The Home Ranch
by
Ralph Moody


Books by Ralph Moody
available in Bison Book editions

THE DRY DIVIDE
THE FIELDS OF HOME

THE HOME RANCH
HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOR

LITTLE BRITCHES

MAN OF THE FAMILY

MARY EMMA & COMPANY

SHAKING THE NICKEL BUSH

The Home
Ranch

By RALPH MOODY

NfV

*4.

Illustrated by Tran Mawicke

University of Nebraska Press
Lincoln and London

Copyright 1956, 1962 by Ralph Moody
Renewal copyright 1984 by Charles O. Moody
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America

First Bison Book printing: 1994

Most recent printing indicated by the last digit below:

10 9 8 i 6 5 4

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Moody, Ralph, 1898The
home ranch by Ralph Moody; illustrated by Tran Mawicke.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-8032-8210-9 (pa)

1. Ranch life--West (U.S.)--Fiction. I. Title.

PS3563.05535H66 1994

813'.54--dc20

93-39762 C1P

Reprinted by arrangement with Edna Moody Morales and Jean S. Moody

00

TO HAZEL

Contents

1.	A boy needs a man's hand

2.	ornery milk Cows

3.	I seen You before

4.	blueboy

5.	picking a string

6.	A yella ribbon

7.	long-tailed wildcats

8.	lost

9.	coin' to make out

10.	betcha my life

11.	the secret spring

12.	A man owes it to His horse

13.	keeping time with the feddler

14.	dirty--squealin'--pig!
15.	A bellyful of riding

16.	Now, mr. man!

17.	I done it! I done it!

	7

11

19

28

36

45

63

72

82

91

100

110

120

127

136

145

154

163

8	CONTENTS

18.	A glow of light

19.	No profit a-fightin'

20.	trinidad

21.	trail driver

22.	fireworks

23.	diamond crosses

24.	four-flush

25.	swing-over

26.	bunkhouse fight

27.	cloudburst

28.	A lot of horse

29.	lucky on every pick

171

181

194

202

214

221

233

238

248

257

265

274

THE HOME RANCH

1

A Boy Needs a Man's Hand

I JUST come home from school, the last Monday in May,
1911, when Mother called to me, "Son, will you come up to my
chamber for a few minutes? I'd like to talk to you."

Since Father had died, Mother sometimes called one of us
up to her chamber for a talk. When she did, it was usually because
we'd done something bad enough that she couldn't talk
about it before the other children. She never scolded us up
there, but she'd give us talking-to's that counted a good deal
more than a scolding.

I put Lady, our horse, in the barn, and went to the house
right away, but I didn't hurry too much. I couldn't be sure what
Mother was going to talk about, and I needed a couple of
minutes to sort of go over things in my mind.

In the summer of 1909, when I was ten, I'd worked as water
boy on the Y-B spread, a big cattle ranch at the foot of the
mountains west of Denver. I'd learned a lot about handling
cattle up there, and riding bucking horses; and Hi Beckman,
the foreman, had taught me to do trick riding. That Labor Day,
riding together, we'd won the trick-riding contest at the Little
ton roundup.

11

Then, in the summer of 1910, after we'd moved to Littleton
and Father had died, I'd found whatever odd jobs I could
around town. Sometimes I'd hire other boys, and make a few
dollars by helping herders through town with their cattle. And
sometimes I'd work a few days for Mr Batchlett, the biggest
cattle trader in town. But I'd made the most money at the race
track, where I'd been pretty lucky in winning matched races.
Grace, my older sister, had sort of worked that money into the
grocery bill and other places, because we couldn't let Mother
find out about my riding at the track.

Just the day before Mother called me up to her chamber, I'd
ridden out to the Y-B ranch to see Mr, Cooper about getting
my old water-boy job back. He had offered me twenty-five dollars
a month, but while I was there Mr Batchlett had ridden
in, heard us talking, and offered me a dollar a day, man's wages,
for a hundred straight days. He said he'd be making trading
trips as far south as the New Mexico border, and could use me
as a trail cowhand.

Anything better than five-cents-an-hour jobs were pretty
hard for boys to get. To have both men wanting to hire me at
high wages made me so proud I could have yipp-eed, but I
didn't. I kept my face and voice as steady as I could, and said,
"I'd like to work for both of you, but of course I can't, so I'll
have to think it over. And maybe I can't work for either of you.
Mother might need me at home. I'll have to ask her."

That was why I had to think a little before I went up to
Mother's chamber. I hadn't talked to her about the jobs yet,
but I was pretty sure she must have heard about the offers-- or that somebody had told her about my riding in the matched
races the summer before.

Mother was sitting on the edge of her bed when I went
upstairs. She motioned for me to close the door, and said, "Sit
down here beside me, Son. I think we should talk things over a
little."

I said, "Yes, ma'am," and sat down with my hands folded in
my lap.

When Mother really wanted something to soak in, she'd always
let me sit and wait a couple of minutes. Then she'd clear
her throat and begin. That time it seemed as though she waited
an hour before she said, "Ralph, Mr Batchlett called on me this
afternoon. I understand you have been talking with him about
going away from home to work this summer."

"No," I said, "I haven't. But he was talking to me about it
yesterday. I just told him you might need me at home, and I'd
have to talk to you about it."

"That's what we are up here for," she said.

I forgot all the things I'd planned to say, and the words just
tumbled out in a heap: "Well, it's a dollar a day and he said
it would be a hundred days and I'd be learning a trade
and..."

"Yes, I know," Mother said, "but don't you think you're a
little young for learning to be a livestock trader?"

"Well, I'm the top rabbit-dealer in Littleton now," I told
her, "and I could make more money if I knew how to be a
cattle-dealer too."

Mother put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me close
against her. "I'm afraid my little boy is growing up too fast
in some ways and not fast enough in others," she said. "How
much do you weigh now, Son?"

"Well, I still weigh seventy-two pounds," I said, "but I've
grown nearly an inch taller in the last year."

Mother let me sit up straight again, and squeezed one of
my legs. "My! You're nothing but bone and sinew," she said.
"I do wish you could put on a little flesh."

"I'm stouter than most any of the other fellows in my class
at school," I said. "I can lift more and squeeze tighter with my
knees and ride..."

"I know, I know, Son, but let's talk about this summer. A
twelve-year-old boy is entirely too young to be away from home
all summer with a crew of cattlemen. Particularly when they
will be moving from place to place, and when there will be
no woman who could take care of him in case he were sick."

It didn't look as though there was very much use in trying
to argue, but I wanted to go with Mr Batchlett so much that
I said, "There wasn't any woman at the Y-B mountain ranch
when I worked up there two years ago."

"Yes, I know, but you came home every week end then. And
you were never so far away that they couldn't have brought you
home in a few hours."

"But I never get sick," I told her. "When have I ever been
sick--except when I had the measles?"

"Suppose you let me finish," Mother said. "As I was saying,
a twelve-year-old boy is too young for such an undertaking.
But I do realize that circumstances have given you a great deal
more experience than most boys of your age. And I am sure that
you are enough like your father that you will not be influenced
by the roughness of the men you will be with, so I have told Mr Batchlett you may go. However, I have told him that you
can't go until after your school is out for the summer, and
that you must be home when school opens in the fall."

If she hadn't dropped it so quickly, I could have acted more
like a grown-up man. I didn't, though; I hugged my arms around
her like a little kid. Mother didn't cry, but she had tears in
her eyes, and before she told me to run along, she said, "I
shall worry about you, and I realize that I may be criticized
for letting you go, but a boy of your age needs a man's steadying
hand on his shoulder."

Mr Batchlett had a big ranch just north of Colorado Springs,
and corrals and cow barns at Littleton. Lots of the people who
lived on the outskirts of Denver kept a cow, but when her milk
began to dry up they'd trade her to Mr Batchlett--along with
five or ten dollars--for a fresh one. In that way he got both
the boot money and the calf, and everybody said he was getting
rich.

The trading with the Denver people was done from Littleton,
usually during the fall and early spring. At the end of the

seasons Mr Batchlett took the dry cows to his ranch, kept
them there until they'd had calves, or were about ready to,
then brought them back to Littleton for the Denver trade. In
the summers he made his headquarters at the ranch, sending
trading teams far to the south and up into the mountains to
trade steers, bulls and young stock for more milk cows.

Mr Batchlett had the reputation around town of being hard
and tough, and some pretty rough men hung out around his
corrals, so I was surprised that Mother had said I could go
away to work for him. I think there were two or three reasons
why she let me do it. One was that Mr Batchlett had grown
up in Texas with Hi Beckman, the foreman at the Y-B ranch.
Hi came to our house often, and I'd heard him tell Mother,
''Batch, he's hard on the outside because he's in a hard business,
but he's just as soft as a woman on the inside."

Another reason was that she had known Mr Batchlett only
around his own home. The Batchletts lived within a block of us,
the children were small, and Mrs Batchlett was a frail little
woman. Mother used to nurse her when she'd be sick, and once
when she came home from there I heard her tell Grace, "In
spite of what people say, I'm sure Hi must be right about Mr Batchlett. It's wonderful to see how tender that big, rough
man is with his wife and children."

As soon as I'd had my talk with Mother, I went right down
to the corrals to see Mr Batchlett, and found him getting
ready to make his spring trip to the ranch. "I aim to get away
from here bright and early on the first of June," he told me,
"but your maw says you can't take off till your school's out.
When'll that be?"

"Well, Friday's the last day," I said, "and that's June second.
But on the last day we only have to go long enough to get our
report cards. I'll be able to start out by half past nine."

"Fair enough!" he said. "I'll be taking fifty dry cows out
to the home ranch, along with three men and a chuckwagon.
Don't aim to push 'em too hard, and if you travel light you

could catch up with us between Castle Rock and The Monument.
I won't need you bad till we head off into the brush
country."

Thursday at dawn I took my saddle, war bag, boots and chaps
down to the corrals and put them in the chuckwagon, so Lady
would only have my weight to carry the next morning. But
we didn't get away next morning. The eighth grade had a
graduation exercise, and school didn't let out until it was over.
It was nearly noon before I got home, and Mother wouldn't let
me start out that late in the day. "You may go just as early
as you wish in the morning," she told me, "but you wouldn't
be able to catch up with Mr Batchlett this afternoon, and I
won't have you sleeping out alone."

I figured it would be morning any time after midnight, so
I said goodbye to the younger children when they went up to
bed, and to Grace and Mother when I went a few minutes
later. Before I crawled into bed beside Philip, I laid out my
shirt, jumper, and overalls, and put a silver dollar in my overalls
pocket.

I put the alarm clock where the moon would shine on it,
but didn't set it. The third time I woke up it was five minutes
after twelve, so I pulled my clothes on quietly, crawled out the window to the woodshed roof, and slipped to the ground.
King, our dog, came out whining to go with me, but I stopped
only long enough to tell him he was a good dog, and that I'd see him Labor Day. Then I shut him in the woodshed and went
to the barn for Lady. I walked her on the grass till we were well
away from the house, then let her into a swinging canter.

I don't know any more beautiful music than the beat of a
cantering horse's hoofs on a crisp moonlit night, and Lady had
one of the smoothest gaits of any horse that ever ran. The
moon seemed only a few yards above the jagged outline of
the mountains when we turned onto the Colorado Springs highroad.
And there wasn't a sound in the world except the music
of Lady's hoofs. I didn't push her, but let her take an easy

swinging gait until she'd caught her second wind, then jogged
her a mile, and let her lope again.

I suppose it's funny, but I could always visit with Lady better
than I could with most people. I didn't have to be afraid I'd
say something that would sound silly, and I didn't have to be
ashamed of bragging a little bit if I wanted to. I guess I talked
to Lady most of the night. I told her that I'd bet Mr Batchlett
would never be sorry he'd hired me at a full cowhand's wages,
because I could ride as well as most of them, and because I'd
make myself do anything they could do. And I told her a lot
of other things I wouldn't have told any person. I don't remember
them all, but I do remember telling her that when I
grew up I was going to have a big ranch like Mr Batchlett's,
with a big brick house on it, and good cattle, and a pretty wife,
and lots of children.

The moon set as we left the Platte Valley and climbed the
long divide. There were no ranch houses up there, and the
coyotes came out to sing their goodnight song to the moon.
It was a lonely, sorrowful song, and I tried to tell myself I was
sorry to be going away from home for a whole summer, that
something might happen to Mother or one of the children
while I was gone. But I could only keep it on my mind for a few
seconds at a time. Then, before I knew it, I'd be thinking again
that I was almost a man, and that for the first time I was going
to be doing a man's job and getting a man's pay for it.

The top of the sun was just peeping over the hills when the
houses at Castle Rock came into sight, and the general store
opened as we came into town. Lady was going to need grain
unless I stopped to let her graze for an hour or two, and I
was getting pretty hungry myself. So I went into the store and
bought two quarts of oats, a five-cent loaf of bread, and a can
of deviled ham.

While I was eating my breakfast, the storekeeper told me
that Mr Batchlett's outfit had gone through town about noontime
of the day before, and he asked me nearly a hundred

questions. He seemed to hate all cattle, but milk cows most of all.
"Ain't no wonder Batch has to go to hirin' little kids for cowhands,"
he told me. "Ain't no wonder he has to take on them
as nobody else would hire. Wouldn't no self-respectin' cowhand
hire out to wrangle a mess of ornery milk cows. Might
as leave try riding herd on the Ladies' Mish'nary Sassiety as
on a parcel of breechy milk cows. Oh, Batch, he's doin' all
right; he ain't no fool, but you got to be a fool to work for him."

2

Ornery Milk Cows

I FINISHED my breakfast in a hurry, and just as soon as
Lady had finished hers I put her on the road again. I didn't feel
nearly as good about my new job as I had during the night, and
was anxious to find out what kind of a crew I'd be working
with. I didn't talk to Lady any more, but kept her in a long
swinging lope that ate into the miles. From the length of her
shadow I guessed it to be about noon when we passed The
Monument butte, and way ahead to the south I could see a haze
of dust that I knew would be Mr Batchlett's outfit.

The outfit had left the Colorado Springs highroad and turned
off toward the mountains before I caught up with it. There
was a good deal of scrub oak along there, so I was within
half a mile before I could see anything more than the white
top of the chuckwagon. But Mr Batchlett saw us the minute
Lady and I topped the rise. He waved his arm, then yahooed
and swung his hat in a big circle above his head--the sign
for making camp. With a couple of other riders, he began
hazing the cows into a little green meadow, and the chuck
wagon pulled to a stop.

By the time I'd ridden up, an old man with a gray walrus

mustache was unhitching the team, and Mr Batchlett came
loping in on his big chestnut horse. "Didn't get lost, did you?"
he called. "Reckoned you'd come in about sundown last night."

"Mother wouldn't let me start till this morning," I called.

Mr Batchlett pulled his horse up so short he nearly sat
it down. "Morning!" he said roughly. "You wasn't fool enough
to..." Then he looked Lady over from head to croup, and
asked, "What time this mornin'?"

"About ten minutes past twelve," I told him, "but it's morning
any time after midnight, isn't it?"

Mr Batchlett didn't answer, but swung out of his saddle,
came over, and ran his hand along Lady's back and belly. I
knew what he was looking for; if I had ridden her hard enough
to do her any harm she'd be trembling, and the nerves under
her skin would be twitching. "Guess she's all right," he said,
"but a man could ruin an old mare like this with fifty miles
in a straight stretch."

"Lady isn't very old," I told him, "only eight. And we did
most of our traveling in the cool of the night and morning.
And besides, I only w..."

"Yeah, I know. You only weigh as much as a hoptoad."

I was going to tell Mr Batchlett that my weight wouldn't
make any difference about handling cows, but the old man
with the gray mustache cut in. "Fifty miles, huhh!" he snorted.
"By dogies, a man would think... why, I recollect when I
was the size of this here young'un I rid a flea-bit cayuse
from..."

"I know, I know, Hank," Mr Batchlett said, <fbut you just
ride that fry pan till we get some grub around here. I want to
make it into the corrals before nightfall."

The old man started back toward the wagon, but he'd only
gone a couple of yards when he turned and hollered, "Boy,
wrastle me up some firewood; you ain't did nothin' to be
a-braggin' 'bout, and we ain't got all day to..." Then without
finishing, he turned and stumped away. He rolled from side

to side as he walked, and was so bowlegged that a fat hog could
have run between his knees without touching either one.

Mr Batchlett winked at me, and said, "You'll get used to
Hank. Never mind the wood; Sid's fetching it." Then he looked
up at me quickly, and asked, "Water the mare at The Monument?"

"No, sir," I told him. "She was too warm then."

"Cooled out enough now," he said, pointing toward some
willows half a mile to the north. "Better give her a couple
of swallows; it's a dry run from here to the home ranch."

I got a pretty fair look at the herd when I was riding Lady
to water, but I was a lot more interested in the other two
cowhands than in the cows--and I couldn't help remembering
what the storekeeper at Castle Rock had said. I wasn't close
enough to see what either man's face looked like, but they
certainly looked funny in the saddle. The one who was dragging
wood to the wagon didn't look to be any bigger than I, and
was mounted on a tall piebald horse that looked like a short
necked giraffe.

The other rider was just the opposite. From where I was
he looked to be seven feet tall, and was mounted on a mule
that wasn't much bigger than a burro. His stirrups were so
short he looked as if he were sitting in a chair, and he rode
hunched over--as if he had a bellyache. I'd have had one if
I'd been riding that mule. It was going round and round the
herd at a steady dogtrot that would have shaken the teeth out of a garden rake. And, over the bellowing of the herd, he
was calling out to the cows, in a voice as monotonous as the
mule's trot, "hup... yaaa, hup... yaaa." It sounded like
a gramophone record that was stuck and saying the same words
over every time it went around.

The tall man was still riding around the herd when I'd
watered Lady and was heading back to the chuckwagon. From
behind it a thin line of blue smoke was rising, and the little
cowhand was loosening his saddle cinches. When I rode in,

Mr Batchlett was washing at the water barrel beside the chuck
wagon. He looked around and said, "Sid, this is Little Britches;
he's going to ride with us this summer."

Sid's face lit up as if I were an old friend. He grinned and
said, "Ain't he the one rode ag'in Le Beau in the matched
race, last Fourth o' July? Ain't he the one as done trickridin'
with Hi Beckman in the Littleton roundup?"

"Yep, that's him," was all Mr Batchlett said.

"I ought to knowed it was him when I seen him hightailin'
off to the water hole," Sid chirped in a high voice. "I ought to
knowed by the way he hauls his knees up and hunkers over the
neck of a horse." He came hurrying toward me with his hand
out. "Yessirree, Little Britches! Yessirree! We're right proud
to have you in the outfit. Make yourself right to home. Hank,
he'll have the chuck ready in two shakes of a latigo."

