Home Ranch (3 page)

About the sixth time Hank scattered a bunch of cows for me I was so mad that I rode back to the herd and left him to round them up alone. It was an hour before I heard his voice again. He was way over on Sid's side of the herd then, and I never saw anything more of him till we got to the ranch.

I was so busy that afternoon that I lost all track of time or moving ahead until the sun went down. Then I noticed that the front range of the mountains was just above us. It was deep twilight when we topped the next hill, and three or four yellow sparks of light showed in the valley below. Those lights must have looked as good to the cows as they did to me. There was a change in the sound of their lowing, and they didn't try to scatter any more. Even the fattest and laziest raised their heads and quickened their pace.

It wasn't until the last cow was in the corral and the gate closed that I realized how tired I was. And I'd worked Lady so hard she stood with her legs spraddled and her head down. We'd done the best we could, but I knew it hadn't been very good. I was thinking about it as I climbed out of the saddle and began loosening the cinch. Then I heard Hank shout, “By dogies, Batch, that there kid you got ain't worth a tinker! Left a whole parcel o' critters get a-past him, then run off and left me to round 'em up alone. Like to never got 'em fetched back. By dogies, when I was . . .”

“Yeah, I noticed,” was all Mr. Batchlett said.

He came past when I was pulling the saddle off Lady, gave me a slap on the seat of the pants, and said, “You done all right for your first time in brush country. Put your mare in the horse corral over there; there's feed in the rack. Grub'll be ready by the time you get washed up; bunkhouse is yonder.”

I went to the bunkhouse as soon as I'd taken care of Lady, but I didn't wash up, or even take off my spurs and chaps. I was so tired I was seeing double and was a bit dizzy, so I thought I'd lie down on an empty bunk for a few minutes before I washed. When I woke up it was morning.

3

I Seen You Before

T
HE SUN
had just risen and was streaming in through the bunkhouse doorway when I woke up that first morning at Batchlett's home ranch. For a minute I didn't know where I was, then I saw Sid and remembered, but thought I must still be dreaming. He was wearing a white shirt, creased pants and new boots, and was shaving at a washstand in the corner.

I knew it was Sunday morning, and thought Sid must be getting ready for church, but I couldn't understand where he'd got his good clothes. He wasn't lugging anything when we left the chuckwagon the afternoon before.

I was lying there trying to figure it out when Sid spied me in the mirror, and sang out, “By jiggers, Little Britches, you sure ripped off a heap of shingles last night! Hope you don't snore that-a-way 'ceptin' when you're plumb beat out. Sounded like a lost hooty owl in a blizzard. Jenny Wren's got the flapjacks comin' up; you'd best to rise and shine.”

I swung my feet out onto the floor, sat up, and asked, “You going to church this morning?”

“Shucks, no!” he said. “Ain't no church closer'n Castle Rock or The Springs—and there's plenty room for worshipin' right close to home. Ain't a man got a right to get slicked up without he's goin' to church?”

None of the cowhands I'd ever worked with got dressed up unless they were going to town, but I was more interested in how Sid got dressed up than why. “Sure, he's got a right to,” I said, “but what I can't figure out is how you brought your good clothes and razor along. I didn't see any saddle bags on your rig when we left the chuckwagon.”

“Come to think about it, there wasn't,” he said.

“Then how did you get your things out here?” I asked.

“Oh, a little bird flowed out here with my war sack bright and early this mornin'.”

“Hmm, you couldn't have had much sleep,” I said. “It must be twenty miles to where we left the wagon and back.”

“Didn't reckon a man could sleep in late with you takin' on like a sick calf, did you? If you knowed as much about this here layout as what I do, you'd shake a leg and get slicked up a mite 'fore we go to the chuckhouse for flapjacks. Jenny Wren ain't the only bird in this bush.”

I couldn't do much about getting slicked up, but I took off my chaps and spurs, washed my face and hands, and combed my hair. Before we'd been in the chuckhouse five minutes, I began to understand why Sid had ridden all the way to the chuckwagon to get his good clothes—and why he told me I'd get slicked up if I knew as much about the layout as he did.

On the Y-B and most of the other big ranches, the chuckhouse was a separate building, with its own kitchen and a man cook, but it wasn't that way at Batchlett's ranch. Our chuckhouse was a good-sized log room, built onto the back of the house. It had a big fireplace, with three easy chairs and a couple of card tables around it. Down the middle of the room there was an oilcloth-covered table, long enough for twenty or more places, with chairs instead of benches. Opposite the fireplace there was a doorway that connected with the main kitchen of the house.

