boy! I don't reckon your brand'll take!”

Trinidad's voice had sounded real mean when he told Sid to stay away from Jenny, but, except for looking up, he hadn't made a move. He came up like a wild stallion when Sid answered him. Before I could do any more than catch my breath, he'd leaped to his feet and swung the bridle, with its heavy bit, above his head. It would have caught Sid right across the face if Zeb hadn't grabbed it in mid-air.

Trinidad whirled at him with a fist drawn back, and hissed, “Stay out of this,
Old Man!
”

When Zeb grabbed the bridle, it jerked out of Trinidad's hand and dropped to the floor. As Trinidad whirled toward him, Zeb didn't say a word or make any quick move, but just stood there—crouched a bit, and with his arms hanging loose at his sides. Before Trinidad could make a move, Tom and Ned grabbed his arms and pulled them behind him. He kicked and tried to jerk away for a minute, then stuck out his jaw at Sid, and rasped slowly, “You heard me! I won't be tellin' you again, Redhead!”

I don't think Sid weighed more than half as much as Trinidad, but he didn't scare worth a dime. He set himself, with his fists up and his chin tucked in behind his left shoulder. “Turn him loose!” he told Tom and Ned. “He's got a four-flush, and he's yella to the liver!”

Trinidad made a few more jerks, as if he were trying to pull away, but it didn't seem to me that he was trying very hard. And when Tom told him he'd break his arm if he didn't behave, he just said, “All right! All right! I know when I'm bein' dealt to out of a stacked deck! Next time I'll play with my own cards!” Then, when they let go of him, he went back to polishing his bridle.

I was up before dawn to help Sid and Zeb get away on their trips. Until Sid left, he and Trinidad walked around stiff-legged—the way dogs do when neither of them quite dares to fight, but both want to look as if they did. Jenny didn't come to the chuckhouse at breakfast, and I think Mr. Bendt knew there'd been trouble. He always managed to be around when Sid and Trinidad were near each other.

Mr. Batchlett came back to the home ranch some time Monday night. I didn't hear him come into the bunkhouse, but when I woke up at dawn Tuesday, he was dressing. The first thing, I asked him how Mrs. Batchlett was. “Out of danger,” he told me. “Out of danger, but not too good! Had Doc Crysler worried Sunday mornin'! Your maw's goin' to look after her for the next few days. Told her you was doin' fine, but I didn't say nothin' about the dust storm. Reckoned you could tell her if you had a mind to.”

“I was going to write Sunday,” I told him, as I pulled on my overalls, “but I was afraid she might worry. Will we get started away early this morning?”

Mr. Batchlett nodded, but said, “Reckon I'll be takin' Tom along—not that you didn't do as good as any man could, but I aim to work close around Pueblo for the next couple of weeks. Got to be where Doc can get word to me in a hurry—aim to sleep in town and leave Tom with the herd nights. Watt's got plenty for you to do right here on the home ranch—calves ain't been fetched in for three weeks—lot of cuttin' and sortin' to be done.”