I'd never known I pulled my knees up and leaned over a
horse's neck when I rode, but I suppose it was because I'd
done most of my riding bareback, and had to hold on tight or
fall off. When I took Sid's hand his grip was like the closing
of a vise, and the palm was as horny as a piece of sun-dried
leather. I must have flinched, because he loosened his grip,
looked down at his hand, then grinned and said, "That calf
brandin' sure puts bark on 'em, don't it? Been workin' roundup
down La Junta way. Never did wear no gloves; cheaper to
grow hide than buy it."

Even in his high-heeled boots, Sid Faulker was only about
three inches taller than I. He might have been thirty, but it's
hard to tell about those red-headed, freckled-faced fellows.
His eyes were that kind of blue that can be as warm as June or
as cold as January. I knew we were going to be friends.

I had just given Lady some oats, and was washing my face
and hands when Hank yelled, loud enough to have been heard
in Colorado Springs, "Come an git it, ya lazy mavricks!"

After I'd dried my face I looked around the front of the
wagon to see if the man on the mule was coming in, but he

was still riding round and round the herd, so I asked Sid, "Is
the tall man deaf?"

"Shucks, no," Sid chuckled, "old Zeb, he can hear a calf bat
its eyes at half a mile. He's got to stay with them ornery critters
till I get out there. Leave 'em ten minutes, and they'd be scattered
from here to La Junta."

I looked around as far as I could see, and asked, "Then who's
Hank calling in?"

"Ain't callin' nobody. Old Hank, he don't never do nothin'
by the halves; never did--to hear him tell it. We best to light
into that chuck 'fore it gets burnt to cinders."

When we went to eat I found out what Sid meant. Hank had
a fire big enough to barbecue a beef, and was holding one arm
up to shield his face from the heat as he fished burned biscuits
out of an iron pot. Both frying pans were smoking like volcanoes,
and the coffee pot was shooting up geysers of steam and
grounds. As we filled our plates and cups, Hank kept shouting
at Sid, "By dogies, Sid, look what you done to the grub! Ain't
nobody never learnt you to fetch in firewood that ain't drier'n
gun powder? Look at them biscuits! Frizzled to a..."

Hank didn't have to tell us to look at the biscuits; it was
hard to look anywhere else. I'd thought I was nearly starved,
but I could hardly stuff the chuck down. The canned beans
had stuck to the pan and burned, the bacon was hacked half
an inch thick, and was blacker than the biscuits. Mr Batchlett
winked at me and said, "Ought to make it to the ranch for
supper. Reckon you can hold out? Jenny'll be over to help Helen
with the grub, and she's right handy with a skillet."

I didn't think Hank had heard, but he blurted out, "By dogies,
give me a parcel o' good dry prairie chips, 'stead o' this here
greasewood tinder, and I'll show you who's handy with a skillet.
Why, I recollect when.."

If Mr Batchlett heard him, he didn't let on. He looked over
at Sid and said, "Going to be a bit tricky getting this herd in
to the ranch tonight. It's scrub oak all the way, and some of

them old sisters are pretty well wore down. Not being herd
broke, they'll try to scatter, mostly back to the north. Little
Britches can take the south, I'll ride point and let Zeb bring
up the drag; he's right good with a bull whip."

He glanced around at Lady, and asked me, "Reckon the mare
can stand up to it? South side shouldn't be too bad."

"Sure she can," I told him. "I've been graining her for two
weeks, and she's in good shape."

Mr Batchlett didn't seem to be listening to me. While I was
still talking he got up and went to his horse. As he put the bridle
on and tightened the cinches, he told Hank, "We'll start lining
'em out. Soon's Zeb has had his grub, you haul the chuckwagon
into the gulch beyond this next hill. Unharness, turn the black
loose, and saddle the bay. Give the boys a hand wherever they
need it; you can come back for the wagon tomorrow." Then he
swung into the saddle and jogged away toward the herd with
Sid.

It didn't take me two minutes to get on my boots, spurs, and
chaps, and to have my saddle cinched onto Lady. I was anxious
to get started on my new job, and caught up to Sid and Mr
Batchlett before they were half way to the herd. "Take it
easy! Take it easy!" Mr Batchlett told me as I pulled up beside
him. "You ain't working mustangs, but milk cows! Didn't Hi
or your paw learn you better'n that? Slow and easy does it;
you watch old Zeb and that mule!"

Mr Batchlett's voice wasn't rough, but he'd given me a
scolding, and I'd had it coming. Both Father and Hi Beckman
had taught me to handle cattle as quietly as possible, but we
weren't close enough to frighten the herd. And besides, I didn't
really think of tame milk cows as being cattle. Of course, I
couldn't explain all that, so I just said, "Yes, sir, they did. I guess
I forgot."

Mr Batchlett just nodded, waved to Zeb to come in, and
said, "Spread out; we'll start 'em moving."

Before an hour was passed I knew what the storekeeper
meant when he told me it would be as easy to herd the Ladies'

Missionary Society as a bunch of milk cows. Steers and range
cattle will hold together in a herd, and each herd usually has
one leader that does all the thinking. But every one of those
milk cows had a mind of her own, and each one wanted to
do something different.

Most of them had been petted or spoiled by the people who
owned them during the winter, and I began to think that maybe
they'd grown to be like those people. Some were docile and
some were cranky, some were clever and some were dumb;
some were fat and lazy, and others were nervous and skinny.
Some bellowed as if they were angry, some lowed in a lonesome
way, and some just moaned as if they were sorry for themselves.

It was twelve miles from the Colorado Springs highroad to Mr Batchlett's ranch at the foot of the mountains. A narrow
road led to it, winding through scrub oak, gulches, dry creek
beds, and over hills that grew higher as they neared the mountains.
It would have been easy to put a big herd of beef cattle
over that road. They'd have strung out for a mile or so, and
would have trailed along behind each other like elephants in
a parade, but those milk cows had no more idea of trailing than
so many jack rabbits.

Sid might have had the toughest side of the herd, but Lady
and I had every bit we could do on our side--and just a little
bit more. Lady was as good a horse as anyone could want on
the road, and she was all right for ordinary herding, but she
wasn't used to brush country. She couldn't turn short enough
to thread her way quickly between the clumps of scrub oak, but
those cows could dodge through them like cottontails.

There was hardly a minute, all the way to the ranch, when
I didn't have to fight back cows that were trying to leave the
herd on my side. I spurred and jerked Lady around until I was
ashamed of myself, but quite a few times ten or a dozen cows
dodged past us, and I really needed help. The brush was so
thick I couldn't see the other riders, and I didn't holler for any help, but each time I got into bad trouble Mr Batchlett showed

up from nowhere. He was never a bit excited, and he didn't
seem to be trying very hard, but within two or three minutes
he'd have my stragglers all back in the herd. He didn't scold
me for letting the cows get away, but once he said, "Take it
easy! Don't fight 'em so hard! You're getting your mare wore
down."

Hank could pick the wrong times to help me just as well as Mr Batchlett could pick the right ones. I'd have three or four
stragglers all rounded up and on their way back to the herd
when he'd come galloping out of the brush in front of us. Every
time he scattered the bunch all over again, and every time he
blamed me for letting them get away. "By dogies," he'd holler,
"why'n't you watch what you're doin? Don't let 'em dodge past
you! Git around 'em! Git around 'em, boy! Head 'em off! By
dogies, I recollect when I was your..."

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.

THE 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 chuck wagon 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 chuck
house was a separate building, with its own kitchen and a man
cook, but it wasn't that way at Batchlett's ranch. Our chuck
house 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. I By dang, you
sure hit the bunk in a hurry last night. How you rriakin' 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.

4

Blueboy

AS I RODE around the outbuildings and looked the place
over, I kept an eye on the horse corral. And when I saw the
others go to saddle up I brought Lady back there. Sid was
cinching the saddle onto his giraffe horse, and when he straightened
up, the horn stood six inches above the crown of his hat.
He was all over his grumpiness, and didn't get a bit peeved
when Tom called out to ask if he wanted a ladder for mounting.

"Nope! Got me a sky hook!" Sid called back, hopped, caught
the shoulder-high stirrup with his toe, and flipped into the
saddle.

Mr Batchlett and Mr Bendt had already mounted, and were
turning their horses onto a trail that led off toward the mountains
when Hazel came running from the house. "I don't have
to go to Sunday School today, do I, Paw?" she called from fifty
yards away.

''Don't know no reason why not," he said, and turned his
horse half back.

"Well, I can't, Paw," Hazel panted, as she ran up to him.
"Jenny wants to go, and... and I'll have to stay to home to
mind the baby."

'Jenny say so?"

'Well... I know she wants to

go, to

to wear her

new

From where I sat on Lady I saw Mr Bendt wink at Mr
Batchlett, then he asked, "Sure you ain't frettin' t>out the
horse-pickin', 'stead of Jenny?"

Hazel was standing so close that her father's stirrup nearly
touched her shoulder. She turned her face up to him, and there
were almost tears in her voice when she said, "I got to be here,
Paw! I just got to be here!"

Mr Bendt leaned down toward her, and his voice was real
gentle when he said, "You run on now, gal, and help your maw
with the dishes. I reckon we might be able to hold off the
horse pickin' till you womenfolks get back from church. What
you think, Batch?"

"I reckon," Mr Batchlett said with a grin.

"Promise?" Hazel asked.

Mr Batchlett nodded, and said, "Promise!" Then Hazel ran
back toward the house without ever looking around at the rest
of us.

Tom and Ned seemed to know just where we'd find the horse
herd. They took a well-worn cattle trail that led northward
along the foot of the mountains, forking off like branches of
a river at the mouth of each canyon.

Winding in and out through the brush, we'd followed the
trail four or five miles when we topped a high bench. Below
us, in a little green valley, there was a bunch of forty or fifty
horses grazing. Suddenly, one of them threw up his head, pointing
his ears toward us, whinnied shrilly, and raced away toward
a canyon mouth. In a moment the whole bunch was racing behind him.

"Blueboy!" Tom rapped out angrily. "Mighta knowed he'd
wind us 'fore we could get around 'em! You and the kid cut
acrost the butte and try to head 'em, Ned! Sid and me'll work
around to the far side."

I'd seen a lot of beautiful horses, but never one that caught

my eye the way Blueboy did. From up there on the bench,
with the horse band half a mile below us in the valley, he was
the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. The sun glinted off
his racing back the way it glints off ripples in a deep mountain
lake. His white-stockinged legs flashed like driving pistons, and
his long white mane and tail streamed out like silken flags. He
ran with his muzzle high, swinging his white-blazed head from side to side. As I watched, he circled to the back of the band,
snaking his head out and raking his teeth at the laggards.

I was so busy watching Blueboy that I didn't notice Tom
and Sid drop down over the edge of the bench, or that Ned
was spurring away toward the mountains. I pressed my spurs
against Lady's flanks and went racing after him. As I caught
up, I shouted, "Is Blueboy the stallion?"

"No, gelding since he was a three-year-old, but he don't know
it," Ned called back. "Crazy maverick! Out of a blooded mare,
by a wild stud."

The canyon into which Blueboy had driven the horse herd
wound in an S shape back between two low mountains. By
cutting around one of them, and sliding down a shale bank,
Ned and I reached the bottom of the canyon just as the horses
rounded the last bend. At sight of us, they wheeled and started
back, but Blueboy was behind them, slashing and kicking. For
a couple of minutes I thought he'd drive the whole band past
us. If they'd been unbroken range horses, he would have, but
they were mostly saddle stock, and had too much respect for
flying ropes. A shifty little claybank dodged back past him, and
the rest of the band followed.

I could hardly believe that Blueboy wasn't a stallion. The
remuda at Batchlett's ranch was made up of almost every type
of stock horse. There were young ones and old ones, mares with
colts running at their sides, yearlings, a few unbroken three
year-olds, and geldings that showed the white saddle marks of
many hard seasons, but Blueboy handled them all as if they
were his harem.

Tom and Sid were waiting at the far end of the canyon to

x^'.>^

~>""

turn the remuda onto the trail for the corrals, but Blueboy
wouldn't have it. Racing with his head low and his nostrils
wide, squealing, wheeling, and slashing with his yellow teeth,
he charged the lead mares time and again, turning them away
from the trail and driving them into the brush.

"Why in blazes Batch keeps that crazy mav'rick's more'n I
know!" Tom shouted, as we spurred to head the band back
toward the south. "I'd have throwed lead into him when he
was foaled if I'd owned the mare."

"Worthless half-breed!" Ned shouted back. "I'd throw lead
into him now if I was packin a six-gun."

"Better not leave Batch catch you at it," Tom called, and
spurred away, yelling and swearing at Blueboy.

Time after time we got the horse band headed back onto the
trail, and the older ones would have followed it, but each time
Blueboy raced to the lead and turned them aside.

Sid tried to cut him away from the herd and drive him up
the canyon alone, but his piebald was no match for Blueboy's
speed. He'd circle, with his head and tail high, and race back
to turn the band again. Tom and Ned tried to corner him in a
gulch and get a throw rope on him, but they didn't have any
better luck than Sid. Bounding up the side of the steep, rocky
gulch, Blueboy whirled at the top, snorted at them, and came
tearing back to the herd.

It shouldn't have taken us more than two hours to round up
the remuda and bring it in to the corral, but it was well past
noon before we got it there. And the only way we did it at all
was by the other three fighting Blueboy away while I pushed
the herd along the trail. He never gave up his fight for a second,
and he wouldn't give up his band. At the last moment he broke
through the whirling catch ropes, raced up, and led the remuda
into the horse corral.

Mr Batchlett and Mr Bendt were still out looking over
the cattle, Hank and Zeb hadn't come in with the chuckwagon,
and Mrs Bendt and the children weren't home from church
when we brought the remuda in. There was nothing to do after

we'd unsaddled, so we sat on the top rail of the corral, looking
at the horses and talking.

Tom and Ned had been on the home ranch the summer before,
and knew every horse in the bunch, but there was no
sense in asking them any questions. They'd know which horses
they wanted for their own strings, and they'd tell us almost
anything to keep us from finding out which ones they were.
Sid was sitting beside me, watching half a dozen different horses as they milled and turned, but there was only one I
could watch for more than a minute.

Blueboy was never still an instant, and kept himself between
us and the rest of the remuda, as though he were protecting
it. With his head high, his eyes bright, and his ears pointing,
he seemed to be trying to watch everything at once. He was
neither fat nor thin, and the hide rippled over the muscles of
his rump and shoulders like oil over running water. I had a feeling
that, at any moment, he might race at the high pole fence
and sail over it without touching. Ned was sitting next beyond
Sid, and I asked him, "Has anybody ever ridden Blueboy?"

"Half a dozen, I reckon. Why?"

"I just wondered," I said. "I'll bet it would take a real buster
to stay with him ten seconds."

"Pi'tcher horse! Crowhopper," Ned said, without looking
away from the milling remuda. "Takes brains to make a good
twister; that mav'rick's loco."

I'd seen plenty of horses that had been poisoned on locoweed.
They acted half-drunk, stupid, and crazy, but Blueboy
wasn't that kind of horse. He'd proved all morning that he was
smarter than any one of us. I began to think that maybe both
Ned and Tom wanted him for themselves, and that they'd been
running him down so that neither Sid nor I would pick him.

I was still watching Blueboy and wishing I owned him when
Sid leaned in front of me and asked Tom, "How come the boss
holds onto the blue? Wouldn't a circus pay good money for a
showy lookin' horse the likes of that?"

Tom nodded, "Sure would, but Batch, he won't give up on

him. Got him in his blood, I reckon. I've heard tell he had the
old stallion in his blood so strong he could taste it. Put in three
summers tryin' to lay rope on that wild stud when him and
Beckman first come up from Texas. Run him clean down into
the Sangre de Cristos and back half a dozen times. Spent the
price of forty good stock horses on him.'

"Catch him or give up?" Sid asked.

"Reckon you don't know Batch very good," Tom said, as he
and Ned climbed down from the fence. "He don't give up his
chips till the last card's down. Couldn't lay rope on the stud,
but he had a thoroughbred mare shipped in here. Turned her
loose in the mountains. Daggone shame he couldn't'a got
nothin' better'n that blue devil for a colt!"

I'd been interested in Tom's story, but it was what Ned had
told me that made up my mind. I'd ridden some pretty good
bucking horses at the Y-B and the fair-grounds, though I'd
never ridden any real twisters, and was a little out of practice.
But when Ned said Blueboy was only a crowhopper, I made
up my mind that I was going to pick him for my string, no
matter what anybody thought about him.

Sid and I sat without saying anything for quite a few minutes
after Tom and Ned had left, then I asked, "Made your pick
yet?"

"Well, yes and no," Sid answered. "I been keepin' an eye on
that sorrel gelding yonder, and aim to dab my rope on him if
I can. If he don't bust it and throw me cattiwumpus, and if he
can turn on a dollar and a half, I might think about him. For
this brush country, I like a horse tall enough to histe a man up,
so's he can see where he's headed for. You got an eye peeled
yet?"

"Mmm-hmm," I told him, "if he doesn't histe me over the
fence on his first pitch. I haven't tried to ride a rough one for
nearly a year."

"Ground'll always catch you! Never heard tell of it lettin'
nobody through! Which one you aimin' to go after?"

"Blueboy.' I told him.

"Blueboy! What you aimin' to do, start up a circus?" Sid
asked sharply. "Ain't you the one that claims he come out here
to work cattle?"

"That's what I am here for," I told him, "and I'm going to
do it with Blueboy. If he can handle cattle the way he handles
horses, I guess we'll make out all right."

"Take it easy! You ain't workin' mustangs, but milk cows!"
Sid said--and he said it in exactly the same voice Mr Batchlett
had used when he'd told me the same thing the day before.
Sid pointed to a sleek-looking seal-brown mare, and went on,
"You forget about that Blueboy; he's too much horse for you!
How 'bout that little mare with the star in her forehead? I been
watchin' her, and she's handy and clever; make you a mighty
fine trail horse."

Zeb and Hank drove in with the chuckwagon just then, so
I didn't have to argue with Sid any more. Mrs Bendt and the
children were right behind them with the buckboard. Before
we had the teams unharnessed and watered, Mr Batchlett and Mr Bendt rode in. And Jenny rang the dinner bell as soon as
she saw them.

The day the horse strings are picked in the spring is one of
the biggest days on cattle ranches. In working cattle, a cowhand
and his horse have to be partners, and understand and
trust each other. If a man picks the wrong horses in the spring,
there isn't much understanding, and even less trust. A man may
be a top hand, but if he gets a poor string of horses he can't do
a very good job. Or a man can be only a fair rider and, with a
good string, do the job of a top hand.