When Sid and I came in there were eight or ten men, in bib overalls and blue jumpers, sitting at the end of the table nearest us. Separated from them, at the end nearest the kitchen, were Mr. Batchlett, Zeb, Hank, three men I hadn't seen before, and a boy. “Here he is now!” Mr. Batchlett called out. “Come on over here, Little Britches, and meet the folks! By dang, you sure hit the bunk in a hurry last night. How you makin' it? ‘Bout ready for some chuck?”

“Fine,” I said, as I walked around the table to him. “I didn't know how tired I was until we got here last night, and I didn't know how hungry I was till right now.”

“Betcha my life you're hungry,” a big man across the table laughed. “I tried eatin' some of Hank Bevin's chuck a couple of years back. Sit in! Sit in! Grub's on the fire.”

“By dogies, Watt,” Hank shouted, “give me a parcel o' good dry prairie chips an' . . .”

Mr. Batchlett didn't let him get any further. “This is Watt Bendt,” he said; “he's ranch boss. And next is Kenny and Ned and Tom. The boys down yonder are the dairymen.”

Ned and Tom were just ordinary cowhands, in their early thirties, but Kenny looked to be about five years old. He was sitting up as straight as a prairie dog beside his father, and watching me with bright blue eyes. “I seen you before,” he chirped as soon as Mr. Batchlett had finished. “Hazel cut your pi'cure out of the paper.”

I knew it must have been the picture that was in the Denver paper, the time Hi Beckman and I won the trick-riding contest at the Littleton roundup. It wasn't a very good one, because my hat shaded my face so much it was mostly black. I was just going to tell Kenny so when a voice from the kitchen doorway snapped, “I did not either! It just happened to be on the back of an old ad I cut out.”

I had to look around Mr. Batchlett to see who was talking, and then I wasn't too sure. Four girls were standing in the doorway, and all but one of them were looking right at me. That one was nearly as tall as I, had long reddish braids that hung down in front of her shoulders, a snubby nose, and a million freckles. The others ran down in stair steps, to one who looked to be about three.

“Well,” I said, “it wasn't a very good picture anyway.”

“I don't know! I didn't hardly look at it!” the tallest one said sharply.

“You did too, Hazel!” the next tallest squealed. “You stuck it up on . . .”

“I did not!” Hazel snapped, and ducked back into the kitchen without ever looking at me.

I was just turning back to the table when I heard a crisp, “Toot-toot! Gangway!” from the kitchen. When I looked around again, one of the prettiest girls I ever saw was coming through the doorway. She must have been about twenty or twenty-one, and not more than five feet tall, with eyes just like Kenny's, and honey-colored wavy hair piled high on her head. She was wearing high-heeled shoes, with a little white apron over a pink calico dress, and carrying a big plate of steaming flapjacks. Every move she made was quick and perky—like a sparrow's.

As I watched her, Sid sang out, “Hi, Jenny Wren!”

“Hi, everybody,” she said as she put the plate of flapjacks down. “You'd better light right into these while they're hot; there's another batch on the stove.” Then she looked at me and said, “So you're Little Britches?”

“That's what they call me, Miss Wren,” I said, “but my name's Ralph Moody.”

Everybody started laughing, even Jenny. Then she hugged her arm around my neck for half a second, and said, “Well, it's only this runty little redhead that calls me Jenny Wren. My name's Jenny Warren, and I teach school at Castle Rock. I saw you ride in the Littleton roundup last summer and the year before. You haven't grown an inch, have you?”

“Yes, Miss Warren,” I said, “I've grown nearly two inches.”

“I'm Miss Warren only in school,” she told me, “and school's out until after Labor Day. Here, I'm Jenny.”

That first plate of flapjacks didn't last more than five minutes, and it was Mrs. Bendt who brought in the next plateful. She was Jenny's sister, but they didn't look or act very much alike. She was quite a little older, taller, thinner, and had straight ash-colored hair, with sort of faded blue eyes. She looked tired, and her voice was kind of sharp.

When she set the plate down, Mr. Batchlett said, “Helen, this is Little Britches, the boy I was tellin' you about.”

Mrs. Bendt looked at me without a word, then said, “Batch, you ain't goin' to take that little boy out with the trading crews, are you? Why, he can't be no older'n Hazel!”

Mr. Batchlett winked at me and said, “He's older'n you think. He's worked cattle a couple of summers; he'll make out all right.”

“Well, I'd never let him do it if he was a boy of mine! Thank the Lord I had mostly girls, or Watt would be trying to make cowhands out of 'em a'ready.”

I poured more syrup on my flapjacks and thanked the Lord that I wasn't a boy of hers. Mother was scary enough about my working around horses and cattle, but she'd never said I couldn't do it.