Picking our horses in go-rounds, as Mr Batchlett had said
we would, no one could be sure of getting the horses he wanted,
and most of the men were nervous and jumpy when we sat
down at the dinner table. Nobody joked, and Sid didn't even
try to get Jenny to talk to him. First one man would tell about
some smart horse he used to ride, then another would brag
about one he'd had that was smarter. But no one mentioned
the horse-picking until we'd nearly finished eating. Then Kenny

piped up, "If Batch would leave me have my pickings, I know
what ones I'd take. I'd take..."

"Never you mind which ones you'd take" his father told him.
"Them of us that's been around here and knows 'em ought to
have claim to a little edge. Who's goin' to get the first pick,
Batch?"

I hadn't seen Mrs Bendt or the girls since they drove in from
church, but when the talk of horse-picking began they crowded
into the kitchen doorway. Mr Batchlett turned toward them
and asked, "How about writin' eight numbers, folding 'em, and
putting 'em in a hat for us, Hazel?"

I think Hazel had the numbers all written out and folded
ahead of time, and that she knew right where each one was in
the hat. Anyway, she was only gone two minutes, and when she
passed the hat to Mr Batchlett, her father, and me, she kept
twisting and turning it. Mr Batchlett shut his eyes, reached
in real slowly, and picked out the number one slip. Mr Bendt and I just looked and grabbed. He got number six and I got
five.

As soon as we'd all drawn our numbers, Mr Batchlett pushed
his chair back, and said, "Let's get at it! You all know how
it works: go-rounds; each man picks one horse in his turn.
You'll have three chances with the rope--what you get on it is
your pick, like it or not. With the help of your partner you'll
saddle it, and ride it to a count of ten. Miss either way and
you'll lose your turn till the go-rounds are over. That goes for
all of you!" Then he looked around at me and added, "but
Wea'll give you a hand if you want it, Little Britches."

If we'd been alone I'm sure I'd have thanked him and told
him I'd be glad to have Mr Bendt help me. But with all the
men, even the dairyhands, and Mrs Bendt and Jenny and
Hazel there, I didn't like to be singled out. I'd come out there
at a man's wages to do a man's job, and I didn't want anybody
to think I couldn't do it, so I looked over at Mr Bendt, and
said, "Thank you just the same, but I'd rather take my chances
along with the rest of the cowhands."

5

Picking a String.

IN A GOOD many ways, horse-picking day on the big cattle ranches was like a Fourth of July roundup. Horses that had
been out on the range or pasture all winter would usually
buck when they were saddled for the first time in the spring.
The good ones might never buck again all summer, but on that
first shake-down they'd pitch and twist like fury. The older
ones--the smartest--were often the hardest to catch and ride.
From years of handling cattle they'd learned every trick of the
trade--and some that were all their own. They knew just as
well as the men did that if they could keep from being roped,
or could dump their rider, they'd be turned back to pasture
for the summer.

A horse string wasn't all that was chosen at the spring picking.
Cowhands almost always worked in pairs, and that was the
time when the new men chose their partners. One man didn't
say to another, "Will you be my partner?" He waited until the
man he wanted to team up with had ridden into the big corral
and roped his first horse. Then he rode into the breaking-pen
to open the gate, help with the saddling, and stand by as
pickup man. Picking the wrong partner could be even worse
than picking the wrong horse.
By the time we were all saddled up, and Mr Batchlett was
ready to ride in for his number one pick, everybody on the
ranch, except the baby, was crowded around the big pole horse
corral. The dairyhands were perched along the top rail of the
breaking pen like a row of magpies. Mrs Bendt, Jenny, and the
smaller girls were peeking through the bars, and Hazel and
Kenny were on the top rail of the horse corral, with their arms
and legs wrapped around the high gateposts like a pair of teddy
bears.

Those of us who were going to do the picking sat on our
horses outside the gate, and my heart was pounding like the
hoofs of a stampeding herd. I knew how much I was going to
need good horses that summer, and I knew I'd made a bad
mistake in telling Mr Bendt I didn't want his help. I was determined
to get Blueboy, but didn't have any more idea than
a goose what other horses to pick.

I think everyone was holding his breath when Mr Batchlett
rode into the corral. The second he unlimbered his rope and
started it swinging, the horses began to mill and dodge. Before
I had any idea which one he was after, his line whistled out
and the loop settled around the neck of the seal-brown mare
Sid had pointed out to me. She seemed to have known she was
going to be chosen, and came out of the milling bunch without
ever tightening the rope. When Mr Batchlett turned her toward
the breaking pen, Mr Bendt was there to open the gate.
"Easy, Starlight," was all he said as the mare crowded past
him.

Starlight bucked hard, quick, and for only five or six seconds.
Anyone who knew anything about horses could see that she
and Mr Batchlett understood each other perfectly--and that
one was having as much fun as the other. He never left the
saddle far enough that a piece of paper could have been slipped
under him, and when he led the mare out through the gate she
nuzzled his shoulder.

Hank had drawn number two, and was barely inside the
corral when he spurred straight at a high-headed bay gelding.

It looked to be an easy catch, but the bay bolted away as the
loop flew. So did the rest of the bunch, with Blueboy in the
lead and Hank spurring close behind--swearing at the bay and
gathering his rope back in. He let his second loop fly before it
was half built, and it closed before it reached the bay. His third
loop was nearly as big as a circus tent. It fell short of the bay
and snagged an old black mare. Everyone knew she wouldn't
buck, and no one went into the breaking pen to help Hank
saddle her. Mr Batchlett hardly excited the bunch at all when
he took Starlight out, but Hank had driven them half crazy.

Sid's turn followed Hank's, and I knew he'd go for the tall
sorrel, but I was worried about who would go in to open the
bucking-pen gate for him, I wanted to do it myself, but it would
have taken a lot of nerve for a boy to pick himself as a man's
partner. I didn't even look toward Sid when he started to ride
in for his first pick, but just sat on Lady, looking at the excited
horses in the corral. As he rode past me there was a sharp
sting on my hip pocket. When I jumped and looked around, Sid
grinned and jerked his head toward the breaking pen. I couldn't
have been happier if somebody had given me a thousand dollars.

Sid didn't make much work of getting his rope on the sorrel,
and led it toward the bucking pen by the time I was there to
open the gate. It bucked hard and fast, but Sid was a fine rider
and stuck like a burr.

Zeb had drawn number four, but didn't even bother to ride
his mule into the corral. Blueboy was driving the remuda in a
racing merry-go-round, but Zeb slouched into the corral as unconcerned
as if he'd been going to the well for a bucket of
water. He stood with his loop dangling at his side, and when the horse he wanted passed him he flipped the rope over its
neck. The horse was the smallest in the corral, and he didn't
show a bit of fight, but Hank was at the breaking pen gate,
pushing it open and shouting, "Hold him, Zeb! Hold him! Head
him this-a-way, so's I can give you a hand!"

My turn was next, and I was so busy thinking about the way

I'd try to handle Blueboy that I didn't notice Hazel until Sid
came to open the gate for me. She was still sitting on the top
rail and had her arm wrapped aroun'd the gatepost just above
my head. I was starting to shake a loop in my catch rope when
she reached out a toe and just touched me on my shoulder.
When I looked up, she whispered, "If I thought you could ride
good enough, I'd tell you to pick Clay."

"Maybe I'll pick him on second go-round," I whispered back.
"I've already got one all..."

"Hmff!" she sniffed, "a little boy like you prob'ly couldn't
handle Clay anyways. He's mighty quick."

If she'd been grown-up I wouldn't have flown mad so quick
about her calling me a little boy, but, with her, I couldn't help
it. "Which one is he?" I snapped at her. "We'll see if I'm good
enough to handle him!"

Hazel didn't look at me, and she didn't look at the horses,
but off toward the dairy barn, and her lips hardly moved as she
said, "The little claybank--with the black stripe down his
back."

I'd been nervous when I was sitting there on Lady, waiting
to go in and make my try for Blueboy. But if my hands were
shaking when Sid opened the corral gate for me, it was because
I was so mad I couldn't hold them still. I crowded Lady right
in before the gate was open more than a yard, shook out my
loop, and looked to see where the little claybank was. I'd noticed
him that morning when he dodged back past Blueboy and
led the remuda out of the S canyon. But all I remembered
about him was that he ran with the slow bunch, had a short,
hoppity-hop gait, saddle scars on his back, and carried his head
low. I didn't want him at all, but I wasn't going to let Hazel
think I couldn't handle him.

The bunch was still excited and jumpy, and I didn't help
things any by spurring Lady into the corral so fast. The first
thing I knew, I had a merry-go-round going, and the claybank
was right in the center--sort of dog-hopping along, with his

head low and tight against the rump of a big bay. If I'd been
on his back, I couldn't have got a rope around his neck.

I was sure I hadn't made any move that would let the clay
bank know I was after him, but he watched me like a gopher.
I let the bunch make three or four circles, while I just sat there
with my rope swinging easy. Then I spurred Lady hard and
straight into the merry-go-round. As the horses wheeled away,
the claybank's head came loose from the bay, and I whanged
my loop down at it. It was one of the best throws I'd ever
made, but the claybank ducked his head, and my loop slithered
across his mane. It had barely touched the ground when I heard Mr Bendt shout, "Hazel, you get down off'n that fence! Get o n over with your maw where you belong!"

It must have been nearly ten minutes before I got another
chance to make a throw at the claybank. Of course, after my
first throw, he and everybody else knew I was after him, and
he kept his head tucked up against some other horse so tight I
couldn't shake him loose. Hank kept shouting orders at me,
and I think it was his shouting that made me miss my second
throw; I let the loop go when I didn't have more than half a
chance.

When I gathered in my rope I was so nervous that it came
up wiggling like a snake. My mouth was dry and there was a
lump in my throat that was half choking me. I knew I was
doing a little-boy sort of a job, right out there in front of everybody,
and that Hazel was probably snickering at me. I had to
sit there for a minute or two, trying not to hear what Hank was
yelling, and trying to make up my mind whether or not to dab
my loop onto the first horse that would make me an easy catch.
One more miss and I'd lose my turn altogether.

As I sat there I built a new loop, and was swinging it sort of
lazy-like when Hazel yelled, "Now! Now!"

I woke up as if I'd been dreaming, and the first thing I saw
was the little claybank dog-hopping past me. He had his head turned my way, and was looking at me as much as to ask if I'd

given up. Without even thinking, I whipped my loop just over
Lady's ears and yanked it down. It came tight around the clay
bank's neck.

Sid was grinning like a jack-o'-lantern when he opened the
breaking pen gate and let us through. As I passed him the catch
rope, he asked, "Know what one you got?"

"Sure," I said, "the one I went in after."

"Dogged if you didn't," he chirped, "but I'll bet a hat you
don't know what one it is."

"I ought to," I told him, "I had a hard enough time getting a
loop on him." And then I added, "... with Hazel's help."

"Bet she gets her biscuits warmed," he chuckled. "This here
is her old man's prize cuttin' horse. Watt's been chewin' on his
knuckles ever since the picking begun--scairt somebody'd dab
a rope on 'fore his turn come up."

"Then I'm going to turn him back," I said. "I didn't know he
was any special horse."

"No, you ain't neither!" Sid snapped. "Watt, he wouldn't let
you--Batch neither! Now you get on outside and haul that
saddle off; you still got a job o' riding to do 'fore you got a claim
to this little devil."

I did a lot of thinking as I took off my spurs, uncinched my
saddle, and pulled it off Lady. In the first place, it wasn't very
fair for Hazel to have told me about picking Clay. And in the
second place, I'd be in a bad way if I had Mr Bendt sore at
me. By the time I got back to the breaking pen I had my mind
made up about what I was going to do. If the claybank bucked
hard enough to give me any excuse at all, I'd use one of the
tricks I'd learned for the Littleton roundup: I'd flip out of the
saddle, somersault, and land sitting down. I could do it without
being hurt, and it would be hard for anybody to see that I
hadn't been thrown. After what Hazel had said about my not
being good enough to handle Clay, I didn't like to be the first
one tossed, but it seemed to be my only way out of a lot of
trouble.

I must have buttoned my lips tight when I made up my

mind. When I was climbing the fence with my saddle, Sid
snapped, "Get that look off'n your pan, and them idees out of
your head! You wouldn't be foolin' nobody if you took a flop
peroo, and you wouldn't be doin' yourself no good. Histe that
saddle over here, and haul your belt up tight."

Clay didn't make a move when the cinches were pulled tight
or when I eased into the saddle. I didn't think he was going to
buck at all, but before Sid turned him loose, he half-whispered,
"Watch out for him! He ain't goin' high, but he'll be a side- windin' son-of-a-gun, and quicker'n scat. Hold your hat in your
hand and keep it up high; you'll need all the balance you can
get out of it."

I didn't have time to do much thinking, and I couldn't have
flipped out of the saddle on purpose to save my neck. It was
only what Sid had told me about holding my hat high that
saved me a dozen times. Clay never went more than a foot off
the ground, and he didn't bog his head enough to even give me
a light line to hold. He didn't sunfish, and he didn't swap ends,
but he did every double-shuffle, fence row, and zigzag in the
book--and some that weren't.

I don't think the seat of my pants was square in that saddle
for a tenth of a second after Clay's first side-slip. Twice I was so
far off balance that I could see the ground between my own
legs. But, both times, just when I thought I was a goner for
sure, Clay changed direction and snapped the saddle back
under me. I don't suppose he put on more than a ten-second
show--nobody could really have called it bucking--but it
seemed to me like an hour. When he swung around to the gate
and stopped, he turned his head and looked at me as if he were
saying, "Well, you made it, didn't you, kid?"

Everybody, even the dairyhands, were crowded around the
breaking pen when Sid opened it and let me ride Clay out.
Hazel was hopping up and down, and half a dozen were talking
at the same time, but I was only listening for Mr Bendt.
"Reckon you know what you done to me," he said, with a laugh
that didn't have any music in it. "Dang near put me afoot, that's

L

what you done! Figgered I had a chance right up to the last
hop. You wasn't on by more'n a boot heel." Then he slapped Mr Batchlett on the back, and hooted, "By dog, did you take
note of all the air he beat with that Stetson? Looked like a
dadgummed hawk fightin' a coyote with one busted wing."

Anyone could have seen how badly Mr Bendt felt, and that
he was just trying to cover up by hooting and making a joke.
I didn't feel a bit good myself. Even though I'd stayed on Clay,
I'd only proved that Hazel was right when she said I probably
couldn't handle him. I hadn't wanted the horse in the first
place, and wished I could find some way of turning him over to Mr Bendt.

I was sitting there on the claybank with my head down,
thinking, when Mr Batchlett slapped me on the leg, and said,
"Get your feathers up, boy! Between you and Hazel, you earned
him fair and square. He'll dump you plenty of times, but you'll
prob'ly learn to ride him." He'd started away, then turned
back, and said, quiet enough that no one else could hear, "You
understand, Little Britches, that by pickin' this horse you've
picked yourself one of the toughest jobs in the outfit--and
there won't be nobody comin' to help you."

"Yes, sir," I said, "I know it." I really didn't, until that minute,
but I couldn't say so.

I rode Clay around a little after Mr Batchlett talked to me,
and he was as easy to handle as Lady. I was so excited about
having him that I didn't pay too much attention to the picking
and shaking-down until it was almost my turn for the second
go-round. All I'd noticed was that no one had picked Blueboy.
Everyone ahead of me had used his first-pick horse to go in
after his second. When Zeb went in, I rode Clay up to wait for
my turn. I was sitting on him, just outside the corral gate,
thinking just how I'd catch Blueboy, when I saw Hazel run to
her father. He leaned down, and she seemed to be whispering
to him for a minute, then she came running over to me. When
I leaned down she whispered, "Take Pinch!"

"If I don't take Blueboy this time, somebody else will get
him," I whispered back.

That time Hazel looked right up into my eyes. She shook her
head hard, and said, "Uh-uh! You take Pinch; you'll need him!"

After Hazel's having picked Clay for me, and especially after
her having helped me catch him, I couldn't tell her to mind her
own business, so I said, "All right. Which one is he?"

"Well," she said, "he's bay, and he's a little bit jugheaded,
and not very pretty, but he's... there he goes! Right behind
that silver-tip!"

I'd seen plenty of Pinch when I'd been trying to catch Clay,
and had told myself he'd be the last horse in the remuda I'd
ever pick. He looked old and bony and homely and lazy, and
was about the meanest gelding I'd ever seen. He kept his ears
pinned down tight, and every time another horse got in front of
him he'd snake his neck out and bite it on the rump.

The remuda was running in a merry-go-round, and I took
Clay into the corral real slowly, planning to make a flip catch
the first time Pinch passed me. But he didn't go past. He
dropped out of the circle and nipped his way into a bunch that
was jammed in the far corner. I'd hardly looked toward Pinch,
and don't know how in the world he knew I was after him, but he did--and so did Clay. Both of them knew a lot more about
the whole business than I did.

Pinch turned to face us squarely as I rode toward the corner.
One after another, the other horses dashed away, but he didn't
move a muscle, and Clay never once turned his head toward
the others. He slowed his gait and, under me, felt the way a cat looks when it's creeping up on a ground squirrel. I couldn't
very well make a flip catch with Pinch facing right at me, so I
began to whirl my loop slowly--and must have glanced up at
it. In that split moment Pinch dodged to get away, and quicker
than the pop of a whip, Clay dived to stop him. If I hadn't
grabbed for the saddle horn faster than I could think, he'd have
spilled me. As it was, I dropped my coil and the loop fell dead.
I'd have lost my catch rope altogether if the end of it hadn't
been tied to the saddle horn.

I was even more ashamed of myself for grabbing the horn
than for wasting a throw and dropping my rope. Neither horse

L

moved until I had the rope coiled again and had begun to
swing my loop. As it came forward on the fourth swing, I
yanked it down hard at Pinch's head. But his head wasn't there
--and I came awfully near not being there either. In the split
fraction of a second it took that loop to strike, Pinch had snaked
his head away and dodged to one side. Clay dodged right with
him, and I had to grab for the saddle horn again.

I don't think Pinch ever moved his hind feet, but he kept
feinting and dodging with his front ones, and Clay feinted and
dodged a little quicker. He didn't pay any more attention to me
than if I'd been a sack of rags--and that's just about the way I
rode him. More than half the time I was half out of the saddle,
and the only way I could stay in it at all was by keeping a death
grip on the horn. Hank was yelling orders at me, I could hear
the men hooting and laughing, but the two horses kept feinting
so fast I couldn't get my balance long enough to coil in my
rope.

I must have slid back and forth across my saddle a thousand
times before I had sense enough to pull Clay away from that
corner, so he'd stand still long enough for me to think. I knew
I'd lost my head in trying to handle Pinch, and I guess that's
what made me think of Hi Beckman. At the Y-B ranch he was
always telling me, "A man that loses his head loses his horse.
Don't never tackle a horse till you've watched him and know his quirks."

When I'd sat still and thought a couple of minutes, I was
sure I knew how to catch Pinch--and it worked just the way
I'd thought it would. I whirled my rope, drove him out of the
corner and into the merry-go-round, then crowded him until he
caught up to the slowest runners. He did what I knew he'd do;
snaked his head out to nip the horse in front of him on the
rump. My loop caught him when he was looking where he was
going to nip.

Pinch behaved all right when I led him to the breaking pen,
but Sid didn't. When I was swinging out of my saddle, he
fanned my behind with his hat, as if he thought I'd burned it

when I was sliding around on Clay. He didn't say a word, but
he didn't have to: the men howled and hollered like a pack of
moon-struck coyotes.

I didn't look at anybody when I rode Clay out and stripped
off my saddle, and I was halfway back to the breaking pen with
it when Mr Batchlett called, "Hey! How about them spurs!
Better leave 'em on the outside!"

With everybody laughing at me--and having to go back to
take off my spurs--I was a little careless about the way I saddled
old Pinch. He blew his belly up like a balloon when Sid
was passing the cinch under him, and I didn't notice that he
was still holding his breath when I yanked the cinch tight and
set my knot. "Better hold off a minute and tighten that cinch
again!" Sid told me, as I started up the poles to mount, "he's
still as swole up as a bloated calf!"

I'd fussed around and been laughed at enough, and I wasn't
going to wait and let people think I was afraid to get on Pinch.
Besides, I didn't think the old horse would any more than crow
hop. "He's just hay-bellied, that's all!" I said, balanced on the
top rail, and eased myself down into the saddle.

I found out how hay-bellied Pinch was in less than two
seconds after Sid turned him loose--and I found out what kind
of crow-hopping he did. That old horse went at the job of
unloading me the same way a man would go at chopping wood

--except that he made a quarter turn between every down
stroke. He didn't move either forward or back, each jump was
just like the one before it, and he didn't hurry. With a tight
saddle, any man--if he had a stout enough neck and backbone

--could have ridden him all day without being thrown, but I
didn't have any of them.

Pinch let out a big groan and a barrelful of air on his first
jump, and from there on, the saddle rolled around on him like
the skin on a cat. With every thud and turn, it slipped farther
forward and to one side, and I got dizzier and dizzier.
It would have been a disgrace to grab the saddle horn, but I
couldn't even do that. It was way around where my right knee

should have been, and I'd had to kick my feet out of the stirrups.
I don't remember much of anything after the first half
dozen jumps, but, when Pinch stopped, I had a death grip on his mane with both hands, and my legs were clamped in front
of his shoulders like a collar.

At first, there wasn't a sound outside the breaking pen, but
the men started laughing again when Sid picked me off. And I
heard Mr Bendt hoot, "By diggity, I'll say he's a trick rider!
That kid's sure got a ridin' style all his own!"

The lump came back into my throat, and I was sure I'd made
such a fool of myself that I'd always be a joke around the place.
But Mr Batchlett was waiting when I led Pinch out of the pen.
He put his hand on the back of my neck and rubbed it around
a couple of times, good and hard. Then he said, "I could'a told
you what would happen before you climbed aboard, but I
reckoned it was best to let the horse learn you. Now you'll
remember to double-check your gear before you step foot in a
stirrup. You ought to do all right this summer if you can learn
to ride 'em; you got two right smart horses."

I still didn't think much of old Pinch, but I nodded and said,
"Yes, sir--and I think I'll remember."

When my turn was coming up for the third go-round, I
kneed the last breath of air out of Pinch and hauled my cinch
strap as tight as I could get it. Blueboy still hadn't been picked,
and I didn't want to take a chance with a slipping saddle when
I went in after him.

Hazel hadn't come near me since I'd made that terrible ride
on Pinch's neck, but she came walking over when we were
waiting outside the corral gate. She didn't mention the ride, or
the way I'd slipped and slid around on Clay, but asked, "Which
one you goin' to pick this time?"

"Blueboy," I told her.

"Fiddle-tee-dee," she said, with her nose wrinkled up. "He
ain't got any more sense than y... , than a jack rabbit. Look
at him! 'Four white feet and a white nose; haul off his hide and
feed him to the crows.' Why don't you pick Juno?"

"Because I want Blueboy," I told her.

"Why?"

"Because I like him," I said. "Isn't that enough?"

"Hmff! Tis for you, I reckon!" she snapped, and started away
toward her mother. Then she flung back over her shoulder,,
"but you'll be sorry to the very longest day you live."

"If I'm sorry, it'll be because I got this crabby old jughead,"
I snapped back. But when I rode into the corral I wasn't as sure
as I had been that I wanted Blueboy. He'd been getting more
and more excited as the picking went on, and was no longer
running with the bunch, but dashing this way and that--ripping at the other horses and driving them out of his way. If
I hadn't had that little tiff with Hazel, I'd have tossed my rope
onto a neat-looking pinto mare that had caught my eye. But if
I'd done it, everybody would have known I was letting Hazel
boss me around. I just about had to take Blueboy, whether I
still wanted him or not.

If cow horses aren't mind readers, they come awfully close
to it. I'd hardly made up my mind that I had to take Blueboy
before Pinch knew it. He didn't pay the least bit of attention
to any other horse in the corral--and he surprised me half out
of my skin. I'd just set my loop whirling when Blueboy made a
wild dash past us. The cantle of my saddle came up and
spanked me across the seat of my pants, then it snapped to the
side. I don't suppose it took me a tenth of a second to catch
my balance, or I'd have gone flying. But in that split instant old
Pinch had pulled the throttle wide open. He was racing stride
for stride with Blueboy, and holding him in against the pole
fence at my right. All I had to do was to let my loop drop over
his head; I could have made the catch just as easy with a barrel
hoop.

Every other horse had cooled right down when it felt the
rope around its neck, but Blueboy went wild. He reared, struck
with his fore hoofs, then whirled and charged away. Pinch
whirled to face him and half squatted--almost like a dog sitting
down. The rope whizzed out like a whip lash, and Blueboy was.

the cracker when he reached the end of it Pinch didn't budge
an inch when the rope twanged tight against the knot on the
saddle horn, but Blueboy did a flying somersault and landed on
his back. He was still groggy when he lurched to his feet and
let me lead him to the breaking pen.

I think all the men had expected another show when I rode
in to make my third pick. And I don't believe one of them expected
me to take Blueboy. I guess it happened so fast that it
took everybody as much by surprise as it. did me. As Sid swung the bucking pen gate open, he yapped, "What in the
blazin'...?"

But Mr Batchlett came up to the fence and called, "Watch
that horse, Sid! He's treacherous!"

"Ain't it best I turn him back?" Sid asked,

"He picked him; leave him learn his lesson!" Mr Batchlett
said in a hard dry voice. "But watch out when you saddle up!
And hang in close for a pick-up when the kid mounts!"

Blueboy was still acting half stunned, and hardly made a
move when Sid hauled the cinch tight. Sid had his mouth
clamped as tight as he pulled the cinch, and he didn't open it
until I was balanced on the top rail, ready to ease into the saddle.
He'd taken the hackamore from his own rig, put it on
Blueboy, and let the nose band out until it was only a couple of inches above the nostrils. As he passed me the hold-rope, he
said, "See them scars acrost this blue devil's muzzle? Them's
hackamore scars; he's got a tender nose bone. Keep your hold
rope hauled up tight, so's he can't neither bog or h'ist his
head. Don't try to grab a-holt of nothin' when you get throwed!"

Then I eased into the saddle, found the stirrups, and Sid
drew his horse away to turn us loose.

Blueboy went up like a geyser, and came down running and
crowhopping. He didn't twist or side-jump, and I'd ridden
yearling calves that were harder to stay on. After three crow
hopping, bouncing turns around the breaking pen, he settled
into a fairly even gait.

I was sitting in the saddle sort of loose-jointed--thinking

what I was going to say to Hazel--when Blueboy suddenly
busted wide open. He caught me when I wasn't ready, and I
didn't have a chance. From the instant of his first side-jump, I
bounced around in my saddle like a pea in a gourd. I forgot
what Sid had told me about keeping the hackamore tight, and
couldn't even hold an arm out for balance. Both arms and both
legs were flailing and I was flying in mid-air when Sid's arm
looped around me and pulled me across his horse's neck. I don't
think Blueboy even missed me; he kept right on pitching as
if he were trying to throw the saddle over the moon.

The wind was knocked out of me so much I couldn't talk
when Sid gathered me in--but he could. He spluttered at me
like an old setting hen, wanting to know why in the world I'd
picked Blueboy in the first place, why I hadn't been watching
out for tricks, and why I didn't take a dive when he caught me napping. There weren't any good answers, and I didn't
try to give any. It seemed as if I'd made a monkey of myself
with everything I'd tried to do all afternoon, and I didn't feel
very happy when Sid let me slide down at the gate. If I could
have slipped away, climbed onto Lady, and headed for home,
I think I'd have done it.

Blueboy was still kicking and bucking, and Mr Batchlett
looked pretty sore when he opened the gate and came in. "Well,
young fellah," he said, "you picked yourself a big handful,
didn't you? What you goin' to do with him now you've got
him?"

"I haven't got him," I said. "He had me thrown clear when
Sid grabbed me."

"Rode out your ten count, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir," I said, "but then he wasn't bucking like..."

"Then he's yours! You going to ride him or ruin him?"

For a second it seemed as if the bottom had dropped out
of my stomach, and my mouth went dry as powder. The first
thought that crossed my mind was that Mr Batchlett was
sore at me for having picked Blueboy, and that he wanted
me to get hurt.

I hadn't been so scared since the first time I was dumped
off a horse--and I think that's what saved me.

That first tumble came back to me in a flash. It had been
when I was eight years old. Father had picked me up, caught
the horse, and told me to get back on. "Unless you show him
who's boss right now, it will ruin you both," he'd told me.
"He'll lose respect for you, and you'll lose respect for yourself."
When I'd hung back and told him I was afraid, he'd said,
"You don't have to be ashamed of that. Every man who ever
did a brave thing was afraid. It doesn't take courage to do the
things you're not afraid of."

It almost seemed as if I could hear Father's voice again. I
looked up at Mr Batchlett, and said, "I'll ride him now...
and thank you."

He slapped me on the shoulder, and called, "Get a rope on
that blue devil, Sid! We got a bronc-twister comin' up."

There wasn't any real bronc-twisting to my second ride on
Blueboy. He'd nearly bucked himself out in trying to unload
the saddle. I kept the hackamore rope pulled tight, and he
only made about ten straightforward pitches before he came
to a stand.

Even Hazel came over to the gate to meet us when I rode
Blueboy out of the breaking pen, but she was still snippy. The
first chance she got, she turned up her nose at me and said,
"Well, you got him, Smarty, but you'll be sorry."

When Mr Bendt was in the corral for his third pick, Mr
Batchlett came and stood beside me. "You've got more horse
there than a boy of your age ought to have," he told me,
"and I reckon I'm out of my head to let you keep him. He's
headstrong as a mule, tougher'n bull beef, and can't be trusted.
Don't you go tryin' to ride him without there's one another of
us close by."

I just nodded my head--we stood there for a couple of
minutes, watching Mr Bendt catch Juno--the neat pinto mare
I'd had my eye on, and the one Hazel had told me to pick.
Then Mr Batchlett squeezed my shoulder a quick little grab,

and said, "I know how you feel about him, Little Britches.
Felt the same way 'bout his old man when I was younger-- greatest wild horse ever I laid eyes on!" He rubbed a hand along Blueboy's sweaty neck, smiled, and said, "Reckon maybe
that's why I ain't give up on this worthless son-ofa-gun."

It was so late when we finished the horse-picking that Mr
Batchlett decided not to send the rest of the remuda to the
mountain ranch till morning, and I was glad of it. I hadn't
really been hurt at all, but I'd been thumped and twisted
around until I ached all over. As soon as we'd had supper, I
made a beeline for my bunk.

#.' &

6

A Yella Ribbon.

ON BATCHLETT'S home ranch part of the cowhands' job
was to keep the fences up and, as a day could be spared, posts
were cut and hauled from the mountains. When we'd finished
breakfast Monday morning, Mr Batchlett pushed his chair
back and said, "Don't aim to start tradin' trips till next week,
but once we're at it there won't be no time for side work. How
about you boys wrastlhY in a few loads of fence posts? That'll
give you an hour or two, morning and night, to get your horse
strings worked in easy,"

Then, as we left the table, he took hold of my arm, and
said, "Ain't much of an axe arm, is it? You little devils had
best to split up for this go-round. You ain't got weight enough
between you to wrastle a good-sized post. Supposin' you team
up with Zeb, and Sid can go along with Ned. Tom, you and
Hank can take the spare horses up to the mountain ranch."
Then he turned to Ned and said, "Take the posts out of that
fir stand in the bend of Bootheel Canyon. It's only fifteen miles
up there, and they're easy to get at."

I didn't mind going to cut fence posts as much as the others
seemed to, but I didn't like the idea of going with Zeb very

well. In the two days I'd been with the outfit he hadn't said
two words to me--and not many more to anyone else. He
didn't go with us when we left the chuckhouse to work out
our horses, but slouched off toward the forge.

Pinch and Clay didn't worry me very much, but I knew I'd
have to do a lot of work with Blueboy before I had him
steadied down enough for handling cattle. I was lucky in
catching him with my first throw, and he didn't fight when I
drew him in and tied him to a corral post. But when Sid
was helping me saddle him he side-jumped, bobbed his head,
and lashed his tail like a mad tomcat. Sid wouldn't let me get
on until he had his horse saddled and was mounted alongside.

Blueboy didn't buck until we were outside the corral, then
he geysered and came down running and pitching toward
the wagon road. Half a dozen times I was nearly thrown, but
grabbed the horn, clamped my legs tight, and managed to
stay with him. He started down the roadway in hard crowhops,
then stretched his head out like a wild goose in flight, lowered
his back, and turned on the steam. From far behind I heard
Sid shout, "Yank that hackamore! Bust his nose!" But with
Blueboy's head stuck out the way it was, the nose band had
slipped half way up to his eyes, and I had no more control
of him than if he'd been a runaway railroad engine.

The roadway ran straight across the valley for a quarter
mile, then twisted up a steep hill to the east. At the first turn
Blueboy left it and drove straight up the hill, trying to rake
me off against scrub-oak clumps. I could have dived into one
of them and got out with nothing more than a few scratches,
but I knew that if I did I'd never be able to ride him again.
I had to find some way to control him, and my chances were
growing less with every second I waited.

There was only one thing I could think of to do, and I did
it. Suddenly letting the hackamore rope go slack, I snapped
it, the way I'd have thrown a running noose. As the nose-band
bounced forward across the tender cartilage, I made a quick

turn of the rope-end around the saddle horn, kicked a foot
high, and whanged my heel down on the slack rope.

The jolt nearly threw me out of the saddle, but Blueboy's
nose came down as if a boulder had been dropped on it. Before
he could raise it again, I'd hauled in the slack and taken another
turn around the saddle horn. With his chin pulled tight
against his chest, and with his breathing half cut off by the band
across his nose, some of the fight went out of him. When
Sid caught up to us, Blueboy and I were both trembling like
aspens, but not for the same reason. He was madder than a
wildcat in a trap, and I was as happy as if I'd just got him
for a Christmas present.

Sid jawed and rowed at me all the way back to the corral,
telling me I was a fool for trying to ride Blueboy, that he'd
kill me, and that I'd better turn him in with the horses being
taken to the mountain ranch. Blueboy fought the tight hacka
more and me all the way, side-jumping, lashing his tail, and
rearing. But I was so proud of being able to handle him at
all that I wouldn't listen to Sid.

When we were riding up the straight piece of road toward
the corral, I saw Mr Batchlett standing by the gate watching
us. He just nodded to me as we rode up, and said, "Cool him
out a bit before you leave him!" then walked away.

By the time I'd led Blueboy around enough to cool him
out, Zeb had a team of work horses hitched to a wagon and was
waiting for me. Ned and Sid had already driven off to the
mountains, but Zeb didn't seem to be in any hurry. He was
sprawled out on the wagon seat like a rag doll, and when I
climbed up he shifted one leg just enough to make room for
me. He didn't make a sound, and I didn't see him move the
reins, but the team started off at a slow walk.

"That blue horse has sure got a mind of his own," I said,
just trying to make talk, but Zeb only nodded. He seemed to
be looking off toward Pikes Peak, where the morning sun
gleamed on the snowy summit as if it had been a diamond set
in the necklace of white clouds that surrounded it

The wheel tracks twisted in and out of gulches, and the
team plodded on, but the only move Zeb made was to keep his
face turned toward Pikes Peak, I didn't like sitting there like
a frog on a log, so I asked Zeb if he liked the horses he'd
picked, and if he didn't think the grub at Batchlett's was
good. All the answer I got was a nod, so I began thinking
of things I could do to make Blueboy into a good cow horse--
and wondering why Hazel had tricked me into picking her
father's prize cutting horse. I was still thinking about it when
the wheel ruts turned in between high canyon walls. Then I
almost jumped off the seat. There hadn't been a sound except
the chuckle of the wheel hubs on the axles and the clump of
horses' feet, when Zeb suddenly sang out, "She wore a yella
ribbon around her neck."

It was more hollered than sung. Zeb's voice was high and
through his nose, and it went up and down like the braying
of a mule, but the canyon walls caught it, and echoed, "Neck... neck... neck... neck..." until it died away to a
whisper. Zeb sat with an ear cocked, listening until the echo
died away, then slumped back with his eyes half-closed.

An hour later we'd left the canyon floor and climbed rough
wheel tracks that led over the spur of a low mountain. Neither
of us had made a sound since Zeb sang, and I'd gone back to
thinking. At the top of the rise, Zeb stopped the team, and sat
up with his back toward me, looking off to the south. "I
cal'clate this here is jist about the die-rection he was a-lookin'
in when first he seen her," he said slowly.

"When who first saw who?" I asked.

"Zebulon Montgomery Pike," Zeb said, almost reverently.
"Who else but Injuns ever seen her afore him?"

"I don't know," I said, ''because I don't know who she is."

"The peakl The peakl" he half whispered. "The silver-haired
queen o' the Rockies."

The clouds had moved away, and the mantle of snow on
the summit of Pikes Peak did look like a head of silvery,
wavy hair. "It's a beautiful mountain, isn't it?" I said.