After the flapjacks, Jenny brought in a big platter of fried eggs, and sausage cakes, and fried potatoes, and hot biscuits. I ate until I was ready to pop, and Kenny ate almost as much as I did. Only his head and shoulders came above the top of the table, but he was trying as hard as he could to be a man. He'd pound his knife handle on the table and snap out: “Pass the spuds! Pass the bread! Pass the meat!” Once he looked over at me and said, “Betcha my life my burro can do more tricks than your old mare.”

“Lady can't do many tricks,” I told him. “My trick horse was a blue roan, named Sky High. He didn't belong to me, but to the Y-B ranch where I used to work.”

“Betcha my life my burro could beat him! Betcha my life you can't ride Jack!”

Hank was telling some long-winded story about the way he used to ride horses, but Mr. Batchlett pushed his chair back and said, “Well, it's time we was gettin' at it. Watt, how 'bout you and me riding out to look over the cow stuff while the boys round up the saddle stock? I want them that's going to be working cattle to pick their summer string today, then we'll put the rest of the bunch up on the mountain ranch. Need to save all the grass on the home place for cows.”

He looked around at the men and went on, “I want every man to have a fair shake at the horses, so Watt and I'll pick right along with you. We'll pick in go-rounds; no changing your minds after you've made your pick. Hank, you and Zeb can go haul in the chuckwagon. Sid, you and Little Britches can go along with Ned and Tom to round up the saddle stock.”

All through breakfast Sid had been trying to get Jenny to talk to him. She hadn't paid any more attention than if he'd been a chipmunk chattering, but once she made his face redder than a thornberry when she asked me, “Does this other little boy go to school with you?”

Zeb and Hank saddled up to go for the chuckwagon when we left the chuckhouse, but Sid had to go and change into his working clothes. I went to the bunkhouse with him, to get my chaps and spurs. He was a little bit grumpy, and grumbled at me, “Daggone you, Little Britches! You didn't have to let on to Jenny Wren that I hightailed down to the chuckwagon to get my glad rags this mornin'. You put in your time gettin' Hazel to hug you 'round the neck; that little Jenny Wren's too growed-up for you.”

I hadn't liked it too well when Jenny hugged me right there at the table, and I didn't like Sid's joshing me about Hazel. I guess I was as grumpy as he, and said, “I didn't come out here to get hugged; I came to work cattle.” Then I strapped on my spurs and went to saddle Lady, so I could look around a little before we went to bring in the remuda.

Lady was as well rested as I when I tossed my saddle onto her that Sunday morning, but she wasn't any more used than I to the kind of riding we were going to be doing. We'd always worked in prairie country where she could take and hold a steady gait, and we could see where we were going. It wasn't that way at Batchlett's ranch. The home place was tucked right up against the front range of the Rockies, and it seemed as if they had pushed the land out and crumpled it up into knolls, gulches, arroyos and mesas. There was hardly a place where a horse could get a straight run of a quarter mile. On the high ground clumps of scrub oak stood so thick we could seldom see a hundred yards ahead, and along the creek beds the trails wound through thickets of willow and alder. It made perfect summer shade and winter shelter for cattle, but it made the work of a prairie horse and cowhand a nightmare.

It wasn't only in the lay of the land that Batchlett's home ranch was different from others. At the Y-B, or any of the prairie ranches where I'd worked before, the buildings—except for the house, where the help never went—didn't amount to much. There was just a bunkhouse, chuckhouse, a few corrals, and a barn that was mostly saddle shop and forge. Beef cattle were born, grazed, branded, and doctored if they needed to be, on the open range. Only in the worst blizzards a few dogie calves were brought in to the corrals of the home place. Steers were trailed from the range to the railroad for shipping to market, and fences were hated worse than wolves and rattlesnakes.

Ranching at Batchlett's was just the opposite. It was half stock-raising and half dairy-farming, and the two halves didn't mix any more than horses and cattle do. The outbuildings at the home ranch were a regular village, and the dairy part of it was entirely separate from the stock-raising and handling. No cowhand would think of milking a cow or feeding a calf or hog, and no dairyhand ever rode a horse. We even slept in separate bunkhouses. I don't know what the dairymen thought about the cowhands, but the fellows in our crew didn't have much use for dairyhands.

Milk cows that were going to be traded to families in Denver couldn't be branded and turned loose on the range, to raise their calves as beef cattle did. It would have spoiled them for milkers, and they'd have grown too wild. Because many of them were not branded they had to be kept inside of fences. And they had to be brought in to the corrals often enough to keep them used to being handled. As soon as calves were born, they and their mothers were brought in and turned over to the dairy crew. There they were separated. The mothers were put into the dairy herd, and the calves were raised by hand until they were old enough to be put out to graze in the calf pasture.