"The queen! The queen!" he said in a sort of hushed voice. "And she's a-settin' there holdin' her pot o' gold in her lap. Ain't
no man never goin' to dig deep enough to rob it afore the
day o' jedgment."
I'd heard people say there was probably more gold left inside
Pikes Peak than had ever been mined from it, but I'd
never heard anyone call the mountain a queen. I was sitting
there thinking of it when Zeb clucked to the horses and we
moved on. He didn't speak again until we'd pulled up below
a stand of tall firs in Bootheel Canyon.

Ned and Sid were hacking away to beat the band when we
reached the canyon, and already had eight or ten posts on
their wagon. I wanted to hurry and catch up with them, but
there was no hurrying Zeb. He sat looking over the firs for
nearly ten minutes before he pulled the wagon in below them.
I had one horse unharnessed, hobbled, and turned out to graze
before he had the buckles undone on the other. But when I
took the axes out of the wagon, I could see he hadn't been

loafing while I was having my fight with Blueboy. They were
ground and stoned almost to razor edges, and each head was
carefully wrapped in a gunny sack.

I'd only felled a few small trees in my life, but had chopped
plenty of railroad ties for firewood. Father had been brought
up in the woods of Maine, and could really make chips fly.
He'd made me a small axe a couple of years before he died,
had taught me to swing it, and always made me keep the edge
honed sharp. I thought that felling a really big tree would
be a lot of fun, so I grabbed the lightest axe, and started for
the tallest fir at the lower edge of the stand. It was nearly
twenty inches through the butt, and I went at the uphill
side of it as fast as I could swing the axe. When I had to stop
for breath, I looked up to see Zeb leaning on his axe handle and watching me. "Cabin or bridge log?" he asked.

I felt pretty silly as I watched Zeb climb slowly up the hill
beyond me, but I'd already ruined the tree, and there was
nothing to do but go on and fell it. But when I went to do

that, I found that I hadn't run out of breath soon enough; I'd
cut so far into the uphill side of the tree that it was going
to fall that way. It did, but not all the way. It tangled with
some other trees, and hung swaying--as if it were just waiting
for someone foolish enough to walk under it.

While I was standing there, a tall, slim tree came whistling
down a little way beyond me. The slender trunk curved as
it cut through between a couple of larger trees, and the top
fell within a few feet of the wagon. I climbed a little way up
the leaning trunk of the big tree I'd cut, and jounced up and
down, but wasn't heavy enough to shake it loose.

After I'd jounced a few more times, I went down and began
chopping the limbs off the tree Zeb had felled. By the time
I'd finished, he had a couple of others, just like it, stretched
out with their tops lying close to the wagon. He hadn't said
a word, but when I stopped for breath, I could hear him
making some kind of a noise as he chopped. It sounded like
a string of slow grunts, connected by high-pitched whispers.
When I listened real sharply I could hear that he was singing, "She WORE a yella RIBbon aROUND her NECK. She WORE
a yella RIBbon aROUND her NECK." He was grunting every
other sound as the axe came down, and with every slow stroke
a chip, nearly as big as my head, flew.

I didn't stop for breath any oftener than I had to, and Zeb
didn't hurry a bit, but he had a couple of dozen trees felled
before I had six limbed out. Every one of them was just the right size for fence posts, and every top was within fifteen
feet of the wagon. I guess he thought he was far enough ahead
of me by that time. When I stopped to look up again, he was
fitting his shoulder under the trunk of the tree I'd left hanging.
He heaved up and against it, then jumped back, as quick as
a cat, and the tree came crashing down.

I kept my axe swinging, but watched Zeb. Working in his
lazy, loose-jointed way, he lopped off the branches of the big
tree, and topped it where it was about four inches through. Measuring with his eye, he notched the trunk every seven feet

as he came back down the steep hill. Then he cut half way
through at each notch, rolled the log over, and finished the
cuts.

Zeb was beginning his last cut when I stopped for a breather.
When I looked up again he was nowhere in sight. I'd limbed
out two more trees before he came back, carrying half a
dozen chips of granite, each a little larger than his hands.
Using them for wedges, he went to work, splitting the logs he'd cut from the big tree. Sparks flew from the granite each time
the back of his axe head hit it.

I wanted to stand and watch him, but was ashamed to, and
half afraid he'd say something rough to me for being fool
enough to cut so big a tree. I was chopping limbs as fast as I
could go when he came walking down the hill passed me. He
carried two of the quartered sections of the biggest log, and
each of them must have weighed nearly double what I did.
He shouldered them squarely across the wagon, spit a thin
streak of tobacco juice, and said, "Make right nice corner
posts, them will. Ain't it time we et?"

Through the early afternoon, Zeb kept going in that lazy,
loose-jointed way of his, but it made the sweat run down my
back to limb trees as fast as he felled, cut them into post
lengths, and carried them to the wagon. The sun was still
high when we had our wagon loaded, but I hadn't done a
quarter of the work. Sid and Ned had been chopping steadily,
but they still had a couple of hours' work to do when we pulled
away for the home ranch.

I'd thought we were pretty slow in coming out that morning,
but we were twice as slow going back. Once in a while Zeb
would sing a few words of "Yella Ribbon" half under his
breath, but most of the time he just sat sprawled there on
top of the posts with his eyes partly shut. And every half mile
or so, he let the horses stop for a long rest.

By the time we left the canyon floor and climbed the spur,
the sun was dipping down toward the top of the high range
of mountains to the west. We had just reached the top when

Pikes Peak came into sight beyond a low mountain to the
south, and the sinking sun reflected from its summit in a soft
orange glow. Zeb lifted the reins just a trifle and stopped the
team. "Cal'clated to git here "bout this hour," he said, looking
off at the peak. "This here's the time o' day she takes the lid
offn her pot o' gold an' lets it shine on her hair."

"She's beautiful, isn't she," I said.

"Yep. A queen... every inch of her... and there ain't
no man can harm her."

We must have sat there twenty minutes, as the sunlight
played on the snow fields of the summit. Zeb didn't speak
again, and I didn't either. When you're looking at something
beautiful and grand and sort of peaceful, it always seems
nicer to be with someone who doesn't talk.

After the glow had faded a little, Zeb handed me the reins,
climbed down, and stuck a post between the spokes of the
hind wheels. With the steel wagon tires squealing and sliding
over the rocks, I took the horses down the grade as carefully
as I could. Zeb followed at the side with a heavy post over
his shoulder, ready to trig the wheels if the load should crowd
too hard on the horses.

Even with the early start we'd got from Bootheel Canyon,
Sid and Ned caught up to us as we were pulling out between
the hogbacks that stand in front of the mountains. Twilight
was deepening, and the lights of the home ranch showed like
fireflies through the clumps of scrub oak. Neither Zeb nor
I had said a word since we were at the top of the spur, but as
the lights came into sight Sid ya-hooed from the wagon behind,
and I ya-hooed back. As if it had wakened Zeb from a dream,
he drew the reins up, and crooned, "She wore a yella ribbon
around her neck." A minute later he said, "They's days it
ain't half bad to be a-livin'." Then, without another word, he
drove on to the home place.

The rest of the hands went to the bunkhouse right after
supper, but I wanted to see how Lady and my new horses
were doing. There was a full moon just rising, and the horses

stood in little groups, with one hip dropped and their heads
drooping lazily. Zeb's mule was off in a far corner, and Sid's
pinto and Lady stood head-to-rump near by. She came trotting
over when I whistled, and took the piece of biscuit I'd brought
her. I was scratching her forehead, and didn't notice Mr
Batchlett till he leaned his arms on the gate beside me.

He didn't say anything for a few minutes, and I didn't know
what to say, so I kept still. Then he asked, "How'd you make
out today? I see you got a pretty good load."

"Fine," I said, "but Zeb did most of the work."

"Mmmm-hmmm," he said, "you could learn a lot from Zeb."

"Well, not by his talking" I told him.

"Kind of an off-ox old critter," Mr Batchlett said, "but a

plumb good one. Looked at Pikes Peak at sundown, didn't you?" you?

"Yes, sir," I said, "but how did you know?"

"I know Zebulon Pike Montgomery," he answered.

"You mean Zebulon Montgomery Pike, don't you?" I asked.

"No, Zebulon Pike Montgomery. That's old Zeb's name. His
paw named him, near as he could, after the man that found
that mountain, and he worships both the man and the mountain
he found. Old critter won't work no place where he can't keep
an eye on it, night and mornin'."

"He calls it, 'her'," I said; "the queen of the Rockies."

"Tell you about the pot o' gold she's holdin' in her lap?"

"Yes, sir," I said, "and about the way it glows on her hair
at sunset."

"Then you and him will get along all right. Old Zeb, he
don't open up much about her hair less'n he likes you."

"Then we're even," I said; "I like him, too."

"Mmm-hmmm. Them as really knows him does. You better
run on now and turn in; sunup comes mighty early in the
mornin' this time o' year."

Mr Batchlett was still standing there, looking off toward
Pikes Peak, when I went to the bunkhouse.

7

Long-tailed Wildcats.

POST-CUTTING went better for me the second day than the
first, but it was rough for Sid. We took three wagons and
Tom teamed up with Ned, so Sid had to work with Hank. At
breakfast Mr Batchlett told us to make an early start because
he'd have some work for us when we got back.
When we reached Bootheel I didn't bother with any felling,
but waited for Zeb to drop a tree, then went right to work
on the trimming. The practice I'd had the day before helped,
and I was able to keep up with him as he felled, cut the trees
into posts, and loaded them. We were working a couple of
hundred yards from the others, but all morning I could hear
Hank rowing and hollering at Sid. By noon we had our wagon
piled high, Tom and Ned were about half loaded, but Hank
and Sid didn't have more than a dozen posts on theirs.

After we'd eaten, Zeb helped Hank and Sid, so I went to
work with Tom and Ned. With what Father had taught me,
and what I'd learned from watching Zeb, I could make a tree
fall fairly near where I wanted it to. As soon as Tom and Ned
found it out, they let me do the felling and cut the posts,
while they did the trimming and loading. It worked out pretty

well, and I was kind of proud that I'd found something I could
do better than most full-grown cowhands.

The sun was still high when we reached the home ranch, but
I didn't do anything to be proud of after we got there.

As soon as we had the teams unharnessed Mr Batchlett
called, "You boys can leave the unloading till morning and
saddle up; we got fifty head of stock to cut and sort this afternoon.
Better toss your saddle on Clay, Little Britches, and
work the kinks out of him."

I don't think I worked many kinks out of Clay, but he
worked plenty of them into me. Having the only cutting horse
on the place in my string, it was my job to separate each animal
from the herd as Mr Batchlett called for it. I'd seen plenty
of cattle cutting, but had never been the one to do it, or paid
much attention to the way it was done.

As soon as Mr, Batchlett pointed out the first calf he wanted,
I rode Clay straight at it, planning to guide him around it and
drive it out of the herd. Until he found which calf we were
after I was the boss, but from there on I was lucky to stay
in the saddle. Clay could sense an animal's move before I
could see it, and regardless of which way I tried to guide him,
he'd dodge with the calf. He did it so lightning fast that before
I could set myself, the saddle would be jerked out from under
me. Twice I got spilled completely, and had to pick myself
up while Clay took the right calf out of the herd alone. After
the second tumble, Mr Batchlett called, "You're trying too
hard! Leave him have his head as soon as he knows which one
you want! And keep aholt of the horn. He don't need help
from nobody!"

I'd always thought it was a disgrace to grab the horn, or to
let a horse do whatever he wanted to. But it was sure that
Clay didn't need any help from me, and just as sure that I'd
have to hang onto the horn if I was going to stay with him.
After that I didn't fall all the way off again, but I was close
to it forty times, and had a lot of trouble making Clay take the
right calf out of the herd. Hank kept yelling at me all after
noon, and three or four times Mr Batchlett called, "Take it
easy. Take it easy! Don't try to rush him!" By the tone of his
voice I knew he thought I was just about hopeless. When the
job was finally done I was so ashamed of myself that I wanted
to crawl off and hide, and I felt as if I'd been run through a
thrashing machine.

Being ashamed of the bad job I'd done riding Clay got me
into plenty of trouble. Right in the middle of supper, Hank
began to make fun of me for the way I'd fallen off a tame old
cow pony, and telling how he used to catch and ride wild
broncos when he was my age. If I hadn't been so tired and
ashamed of myself, it wouldn't have bothered me, but that
night I couldn't help boiling over. "Why don't you brag about
your post-hacking?" I snapped at him. "I'll bet I can cut
twice as many posts as you can any day!"

"You didn't cut no posts!" Hank shouted. "Zeb cut 'em!
By dogies, if I ain't cut two posts to your one I'll... why
when I was..."

Mr Batchlett thumped the table hard, and said, "That's
enough! You team up with Zeb tomorrow, Sid, and let these
two wildcats find out who's got the longest tail."

Next morning I was up before the sun, took my axe to the
forge, ground the cutting edge to a long slim bevel, and honed
it carefully. Then I wrapped it in a gunny sack so it wouldn't
get nicked, and put it in Hank's wagon. He was the last to
come in for breakfast, and was bent over with one hand on
the small of his back. "By dogies," he sort of whined, "they's a
cloudburst o' rain a-comin' on 'fore noontime. The way this
here misery gits into my backbone, I can always tell it. Don't
reckon we dast venture into them mountains till it's over.
Water'll come a-roarin' down them canyons forty foot deep."

"A few clouds drifting in from the north," Mr Batchlett
said, "but I don't reckon we'll get more'n a drizzle of rain."

"By dogies, not the way my back's a-feelin'!" Hank groaned.
"This here's cloudburst misery I got! Couldn't no more swing an axe or lift a post today than I could fly."

Mr Batchlett didn't look up, but said, "That's enough belly
achin'l You're going to cut posts with the kid, like it or not!
If you want to limber up while the boys unload, you can take
the turn-back yearlings out to the calf pasture."

"Way my back's a-kickin' up, I don't know if I can make
it or not, but I'll do the best I can," Hank whined.

He was still at the table when the rest of us went out, and
we were pretty well started on the unloading when he hobbled
to the corral, caught a horse, and saddled it. He was still walking bent over, and made three tries before he pulled himself
up into the saddle. But the horse he'd caught was one of his
new string. It took half a dozen crowhops as soon as Hank
was in the saddle, and he rode them out with his back as
limber as a buggy whip. Then he saw us watching him, and
began to cuss and rub his back as he rode out of sight.

Hank hadn't come back from the pasture when the other
two teams drove off to the mountains, so I went to the corrals
and was scratching Lady's forehead when Hazel and Kenny
rode up to the gate. She was on a nice little pinto and he was
bareback on a sleepy looking old donkey. Ever since Sunday
I'd been wanting to see Hazel and ask her why she'd tricked
me into picking Clay, but she didn't give me a chance. Before
I could open my mouth, she taunted, "Well, Smarty, didn't
I tell you you'd be sorry for picking Blueboy? I seen you when
he run away with you Monday morning. You looked like he
was goin' to dump you off again every minute."

I didn't like that "again" business, and besides, I didn't want
her to think she could act as if I was just a little boy, so I
said, "Well, I haven't seen anything to be sorry about yet!
And if you saw him running away, you must have seen me
bring him back. I didn't look very much as if I was falling
off then, did I?"

Before she could answer, Kenny piped up, "Betcha my life
you can't ride Jack."

"That old jackass?" I asked him.

"Betcha my life you can't ride him like he is."

It was bad enough to have Hazel picking on me, and Kenny
made me kind of peeved. "I don't care how he is," I told him,
"I'll bet I could ride him backwards from here to Castle Rock."

Both of them began snickering, and Kenny slid off and
passed me the reins. I didn't even bother to put them around
the donkey's neck, but hopped and swung a leg over, so I was
sitting on him backwards. I expected him to make a few crow
hops, but he didn't. He just stood still, trying to kick the
clouds out of the sky--and I began to slip.
As far as Jack's kicking was concerned, any little girl could
have ridden him, but he'd shed his winter fur, and his back
was as slippery as a wet bottle. With every kick I slipped a
few inches farther, and it wasn't long before my behind was
almost down to his ears. Then all he had to do was twist his
neck and lay me on the ground. That's where I was when Mr
Batchlett came to the corner of the corral and called, "Better
saddle up and go see where Hank's at! Take the north trail
along the foothills and you can't miss him."

I was glad of any excuse to get away from Hazel and Kenny,
but it was only by luck that I found Hank. I'd ridden nearly
to the north end of the ranch when I saw a wisp of smoke
rise from a plum thicket, and Hank and his horse were hidden
inside it. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, smoking
his pipe and whittling. When I surprised him he said his
back hurt so much he'd had to stop to rest, and couldn't get
back into the saddle without help.

Hank moaned and groaned all the way back to the corral,
but he didn't do much of it after we got there. Mr Batchlett
was waiting by the gate, and as soon as Hank let out one groan,
he snapped, "That'll be enough! You've ducked this kid all
you're goin' to! Now get on that wagon and head for the
mountains! If you're not back with a full load of posts by
sundown I won't keep you around here."
Hank climbed down as spry as a spider, pulled off his
saddle, and hurried away toward the wagon, calling back,

"Don't you have no fear, Batch! Me and the kid'll fetch in
all the horses can haull"

As I started to follow, Mr Batchlett caught me by the
shoulder, and said, "Now don't go swingin' an axe like you're
killing snakes, and don't bust a gut liftin'. You got plenty of
time between now and sundown." Then he turned away and
went in to catch up his horse.

If anybody had heard me scolded the way Hank had been
I could hardly have looked at him, but it didn't seem to
bother Hank a bit. All the way to the mountains he talked
like a magpie with a split tongue, bragging about the things
he'd done when he was my age. After the first mile I began
thinking about Zeb and Pikes Peak and Blueboy and Clay, and
only heard Hank as I'd have heard a flock of geese gabbling.

With all his talking and bragging, I think Hank was worried
about getting a load of posts back to the home ranch by
sunset. He didn't let the horses stop for a single breather, and
kept them trotting whenever the hills weren't too steep.

At the lower end of the Bootheel, a narrow side canyon
led off to the north. There was no roadway up it, but the
dry creek bed was fairly wide and cobbled with stones the
size of muskmelons. Each time we'd passed it, I'd noticed the
thick stand of tall firs along the canyon walls.

I was half dreaming when we reached the mouth of the side
canyon, and nearly fell off the seat when Hank suddenly turned into it. "By dogies," he shouted, "I'm a-goin' to show 'em
how to fetch out a load o' posts quicker'n you can say scat
my catl Ain't no sense a-goin' up Bootheel where the good
trees is all took out. I know this here country like I know the
palm o' my own hand, and I know where the best post trees
is at. Why, when I was your..."

"Mr Batchlett told Ned we were to take them out of Boot
heel," I said, "and I don't think he'd like it if we..."

"You leave me do the thinkin', kid!" Hank shouted. "You'll
have both hands full and your little britches to hold up jest
a-doin' your end o' the post-hackin'."

There was no sense in my trying to change his mind, and
I wasn't big enough to make him do anything he didn't want
to, so I kept my mouth shut. The canyon twisted and wound
around in the shape of a great question mark, and the farther
we went the narrower and rougher the creek bed grew. The
first good stand of firs was above a high ledge, the second on a
mountainside too steep to climb, and the third behind an aspen thicket. I think we'd driven about five miles before we came to
any good post trees that could be gotten out.

"There, by dogies! How's them for post trees?" Hank shouted,
and passed the reins to me. "You turn the wagon about while
I go to knockin' some of 'em down."

The wagon was hard to turn in the narrow creek bed, and
before I had it around Hank had stripped off his jumper,
grabbed an axe, and was hacking at a big tree about a hundred
feet up the mountain side. "Leave 'em be! Leave 'em be!" he
yelled when I started to unhitch. "We ain't got time to mess
with no horses! Ain't no grass for 'em nohow!"

I should have had sense enough to move the team farther
down the creek bed, and to unhook the traces, but I lost my
temper when Hank began yelling at me. "Then you'd better
quit hacking at this side of that tree!" I yelled back. "It'll
nearly hit 'em if it falls this way."

"You leave me do the thinkinT Hank hollered, but moved
around and began hacking at the uphill side of the tree.

Then, when I went to get my axe I found that he'd taken
it and left me his dull one. I grabbed it up, jumped off the
wagon, and shouted, "You've got my axe! It was wrapped in
a gunny sack."

"You ain't got no axe!" he yelled back. "The both of 'em
belongs to Batch, don't they? Now get on up here and go to
limbin' out! I got this here tree almost down a'ready."

I'd never stopped to think that all the axes belonged to Mr Batchlett, and that I didn't have any more claim to one
than to another. If I had, I'd have been grinding the other
axe instead of being kicked off by Kenny's burro. I was stand
ing thinking about it when there was a crash above me, and
I looked up to see Hank's tree topple sideways and hang in the
branches of the tree next to it.

The axe Hank had left me was too dull to work with, and
had four big nicks in the edge, so I ground it into half-decent
shape on a smooth stone beside the wagon. When I'd finished
Hank had hacked off four more trees, and they'd all fallen
part way down, crisscrossing each other. I'd stopped to look
at the mess when he yelled at me, "Don't stand there a-gawkin'.
Get them trees limbed out and cut to post lengths! Can't you
see I'm way out ahead o' you?"

"Yes, I can see," I told him, "but I'll cut my own posts and
you can cut yours." Then I went farther along the stand, found
some trees the right size for posts, took off my jumper and
went to work. I tried to do it as near the way Zeb did as I
could. Before I cut into a tree I planned just where I wanted
it to fall, and when it was down I trimmed it, cut it into posts,
and carried them to the wagon. As I worked, I heard several
more crashes, ring after ring of an axe against stone, and a
lot of cussing up where Hank was working.

I had my fourth tree down and was cutting it into post
lengths when, from right behind me, Hank shouted, "Gittin'
pretty dad-gummed big for them little britches o' yourn, ain't
you? Git on over there and go to trimmin' out them trees I
chopped down 'fore I have to lay a hand on you!"

I knew Hank was bluffing, and he didn't scare me a bit.
"I'm not going to help you, and you're not going to lay a
hand on me," I told him. "You took the best axe and now
you can cut your own posts; this is supposed to be a race."

Hank went grumbling back, and though I could hear him
cussing once in a while, he didn't bother me again for three
or four hours. He hadn't taken a single post down to the
wagon, and each time I took mine down I glanced up to see
how he was doing. He was still hacking away at standing
trees, but every one he'd cut had fallen crossways and hung
up in the branches. I could have gone up and showed him

how to make them fall the right way, but I was still peeved
about his taking my sharp axe and wouldn't do it.

Though we hadn't stopped to eat, and the sky was so overcast
I couldn't tell the time, I guessed it to be about four
o'clock when I started to fell the tree that would finish my
half of the load. As it toppled straight out toward the creek
bed I jumped back, and found Hank standing behind me. "By
dogies, didn't I tell Batch?" he shouted. "We're a-goin' to get
the dadgumdest cloudburst ever you seen! Look how them
clouds is a-settin' in! We'd best to hightail out'n here 'fore
we get catched in a flood and drownded."

I stood my axe down and stepped out where I could see
the sky better. The clouds had become dark, and I was pretty
sure we'd get rain, but not a cloudburst, so I said, "It's all
right to go if you want to, but Mr Batchlett will know by the
axe marks that I cut every post on the load."

"Reckon we might as leave stick it out a while longer,"
Hank said, and started back with an axe over his shoulder.
When I went to pick up mine, I found that he'd traded with
me again. He'd left me the one I'd ground so carefully that
morning, but the edge was nicked and scalloped till it looked
like the crust on a piece of pumpkin pie. There was no sense
in trying to make Hank trade back, or in trying to use the
ruined axe, so I went over to grind it on the rock beside the
wagon.

I might have been sitting there fifteen minutes when the
horses suddenly snorted and plunged away, with the wagon
bouncing, slewing, and spilling off all the posts I'd loaded. A
moment later the top of a tree whipped down where the
wagon had stood.

As the team raced away down the creek bed Hank came
yelling at me, blaming me for scaring the horses. I knew he'd
found out, from watching me, how to drop a tree where he
wanted it, and had purposely felled that one so it would
frighten the horses. When I yelled back and told him so, he
quieted down and said pleasantly, "Ain't no sense of us

a-squabblin' 'bout it. I reckon we'd best cut acrost the ridge
and get home 'fore that cloudburst sets in. I know these here
mountains like the palm of my own hand. 'Tain't more'n seven,
eight miles the way the crow flies."

"Isn't it best to go back the way we came?" I asked. "If
we found the team we could finish out the load by sunset."

"No, by dogies!" Hank shouted. "I don't aim to get catched in no dad-burned canyon in a cloudburst! And I don't aim to
get catched in these here mountains after dark without no gun!
There's a mess o' bears hereabouts, and there ain't no tellin'
when a mountain lion'll spring out on you."

There was nothing for me to do but pick up my jumper and
axe, and follow him as he led off up the mountainside.

8.

Lost.

HANK led off up the ridge we'd been working on, quartering
along below the trees. With the whole sky clouded over I
couldn't be sure of the direction, but if the canyon had looped
around the way I thought it had, we'd be heading north. I
knew the home ranch was just a little south of straight east,
so I asked, "Aren't we going the wrong way, Hank?"

"Just a dite," he said, "to get around these here trees."

I kept still for another half hour, but was sure we should
have gone up the ridge on the other side of the canyon. After
Hank turned up a rocky ridge to our left, I asked again, "Are
you sure we're going the right way?"

"Got the mountain fever a'ready?" he laughed. "By dogies,
I seen prairie men get so fuddled up in these here mountains
they didn't know straight up from Sunday. Now you take
Why, afore I was your age..."

"I didn't say you were wrong," I told him. "I just thought
we should have gone up the other side of the canyon."

"Go fer enough that-a-way and you'd land plumb in the
Great Salt Lake. You just keep your britches drug up till we
fetch the top of this here ridge, and I'll point you out the

dome of Pikes Peak. I know these here mountains like I know
the palm of my own right hand."

The ridge was a lot higher than it looked to be, and it
took us nearly two hours to reach the top. When we got there
Hank couldn't point out Pikes Peak or anything else. By that
time it was drizzling, and the clouds hung so low we could barely see the next ridge. There was a deep canyon to cross
before we reached it, the drizzle had turned into a steady
rain, and it was growing dark and cold. I couldn't keep my
teeth from chattering; was so hungry my stomach squealed,
and was beginning to worry when Hank sang out, "By dogies, I
reckon I missed a beeline by a hair! This here'll fetch us out
to the calf pasture--just t'other side that low ridge."

I was so mixed up that all the ridges looked alike, but I
did remember a low one to the west of the calf pasture, so
I said, "Oh, yes, I remember it now! I guess we'd better hurry
before it gets darker or Mr Batchlett begins to worry."

"Batch, he ain't got no worries--'ceptin' that team a-gettin'
drownded in the cloudburst. Way this here rain's a-pickin' up,
it won't be long afore it hits. You hang close on my trail so's
you don't get lost when dark comes on."

I hung close on Hank's trail, but don't know if we ever got
to the top of the ridge he was talking about. Before we were
halfway down the one we were on, it was so dark we had
to feel for each step before we took it. And the rain was
getting colder with every step. Once I slipped and fell, and
my axe went rattling and sliding down the mountain. There was
a second or so when it didn't make a sound, then it rang against
a rock--way below us.

Ever since twilight I'd been afraid a bear or mountain lion

would spring out on us, but that didn't frighten me any more.
I was too afraid that I might step off a cliff, and that my
own head might land on a rock the way the axe had. Hank
was either as scared as I, or his teeth chattered worse. When
he tried to scold me for dropping the axe his words sounded
as if he were chewing them when he let them go.

I chewed right back, and told him I thought we'd better
stay where we were till daylight, but he wouldn't do it. He
said we'd be in the calf pasture in half an hour, and all I
had to do was to watch my step and keep close behind him. I
couldn't watch my step, and when I tried to keep close I
bumped into him. He yapped and scolded me, but didn't try
to go any farther down the mountain. We quartered across
the face of it for what seemed an hour, then climbed again. I
think it was the climbing that saved us. We'd only gone a
little way, crawling on our hands and knees, when we came
to a solid wall of rock--and there were dry fir needles at
the foot of it,

I don't know whether I slept or not, but I dug down into
the needles and raked them over me as if they were a blanket.
I only remember being cold and scared for a long time, and
that I ached all over. When the first light of morning came,
white fog filled the canyons, and low-hanging gray clouds
sliced off the tops of all the peaks and ridges. Hank was half
buried in the needles, lying on his back and snoring with
his mouth open. As I watched him, he jumped in his sleep and
mumbled something I couldn't understand, but I could tell
that he was afraid. For the first time, I knew we were nowhere
near the calf pasture, and that Hank was completely lost.

I'd heard plenty of stories about people being lost in the
mountains and wandering in circles until they died of cold
or starvation. I was already so hungry I felt weak, and was
sure we'd just wander around until we dropped in our tracks.
Then I remembered that we'd have been at the home ranch
before dark if Hank had followed back the way we'd come,
instead of being so cocksure about making the shortcut.

The more I thought of it the sorrier I was for myself, and
began thinking I hated Hank for always bragging and acting
as if he knew more than anybody else. I don't know why,
but that started me remembering things I'd done since I'd
come away from home--and I wasn't a bit proud of them.

Mr Batchlett had had to scold me a dozen times for tearing
into things before I'd stopped to think. I'd picked Blueboy

when I knew he was too much horse for me and that nobody
wanted me to take him. And, only because Hazel had called
me a little boy, I'd picked Clay and made a monkey of myself
every time I'd used him. I'd made an even bigger monkey of
myself when I'd climbed on Kenny's donkey backwards. And
I couldn't be very proud of bragging because I could cut posts
better than Hank; or of sharpening the axe I'd thought I was
going to use, and leaving his dull--or of not showing him
how to fell trees after knowing I had beat him anyway.

I'd never stopped to think of it before, but, ever since I
could remember, I'd wanted to do something real big, so
people wouldn't call me Little Britches and treat me like a
boy. But more than half the time I'd tried to do things that
were too big, and had only made myself look silly.

As I lay there thinking about it Hank mumbled again, and
struck out in his sleep. My first thought was that he'd struck
out just as blindly when he tried to make the shortcut. And
then I was ashamed of myself. I couldn't help thinking he and
I were a good deal alike. Maybe he was trying to do things
too big for him so people wouldn't call him an old man.
Maybe he bragged about things he used to do because he
couldn't do them any more, and because he wanted the same
thing I did: to have other people think he was as smart and
able to do things as they were.

As the daylight strengthened I forgot about being afraid
--and about being sorry for myself. I'd thought I hated Hank,
but I knew I didn't, and that he was the one to be sorry for.
All I had to do was to use my head a little to know that I
wasn't in very much trouble. We couldn't be too badly lost,
because we hadn't gone very far, and knew the home ranch
was just east of the mountains--certainly not more than ten
or fifteen miles away. In June there would be no blizzards or
hard cold that low in the mountains, and the sky was almost
never clouded over for more than one or two days at a time.
Just as soon as we could see the sun and find our direction,
it would be easy to find our way out.

And when we did get out nobody would blame me for

getting lost, and I'd have all the rest of my life to do something
really big enough to be proud of. But Hank was an old
man. He'd probably never be able to do anything big enough
to make people respect him. Beside that, Mr Batchlett had
told him he wouldn't keep him unless he was back with a load of posts by sunset. Then, too, after all his bragging about
knowing the mountains, the men would josh him forever about
getting lost. I didn't believe there was much sense in trying
to go any farther until the sun came out, so pushed more dry
needles up over Hank and went back to thinking until he
woke up.

Hank came out of the needles as if he'd been stung, grabbed
his axe, and swung it above his head. Then he jerked around and shouted, "Where'd he go? Where'd... by dogies, I don't
know what Batch is a-thinkin' 'bout, a-sendin' men off to these
mountains without no gun!"

"I guess you were having a bad dream," I told him. "Nothing
has stirred around here since daylight."

Hank rubbed a hand across his eyes, and said, "By dogies,
I must'a dozed off. What time o' day is it?"

"About six," I said. "It's been light for about an hour."

Hank climbed stiffly to his feet, and didn't have to do any
acting for me to know he had a bad backache. He didn't put
his hands on it, but stood as if he were carrying a heavy log
on his shoulders. "Dadgummed weather!" he grumbled. "A
man can't scarcely see a landmark no place. Was the sky
lighter one way or t'other at sunup? Why didn't you rouse me?"

"It wouldn't have done any good," I said, "and I thought
you needed the rest. Daylight came so slow that..."

"You leave me do the thinkin'!" he hollered. "If you'd'a
roused me as daylight come on, we'd been out o' these here
mountains 'fore now. I reckon the calf pasture lies right over
that ridge yonder, and I don't aim to have nobody..."

Hank didn't finish, but picked up his axe and hobbled away
down the mountainside. I stumbled along behind him with my
teeth chattering. It had stopped raining, but our clothes were

still wet from the night before. Under the dry fir needles, I
hadn't noticed it much, but, as soon as the cold morning air
got through them, I felt as if I'd been dipped in an ice pond.

The wet rocks were as slippery as soap, and drops of water
hung on every bush and twig. By the time we were down
as far as the fog, we'd both fallen a dozen times, and were as
wet as if we'd been in pouring rain. With each fall Hank
moved slower and rowed at me as if I'd made him fall. With
every step, the fog grew thicker, until we couldn't see ten
yards ahead, and it seemed to me that Hank was bearing off
to our right, When I asked him about it, he chattered, "Don't
tell me where I'm a-goin'! Don't you think I know? I aim to
follow this here canyon down to where it comes out right to
west'ard of the buildin's. Ain't no sense in us a-headin' for the
calf pasture!" There was nothing for me to do but keep my
mouth shut and follow where he led me.

As near as I could guess, it was about noon when the fog
began to lift. Little by little, it rose until we could see nearly
a mile ahead, and there the canyon ended--with mountains
rising around it in a solid wall. Hank was too tired and discouraged to even swear. He slumped down on a rock, with
his face buried in his hands, and for a minute or two I thought
he was crying. Then he mumbled, "Dadgummed fog must'a
twisted me abouts; this here's the wrong way. We got to get
out! We got to get out whilst we still got the strength!"

I don't want to remember much about that afternoon. A
cold drizzling rain came on again as soon as we'd started
back, and Hank was so worn out he could take only a dozen or
so steps without stopping to rest. At first I tried to help him,
but was as weak as a wet robin, and glad enough to rest whenever
he had to. All afternoon he kept telling me the mouth
of the canyon was only a couple of miles ahead, but I knew he
was just talking to keep me from being afraid. Well before
dark I'd given up any hope of ever getting out alive, and the
only thing I could think of was getting back to the dry fir
needles under the overhanging cliff.
Hank must have given up hope at about the same time. He
didn't try to lead the way any more, he didn't talk, and I
don't think he knew I was trying to find the cliff again. It was almost dark when I saw it, high up the mountainside.
Hank had to make the last part of the climb on his hands and
knees, then flopped down as if he were dead. I pushed as many
needles as I could over him, scraped out a nest, and covered
myself over.

I was sure that was the end of me, and tried to pray, and
to think about Mother and the other children at home, but
it was sort of warm under the dry needles and I kept falling
half asleep. Once, when it was as black as pitch, I heard a
scream that made shivers run up and down my back. Hank
mumbled, "Mountain lion," but I wasn't frightened, and the
next thing I knew the sun was shining.

Hank was still asleep, and it was cold under our cliff, but
across the canyon the sun looked warm and yellow against
the mountain. For a little while I was too lazy to move, but
I knew then that we'd be able to find our way back to the home
ranch, and it was kind of nice just to lie there and know it.

After a while I called to Hank, but he only groaned. And
when I got up and shook him he didn't wake. I was sure he
was dying, and I guess I lost my head. I was shaking the liver
out of him when he mumbled, "Ain't no sense a-hollerin'. Save
your strength to get out, kid. Go towards the sunrise." Then
he flopped back and went to sleep again, and wouldn't even
try to wake up when I shook him.

Before I started to skirt the cliff and climb towards the sun,
I scooped out a deep nest, rolled Hank into it, and covered
him good and deep with the dry needles. Then I took off my
jumper and spread it over the top.

My legs were about as wobbly as a new colt's, but by taking
it easy and resting often I got to the top of the ridge. I wasn't
any longer afraid of not getting out, but I was afraid of not
being able to find my way back to where I'd left Hank. Before

I started down the far side, I stopped long enough to fix every
mountain and ridge and canyon in my memory.

I had thought that once I reached the top of the ridge, the
going down would be easy, but it wasn't. From just holding
myself back, my legs got so shaky I had to keep sitting down
to rest them. I'd nearly reached the bottom, and was sitting
on a rock, trembling, when I heard the sweetest music I ever
hope to hear. It was faint and far away, and came echoing
up from the canyon in front of me, "She wore a yella ribbon
around her neck." The echo of the "neck" whispered over and
over again as it died away.

I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and went
running down the mountain, yelling, "ZEB! ZEBl" as loud
as I could. Then my legs went all to jelly, and I fell, tumbling
and rolling like a stick in a spring flood. I must have bumped
my head, because when I woke up, Zeb was holding me as
if I were a baby, and was splashing cold water from a creek
onto my face.

I tried to tell Zeb I was all right, and that I'd wait right
there while he went to get Hank, but he wouldn't do it. He
just shook his head, and said, "Covered over warm, the way
you say, that old rooster'd hold out a week if he had to. Batch
and the boys is somewheres hereabouts; I'll fetch him after I
get you took care of."

"Then we weren't very far from the home ranch?" I asked.

"'Bout twenty odd miles due west, I'd say."

"Then how did you know where to look for us?" I asked.

"Cal'clated old Hank might head for Californy. Most men
goes the wrong way when they get scairt. Don't stop to take
note of signs around 'em. You set there till I let off a blast to
call the boys in."

I hadn't noticed till then that Zeb was carrying a six-shooter.
He pointed it at the sky and emptied it--two and two and two.
Then he picked me up, hung me over his shoulders like a
shawl, and slouched away down the canyon. He didn't seem

to hurry, or pay much attention to where he stepped, but his
loose-jointed stride would have kept me trotting. And he wound
through boulders and brush without breaking a twig or rolling a stone.

1

9

Coin' to Make Out.

WHEN Zeb brought me out of the side canyon, Mr Batch
lett and Sid were waiting. They both came running, and Mr
Batchlett called out, "Is he all right, Zeb? Where'd you find
him?"

"Didn't find him no place!" Zeb called back. "Little varmint
found me! He's got Hank wropped in cotton wool atop a ridge
back yonder."

By that time I was rested enough to have ridden alone,
but Mr Batchlett wouldn't let me. He took me back to the
home ranch--wrapped in blankets like a papoose--and Mrs
Bendt had him put me to bed in the house. But all she'd let
me have to eat was about half a cup of chicken soup.

I wasn't really sick from being out in the mountains, but
I'd fallen down so many times I was scratched and black and
blue all over, and was as weak as a brand new kitten. I don't
think I'd been in bed five minutes before I was sound asleep.
When I woke up, Hank was in another bed in the same room,
and was really sick. Mrs Bendt was sitting by his bed, trying

to spoon medicine into his mouth. I could hear it gurgle in

his throat as he groaned and mumbled. Then he flailed out one
arm, and, shouted, "Go towards the sunrise."

That first day Hank thought he was still up in the mountains,
and that something was after him. Mrs Bendt hardly left
his bedside, but couldn't do much with him, because he'd yank
away and strike out at her. It was Mr Batchlett who finally
got him quieted down and asleep, but at first I thought he was
being pretty rough. He cuffed Hank, scolded him, and forced
his mouth open while he spooned in some whiskey. But after
Hank went to sleep Mr Batchlett tucked the covers up around
his shoulders, told Mrs Bendt to keep bottles of hot water
around him, and said, "Poor old maverick! Ought to had better
sense than to crowd him. Ought to knew he'd try to bull his
way out when he seen he was bested."

Mr Batchlett wasn't talking to me, but I didn't want Hank
to get blamed too much, or fired for not having brought in
a load of posts, so I said, "We had the wagon half-loaded
when the team ran away, and I didn't have Hank bested. He'd
cut a lot more trees than I had."

Mr Batchlett looked around at me, and said, "So I seen
when I went up there. Traded axes with you too, didn't he?
Lucky thing he didn't drop that tree right atop the team!
Might as well try stoppin' a cyclone as old Hank when he's
got the bit in his teeth."

I hadn't said a word about our post-cutting, but Mr Batchlett seemed to know the whole story, so I just said,
"Yes, sir, I know it." Then he told me I needed to get some
more sleep and went out.

By that time I wasn't half as much interested in sleeping as
eating. After more than two days without a bite, I felt as if I
could eat a whole steer, but they wouldn't give me anything
but soup. As soon as Hank went to sleep, Jenny started being
our nurse. She kept bringing bottles of hot water to lay around
Hank, and once in a while she'd bring me a cup of chicken
soup. But it wasn't until supper time that she let me have a
cracker to go with it.

I liked Mrs Bendt fine, and she was real good to me, but I
liked Jenny a lot better for a nurse. Every time Mrs Bendt
came in she called me a poor little boy, and said it was a
shame I'd had to go through any such a hardship, but Jenny
never said a word about it. Each time she came in to see
Hank she'd sit on my bed and talk a few minutes, or make
some kind of joke. But she always talked about things that
had happened at her school, or let me tell her things that had
happened at home.

After supper all the men came in, but they tiptoed as if
they'd been walking up a church aisle in the middle of a
sermon. Then, after they'd whispered a few words, asking me
how I felt, they looked at Hank and tiptoed out. I really didn't
feel sick at all--just a little weak and awfully hungry--but I
liked having them come in to see me, and maybe I acted a little
bit sicker than I was.

During the night Hank went out of his head again, thought
we were still lost, and kept mumbling for me to go toward the
sunrise. Mr Batchlett came in and stayed with him most of
the night, and soon after daylight Sid brought the doctor from
Castle Rock. He was a gruff old man, but I liked him. After
he put his ear horn on Hank for about two minutes, he said,
"Shock and exposure! Heart's as steady as an eight-day clock!
He'll be all right, but he'll need care. Try to get some broth
into him--a little whiskey wouldn't hurt. Keep him warm and
out of drafts. He'd be better off in a room by himself."

Then he came over and put his ear trumpet all over my
chest and stomach. Mr Batchlett was standing beside him,
and said, "His mother's a widow woman in Littleton. Ain't it
best I take him home to her?"

There were lots of reasons I didn't want Mr Batchlett to
take me home. In the first place, Mother would worry too
much, and in the second place, I knew I couldn't find another
job that would pay me a dollar a day. Besides that, I liked
Batchlett's ranch and everybody on it, and I wanted to stay

right there, so I said, "The only thing the matter with me
is that I'm half starved to death."

The doctor shook his head at Mr Batchlett. "No need to
take him home," he said. "The boy's more than half right.
These little skinny ones stand the gaff in pretty good shape,
but he'd better be kept quiet a few days. Needs to gain his
weight and strength back."

"Well, if I could just have something to eat, I'd be all
right now," I said.

"Mmmm, hmmm, I wouldn't doubt it," he told me, "but we're
not going at it too fast." Then he turned to Mrs Bendt and
said, "I'd move him out of here if I could. Wouldn't hurt to
let him have a little solid food now; maybe an egg and a piece
of toast. A little something light every couple of hours till
supper time, then he'll be ready for meat and potatoes."

"Hadn't I better take him back to town when he's up and
around?" Mr Batchlett asked.

"That's up to you, Batch," the doctor told him. "Might be
good for him to be out here, but I wouldn't let him overdo for a week or two. Isn't this the boy who rode your bay in
the matched race I saw last summer?"

"That's him. Little Britches, they call him around town."

"Mmmm, hmmm," the doctor said slowly. "No... don't
believe I'd take him back... can't get hurt any more around
here than around a race track." Then he put his things back
in his bag and went out.

I think Kenny liked me to be sick, because Mrs Bendt
moved me into his room and let him sleep in the bunkhouse
--and I think Sid liked it even better. Hank was pretty sick
the first few days, but he slept quite a bit, and when he was
sleeping Jenny came in to stay with me. There wasn't much
for her to do, except to bring me an eggnog once in a while,
but she'd sit on my bed and visit, sometimes for an hour or so.

After Hank and I got lost the men didn't cut any more
posts, but were getting stock ready for trading trips. That
kept them around the corrals most of the time, and Sid came
in to see me five or six times a day. He always managed to
come when Jenny was visiting me, and I think he came to see
her a lot more than to see me. If he did, he might just as
well have stayed at the corrals. The minute he'd stick his head
in the doorway, he'd sing out, "Hello there, Jenny Wren! How's
this little old pardner o' mine makin' out?"

The first couple of times, she said, "Oh, he's getting along
fine." Then she shook up my pillows, straightened out the bed clothes, and said she'd better go see if Hank needed
anything. I think Jenny had to count Hank's pulse every
little while and write it down for the doctor, but she only
counted mine when Sid came in. He always told her how
pretty she looked, and asked if she'd hold his hand like that
if he'd get lost in the mountains. But she'd just say, "Can't you
keep quiet a minute? How can I count a pulse with you
chattering like a magpie?" About the third time he asked her,
she snapped, "Well, run right along and get lost if you want to.
I'll have Watt look for you when he goes up after the Christmas
tree." Then, when all the men came in after supper, she
talked to everybody else, but acted as if she didn't know Sid
was there.

Mrs Bendt didn't let Kenny come in to see me, but Hazel
came the second afternoon. She didn't tell me she was sorry
we got lost, and she didn't ask me how I was feeling. But
she didn't make fun of me for falling off Kenny's donkey, either.
When Jenny told me Hazel was coming in, I lay back on the
pillow and tried to act a little bit sick, but she just looked at
me and said, "Hmmmf! I was sicker'n that when I had chicken
pox! You don't look sick enough to me that Jenny has to stay
in here with you half the time!"

"Who said I was?" I asked her. "Do you think I'm staying
in this bed because I want to?"

"Then why are you tryin' to look so puny? If I was a boy
I wouldn't stay in no old bed when I didn't have to!"

If I'd had on anything more than my underdrawers, I'd

have jumped right out to show her I wasn't staying there because
I wanted to. But, of course, I couldn't do that, so I
said, "You bring me my clothes, and I'll show you how long
I'll stay in this bed!"

"Betcha my life you wouldn't either!" she sniffed. "Maw
washed 'em, and they're hangin' out on the line, drippih' wet.
By the looks of 'em you must'a been crawlin' 'round in a hog
wallow!"

I think her mother heard her being snippy, because she
called, "That's enough, Hazel! You come and tend the baby
while I get supper ready!"

All the time Hazel had been talking to me, she'd been holding
a little grape basket filled with milkweed silk. Just before
she left, she set it down on the bed beside me, and said,
"You can have these! I don't want 'em no more!" After she'd
gone, I took the silk out, real carefully, and there were
seventeen birds' eggs hidden in it--every one different.

There was no reason why I couldn't have been up after
two days of just eating and resting and sleeping, but Jenny
wouldn't let me. And every time Sid came in she'd fuss around,
counting my pulse and taking my temperature, as if I were
really sick. After those first two days he didn't ask if she'd
count his pulse, but he kept on calling her Jenny Wren, and
watched--sort of calf-eyed--every move she made. Then,
when I was all well, he asked if she didn't think I'd better
stay in bed till the doctor came to see Hank again. She said
she didn't think anything of the kind, but that's what she made
me do.

Either girls and women are a lot alike, or Hazel was trying
to copy Jenny. She came in to see me every day, but she was
just as snippy with me as Jenny was with Sid. When I tried
to thank her for the birds' eggs, she turned down the corners
of her mouth, and said, "Hmfff, I didn't want 'em any more.
I'm getting too big to be playin' with birds' eggs. Throw 'em
away if you don't want 'em!"

I didn't really want the eggs, and didn't know what I'd

do with them around the bunkhouse. Besides, I was older
than Hazel anyhow. But I couldn't just throw them away after
she'd given them to me. Sometimes I looked them over while
Jenny wasn't there--they were the prettiest ones I'd ever seen --but I always put the basket under the bed before she came
back. And when the doctor finally came and let me up, Hazel
said she'd keep them in the house, just as a favor.

Mr Batchlett was as fussy with me as Jenny had been. In
a couple of days he and Sid were going for a trading trip
into the mountains, and Zeb and Tom were going along the
foothills south of Pueblo. More than a hundred cattle had to
be gotten ready for the trips, and I wanted to help with the
work, but Mr Batchlett wouldn't let me. He'd only let me
exercise Lady and Pinch an hour a day, and I couldn't go near
Blueboy or get on Clay. But on the third morning he let me
get up at sunrise, to help with starting the trading herds away.

I'd almost have given an arm to go on the trip with Mr
Batchlett, but I don't think Sid wanted to go at all. When Zeb
was lashing his camp gear onto the pack saddle, he noticed
that Tom had forgotten the coffee pot, and asked me to get
it from the chuckhouse. Sid was coming out just as I got there,
and looked as if his best friend had died.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Is Hank worse this morning?"

"Worse!" he snapped. "Wisht I was that worse off! Wisht
I knowed what I done to get that little Jenny Wren so daggoned
down on me! Reckon she figures I'm the most no-account
cowpoke this side the Divide." Then he snatched up his grub
sack and walked off fast toward the corrals.

When I came into the chuckhouse, Jenny was standing at
one of the little windows by the fireplace, looking out toward
the corrals. She stepped away from it quickly when I opened
the door, and said, "Well, how's my patient this morning?"

"Fine," I said, "but Tom forgot to take a coffee pot, and
Zeb sent me to get one."

"Didn't you just come across one that was boiling over?"

I shook my head, and must have looked dumb, because she
laughed, and said, "A little pot with a red top?"

"No, ma'am," I said, "all I saw was Sid and his grub sack,
but he didn't drop any coffee pot."

She laughed again, and said, "I thought I heard steam blowing
off just before you came in, I must have been mistaken."

"I guess so," I told her, "because I didn't hear any. But
I've got to hurry; Zeb's waiting for the coffee pot."

Zeb and Tom got away from the home ranch first, and when Mr Batchlett and Sid went I rode a few miles with them. They
both seemed glum, and Sid didn't want to talk, but Mr Batchlett
had me ride beside him. "Reckon I let old Doc Gann talk
me into a tangle," he said. "I ought to took you home when you
got up and about. Promised your maw I'd keep an eye on you,
and I ain't done a very good job of it."

"Well, you'd have had to be an eagle to keep an eye on
me when Hank and I got lost," I told him.

"Not if I'd went along on the post-hackin', and not if I'd
kept Hank with Zeb and the others. And I ain't proud about
goin' off and leaving you run loose for the next couple of
weeks. You're too like to go raring into things you hadn't ought
to and get your neck broke."

Mr Batchlett had been riding along, watching the cattle
as he talked, but he whirled toward me and said, real sharp,
"I don't want you tryin' to ride Blueboy till I get back here!
You hear me? You ain't got the strength to handle that much
horse no time; he'd kill you, weak as you are now."

"You won't have to worry," I told him. "I think I learned
quite a lot while Hank and I were up in the mountains. One
time when I thought we'd never get out alive, I started to
hate him, and then I remembered that sometimes I rare into
things just the same way he does."

Mr Batchlett stopped his horse and looked at me as if he
were puzzled, then he said, "Well, dang me! Maybe you ain't
been hurt as much as I figured on. If that old maverick has

learned you that much he might still be worth keepin' around."
I knew from the way he said it that he'd planned to let
Hank go as soon as he was well, so I said, "It was more my
fault than his that we got lost. If I hadn't bragged about
being able to cut more posts than he could, we'd have gone
with the other teams."

Mr Batchlett reached over and slapped me real hard on
the leg. "By dang, Little Britches," he said, "I been thinkin'
I was a fool to bring a headstrong kid like you along, but
you're goin' to make out after all. Now you get back to the
home ranch; you've rode far enough. And listen, Watt's your
boss while I'm away, Watch him and you'll learn a lot. If he
says you done good and didn't risk your neck too often, and
if you've gained your weight back, I'll take you with me on
my next trip."

10

Betcha My Life.

WHEN I got back from seeing Mr Batchlett off, Mr Bendt
was at the horse corral, saddling Hazel's pinto, and she was
with him. She didn't act as if she knew I'd ridden up, and
her father didn't look around until he'd tightened the cinch.
When he'd finished, I said, "Mr Batchlett says you'll be my
boss while he's away; do you have a job for me?"

"You betcha my life!" he sang out. "Coin' to be awful shorthanded
with Tom away! Reckon you could scout around the
brush and root out the cows that's had calves?"

"Sure!" I said. "Where'll I put em?"

Hazel was still standing with her back to me. She didn't
look around, but said, "Hmmfff! He wouldn't even know where
to start lookin', and he'd prob'ly get lost agin!"

I knew she was really talking to me instead of her father,
and I didn't like what she'd said, so I snapped, "I suppose
you'd..." but Mr Bendt cut me off.

"That's enough!" he said. "If you kids want to fight we'll
get some gloves! And now, my gal, you've talked yourself
into a job o' work! We'll leave you show him where to root
'em out, and where to bring 'em in to! Go tell your maw you're
goinT

100

I didn't like having a girl sent to help me, but there wasn't
much I could say, and I did need help. The home ranch
stretched eight or nine miles along the foot of the mountains,
there were a million places for cattle to hide, and I didn't
know a single one of them. Any kind of cattle are hard to find in scrub oak country, like the home ranch, but milk cows
are the worst of all--especially when they've just had calves.

When Hazel went to the house I could see that Mrs Bendt
didn't like having her go to find the cows with me. She called Mr Bendt to the chuckhouse steps, and though I couldn't
hear what she was saying, her voice sounded sharp. I didn't
want to seem to be listening, so I rode Lady out beyond the
corrals, and had to wait quite a while before Hazel came back.

"Well, come on if you're comin'!" was all Hazel said, as she
spurred the pinto past me and headed him onto the trail. She
followed it north for about three miles, then turned off along
a creek bottom, pulled up, and said, "Let's clean out this here
creek bottom first. You take that side and I'll take this one.
Bring 'em out where we turned off the main trail. Betcha my
life I find more'n you do."

"Your life wouldn't do me any good.'" I told her, "but I'll
bet you a nickel."

"Cash?"

"Yes, cash," I said, and pulled Lady toward the creek.

The fall I'd worked at the Y-B roundup, we'd ridden into
the mountain canyons to hunt out strays. They were beef
cattle, and pretty wild, so I was sure I wouldn't have any
trouble finding tame old milk cows. I took Lady through the
creek at a splashing run, and cantered toward the head of the
valley. Before I got there I was sure Hazel had tricked me
out of a nickel. If she hadn't known there'd be cows in that
bottom she wouldn't have made the bet, and I didn't see a
single one on my side of the creek. It seemed to me that
it was kind of a dirty trick for her to pick the only good side
--and then fool me into making a money bet.

When I turned back, I'd made up my mind that I'd run
Lady spraddle-legged again if I had to, but I'd find every
single cow and calf on my side of the creek. The valley was
only about a mile long and half a mile wide, but I must have
run Lady ten miles before we found our first cow with a calf.
Willows and alders grew thick along the sides of the creek,
and the whole valley was dotted with chokecherry and wild
plum thickets. They were all too high to see over, so I had
to keep riding back and forth between them as if I'd been
in an obstacle race.

When I did find the one lone cow and calf I was in worse
trouble than I had been before. The minute I'd leave them to
look for some more, they'd disappear, and I had to waste a lot
of time finding them again. Before I was anywhere near
the end of the valley, Hazel ya-hooed from the main trail.
And when I answered, she called back, "Are you lost agin?"

I knew I was going to lose my nickel, but I wasn't going
to let her think I cared, so I snaked that old cow out of the
valley as fast as the calf could trot.

I'd expected Hazel to have two or three cows with calves,
but when I reached the trail she was grinning like a coyote,
and had seven of them rounded up in a little herd. "Is that
the best you could do?" she sniffed. "I thought you was
supposed to be a cowhand."

"I am a cowhand," I told her, "but I'm not a magician. I
can't find cows in places where there aren't any."

"Want to bet there ain't?" she taunted.

I wasn't going to let Hazel wangle me into another foolish
bet, and I hadn't hunted over the lower end of the valley, so
I said, "Well, there might be one or two in this end, but
I'll bet you there aren't any farther up."

"Give me a penny apiece for every one I find between
the middle of the valley and the hogback?"

"A penny!" I said. "I'll give you a nickel apiece, and I'll
eat my shirt if you find more than two."

"Good thing Maw washed it! Give me a hand at putting
these critters down to the creek so's they won't scatter."

"Why?" I asked. "They can scatter from down there just as
easy as from up here, can't they?"

"Hmfff! That's all you know about cattle, is it? Why would
they scatter when there's grass and water handy, and plenty
of places to hide their calves?"

Hazel didn't hurry her pinto a bit as we rode up the valley.
She just let him mope along, and seemed to be killing all
the time she could. When I'd gone up there I'd found a good
cattle trail along the creek, but she didn't follow it. Instead she
let her horse wander around among the chokecherry thickets
like a lost dogie calf. Most of the time she acted as if she
didn't know I was along, but once she showed me a meadow
lark's nest. Another time she said she'd bet me her life there were baby magpies in a nest in a high cottonwood tree. Then,
when we were riding through a little open place, she said,
"How do you do that..."

"That what?" I asked.

"Oh, never mind; you're too puny now. I was just wonderin' something." Then I couldn't get another word out of her.

We were skirting a plum thicket near the head of the valley
when Hazel slid out of her saddle and dropped the reins.
Then she looked up at me and said, "It's nickels instead of
pennies, ain't it?"

When I nodded, she bent and went into the plum thicket.
When she came out she was driving a skinny red cow with a
spotted calf that couldn't have been more than a few hours
old. The minute the cow saw Lady and me she turned toward
us, hooked her head and bawled.

I knew the cow and calf had been in that thicket all morning,
and that I'd ridden within a dozen yards of them. To
have Hazel find her so easy made me feel sort of silly, I had
to say something, and I couldn't tell her she was smarter
than I, so I said, "Don't worry, Mrs Meine, I'm not going to
hurt your William."

I'll

Hazel looked up, puzzled, and asked, "What did you say?"

"Oh, nothing! The old cow just reminded me of a woman
in Littleton, that's all."

"Who?"

"Oh, just a woman that lives across from the schoolhouse
and has a spoiled little kid. She's always shaking her fist at
us, and hollering, 'Go 'way, bad kids! Don't you hurt my W illiam!'"

That was the first time that Hazel acted as if she thought
I had a lick of sense. She snickered, and said, "Well, I guess
it fits her--him, too; it's a bull calf. You keep 'em movin' while
I take a look at the alder island."

Mrs Meine kept trying to dodge back into thickets where
I couldn't ride Lady, and I had to get down two or three
times to drive her out on foot. I was so busy I didn't think
any more about Hazel till she came driving in another cow
and calf. That one was a big fat Durham with thick shoulders
and a heavy brisket. She didn't pay any attention to me, but
kept turning toward her calf, sort of murmuring to it. "This is Mrs Spivak," Hazel called out. "She looks just like Pete's wife
over at the cream station. I found her in them--in those alders
where the creek goes around the island."

"Then I'm not going to give you a nickel for her," I called
back. "If she was on an island, she was just as much on your
side of the creek as on mine."

"What do I care about your old nickel; I got to name her,
didn't I?"

"Sure," I told her, "but I don't know if it fits or not."

"Well, you will when you see Pete's wife."

Of course, I couldn't argue about it any more, and I didn't
care anyway. What worried me was Hazel's finding cows I'd
missed. And I didn't think it was very fair of her to leave me
watching that Mrs Meine and Mrs Spivak didn't sneak away while she went to hunt more cows.

It wasn't ten minutes before Hazel called from off to my ri ght, Here comes another one; it's your turn to name her!"

A tall slab-sided Holstein came out between two clumps of
bushes. When she saw me she stopped, raised her head high,
and stood staring, as if she was daring me to make a move.

"That's Mrs Tompkins," I called back to Hazel. "She acts
just like the substitute teacher we had last spring."

"Well, you can't squeal out of paying me a nickel for her;
she was way over on your side. You keep movin' 'em along;
I'm going to look in this plum thicket."

"Oh, no you don't!" I said. "I had to spend half of my time
keeping track of the cow I found. I'm not going to watch
yours and let you gyp me out of any more nickels."

"All right then, don't!" she said, and drove the Holstein in
with the others, "but you'd better get some nickels ready. I'll
betcha my life there's a cow and calf in that plum thicket over
there."

"Oh, bet your small change first!" I told her. "I'll bet another
nickel there isn't."

I lost my nickel, but Hazel didn't lose a single cow while
she went poking into the thicket. As soon as she took over the
driving, the cows plodded along like oxen. She didn't seem
to pay a bit of attention to them, or to her horse either. She
let him poke along as if he were half asleep, but whenever a
cow tried to turn aside he was always in the right place to
keep her from it. "Just stay back out of the way and don't
spook 'em!" Hazel told me; "I got plenty to do without you
gettin' 'em scairt!"

I stayed back, but watched Hazel like a fox. She didn't
seem to be doing a bit of hunting, but turned the pinto aside,
slid off, and brought another cow and calf out of a little
thicket. It didn't look any different to me than forty other
thickets we'd passed, but Hazel went to it as straight as if
it had a sign on it. "How did you know there'd be a cow in
there?" I asked her. "Why did you look in that one when you
didn't look in the others we've passed?"

"Because it had a hole in the middle. Couldn't you see the
light through the top branches?"

J

The sky did show a little through the top branches of that
thicket, and it didn't through the others, but I would never
have thought of its meaning there was a hole in the middle.
"Well, even if there was a hole in it, how did you know there'd
be a cow in there?" I asked.

Hazel stopped her horse, put both hands on her hips, and
looked at me as if I were hopeless. "Well," she said, "if you
was a cow and was goin' to have a calf, could you find any
better place than that to hide in?"

I didn't like having Hazel act as if she thought I was just
plain stupid, and snapped at her, "Well, I'm not a cow, and
I'm not going to have a calf, and I'm not so much like a cow
that I can think like one."

"Hmfff! You'd better get to be if you don't want to go on
losin' nickels!" she snapped back.

That nickel business was worrying me a lot. I only had sixty
cents, Hazel had already won half of it, and it was still a long
way to the middle of the valley. It seemed to me that I'd better
not fight with her, because she might win more money than
I had, and I'd have to be in debt to her. I'd been going to
say I didn't care how many nickels she won, but instead, I
said, "I'll drive the cows for you. With this many, you'd have
a terrible time if they got scattered."

"You stay back and leave 'em alone if you want to help
me!" she said. "Why would they scatter if they ain't hurried or
scairt half out of their wits?"

It wouldn't have been so bad if I could have kept busy,
but just to trail along behind gave me too much time to worry
about the nickels. And Hazel brought in four more cows and
calves before we reached the middle of the valley. After
that, she drove the little herd and let me do the hunting, I
poked into a lot of thickets that didn't have a cow in them,
but I looked in four that did, and Hazel told me I'd done
pretty well for a greenhorn.

By that time Hazel had stopped acting as if she thought
I was stupid, and we picked names for every one of the cows

as we drove them slowly toward the main trail. I wanted to
name a pretty little Jersey with her first calf, Jenny Wren,
but Hazel wouldn't let me. She said that cows with calves were
all married and that they had to be named Mrs Somebody.
I had to give in and name the little Jersey for Mrs Hazlett,
my Sunday School teacher in Littleton.

I was so glad Hazel hadn't won more than all the money I
had, that I didn't mind having lost half a dollar. Then I began
feeling cheap about saying I wouldn't pay her for the cow she found On the island, so I said, "I was thinking about Mrs
Spivak. That island where you found her was as much on my
side of the creek as it was on yours, so that's fifty-five cents I owe you. I'll give it to you when we get back to the bunkhouse."
"I don't want your old money!" she told me. "All I wanted
was to show that a girl is just as good a cowpoke as a boy-- even if your name is Little Britches and you rode in the roundup
and got yoUr pi'ture in the paper."

"My name isn't Little Britches," I said, "it's Ralph. And
I didn't have anything to do with my picture getting in the
paper. And besides, it doesn't take cowpokes to do trick
riding; it takes smart horses and a good teacher, and that's
what I did."

Hazel looked around at me as if she couldn't believe what
she heard me say. For half a minute her eyes looked as if she
might cry. Then she looked back at the cows, and after another
minute, she repeated my name, "Ralph," as though she'd
never heard it before.

I couldn't think of anything more to say, so we just rode
along behind the cows for a while. Then Hazel said, "This
mornin' I was goin' to ask you how you done that somerset
trick Jenny seen you do at the roundup, but now I ain't goin'
to. You got to promise you won't show me till you gain back
to what you was before Hank got you lost. Paw says you
can't do no hard ridin' till you gain your weight back."

I could tell by the sun that it was already past noon, and

I was hungry enough to eat a horse; so I said, "Well, I'll
promise, but I'll never gain my weight back without eating.
Hadn't we better round up those first cows you found and
start back toward the corrals?"

Hazel shook her head. "Wouldn't be no sense in that!" she
said. "It would take a couple of hours, and Jenny put us up
some picnic grub--if the milk ain't all shook to butter. I know
a good place to eat, soon's we get these critters throwed in
with the others.'"

11.

The Secret Spring.

HaZEL had been right when she told me the cows wouldn't
scatter. There wasn't one of her first bunch in sight when we
took the named ones down to the creek, but they were all
there--hidden away in the willows, chewing their cud or
feeding their calves. The only one missing was the one I'd
brought in, and Hazel didn't have to tell me why she was gone:
I'd driven her too hard and frightened her. She'd probably
taken her calf a mile away to hide it.

Anyone who didn't know Batchlett's home ranch might have
thought it was nothing except a brush-covered wilderness. But
Hazel knew every inch of it the way I knew the streets of
Littleton, and she knew spots that were prettier than any in
the Denver City Park. She took me to one of them to eat our
picnic grub, and told me it was her own secret place, and
that nobody else knew about it.

It was in a little pocket, back behind the row of red rocks
that stand like a broken fence in front of the foothills--the
same row that makes the Garden of the Gods near Colorado
Springs. Where the walls of the pocket rose like organ pipes
around a pulpit, a cold spring bubbled from under the rocks

and trickled away through a thick grove of aspens. The bottom
of the canyon was covered with clover, and violets and columbine
grew at the edge of the grove. To the west, the mountain
rose in staggered cliffs, and high above them the green of firs
looked like dark rumpled velvet against the blue sky. All
around the spring the rocks were lined with moss, and peppery
watercress grew at the rim of the little basin that caught the
overflow.

Nearly a quarter of a mile from the spring we unsaddled
the horses and hobbled them so they could graze. Then Hazel
led the way through a gap in the fence of red rocks, along
the edge of the little canyon, and into the grove of aspens. We
were hardly among the trees when she put a finger to her lips,
and whispered, "Betcha my life we see a deer, Ralph. Least
ways, there'll be a rabbit, or maybe a skunk. This time o'
day they'll be comin' in for water. Sundown's best in the spring;
that's when swallows swoop in to get mud for their nests."

Hazel made me stay behind her, and we crept up toward the
head of the little canyon like Indians. When we were within
fifty yards of the spring, she stopped and motioned me to come
up beside her. "Ain't no deer," she whispered, "but there's
rabbits. See 'em?" and she pointed. "Doe and her litter."

Through the trunks of the aspens I could see half a dozen
jack rabbits feeding and playing on the little patch of clover.
The half-grown ones seemed to be having a picnic of their
own, scampering around and chasing one another, but the old
doe was nervous. There didn't seem to be a breath of air
moving, but I was sure she had scented us. She'd nibble a
few mouthfuls of clover, then stand high on her haunches
and look around in every direction.

Hazel and I stood for nearly ten minutes, watching the
rabbits play. Then a sudden flash of brown shot out from the
mountainside. I'd hardly seen the brown streak before a squeal,
so sharp it made my ears ring, filled the canyon. It was all
over in a second. There was a whirl of gray and brown. Then
the other rabbits were gone, and the one that had squealed

lay twitching, with what looked to be a slim-bodied, humpbacked
cat standing over it.

"Darned weasel!" Hazel shouted, and ran, dodging through
the trees, toward the clearing. By the time we got there the
weasel had gone and the rabbit lay perfectly still. Hazel
dropped to her knees, picked up the limp body, and turned
it so the red trickle of blood at its throat showed. "Darned
weasel!" she said again. "Bit his windpipe clean through-- poor little critter!" For a minute I thought she was going
to cry, but she didn't. She pinched her mouth up tight, and
said, "Oh, well, it's only a rabbit, and I s'pose rabbits was
made for other critters to eat... but I hate a sneaky weasel!"

If I'd been alone I wouldn't have thought of burying the
little rabbit, but thinking it might make Hazel feel better, I
said, "Shall I dig a grave so we can bury him?"

"Uh-huh, I guess we'd better. If we don't the darned old
weasel will come back and get him... or he'd stink and
spoil the nice smell of the spring. I'll show you where the
graveyard's at; I a'ready got a lark and two sparrows buried
in it, one sparrow last year and the other two the year before."

Hazel led me to where three separate little piles of rock
stood in a row among the aspens. "I'll fetch rocks while you
dig the hole," she told me. "Dig it deep, and we'll have to
pile on some heavy rocks or a pesky coyote might dig him up.
I never seen one around here, but there's plenty of tracks
where they come to the basin to drink."

"I'll bring the rocks," I told her. "Why don't you pick some
leaves to line the grave with?"

Hazel stood thinking for a minute, then she said, "There
wouldn't be no sense in that. He's dead now, and it wouldn't
help none to wrap him up in leaves... but it wouldn't be
right to let him get dug up. I'll fetch light rocks; you can
help with the heavy ones."

After we'd buried the rabbit, we washed at the brook below
the spring, and Hazel laid out our grub on the cloth it was
wrapped in. There were sandwiches and cake, a pint jar of

chicken stew, and a quart of milk. We didn't say a word while
we ate the first sandwich and drank a dipper of milk. Then
Hazel looked up and said, "There ain't no sense being' so glum
'cause we seen a bunny-rabbit get killed. We wouldn't be
havin' no stew if a hen hadn't got her head chopped off. I
guess it got planned that way right from the beginning: some
things just has to get killed so other things can live... even
darned old weasels. Why don't you ever tell me anything about
your brothers and sisters?"

I spent nearly a whole hour telling Hazel about the other
children at home, and some of the things we'd done. And
she told me she was going to Castle Rock in the fall, to live
with Jenny and go to school in town. But she said she wasn't
going to be a school teacher when she grew up, because they
turned out to be old maids too often. What she was going to
do was to marry a rancher who had a big ranch like Batchlett's home place, with mountains right behind it and lots of cattle
and shelter for them.

"Then you'll have to marry an old man," I told her. "Men

don't get big ranches like this, and lots of cattle, till they've
been in business a long time and saved their money."

"Oh, well," she said, "he wouldn't have to have it when I
married him, but I'd have to know he was a good cow man... and didn't waste his money bettin' on things he couldn't
win. Then I'd help him, and we'd keep all our heifer calves
every year, and I'd have lots of children--all boys--and then
we wouldn't have to hire no--any cowpokes."

I don't remember just what I told Hazel, but it was some
of the things I'd been thinking the night I rode to catch up
with Mr Batchlett--and I do remember telling her that I'd
want some of my children to be girls.

I forgot all about the time until the shadow of the mountain
cut off the sunshine. Even then, I had to remind myself that
I was being paid a dollar a day, and that I hadn't done much
in the past week to earn it. I don't know just what it was, but
there was something about the little pocket in the canyon that

made me feel lazy and restful. Maybe it was the spring and
the sound of the trickling water, or maybe it was just the feel
and smell of the little green clearing. It's funny, but the nicest
smell about it wasn't from the flowers or the clover, but the
odor of skunk. Not the kind that makes your eyes smart and
your nose wrinkle, but just the faint, musky kind that smells
almost like perfume--and makes you remember places you
thought you'd forgotten.

"You don't need to come," I told Hazel, "but I'd better get
back to work. I've only found five cows and calves all day,
and that isn't worth a day's pay."

"That's why we come here, 'stead of eating where we left
the cows," Hazel said with a grin. "You don't think I'd wasted
all this time, exceptin' Paw said you couldn't do much till
you got your strength back. You ought to eat more sandwiches;
you do look kind of puny."

"There's nothing puny about me," I said, as I picked up the
saddle bag, "and I'll bet I didn't lose two pounds."

"Nickel?"

"No," I said, "I'm all over betting on things I couldn't win;
maybe I might have lost three pounds."

"Nickel?"

"No! Not a penny!"

"Then eat another sandwich, and we'll get back after them
--those cows. Like as not we'll have to hunt some of 'em, and
it'll be supper time 'fore we get 'em fetched in to the corrals."

Instead of trying to make me look silly after we went back
to work, Hazel showed me as much as she could about finding,
handling, and driving cows in the brush. If her pinto could
have taught Lady the way Hazel taught me, we'd have got
along fine, but of course he couldn't. I had to rein her for every
move she made, and she couldn't stop and turn quick enough
to head off a dodging cow. It was supper time before we got
the cattle to the corrals, and I knew I hadn't done a very good
job, but all Hazel said was, "You'd have better luck if you took
Pinch tomorrow. Cows don't dodge past old Pinch more'n
about once."

THE SECRET SPRING

After that first day I don't think Mrs Bendt minded Hazel's
working with me--and I didn't either. Pinch was one of the
best horses with milk cows that I ever saw, and his name fitted
him exactly. If a cow hung back or tried to dodge away, he'd
be behind her in a rush, and nip her on the butt of her tail.
He never bit harder than a pinch, but two lessons were
enough for any cow. Even though we had different cows every
day, it almost seemed that they were getting used to us and
learning to behave. Hazel said it was I who was learning, but
most of the credit really belonged to Pinch.

Each day we took our grub sack to the secret spring at
noon, but we didn't loaf around again the way we had the
first day. And we didn't talk any more about the kind of a
ranch, or number of children we'd have when we grew up.
Once we stopped in the aspens to watch a deer drinking at
the basin, and another time we saw a raccoon dipping something
in the water before he ate it. But we never saw the
weasel again, and we didn't find any rabbits that he'd killed.

Jenny always packed enough grub for three men, and Hazel
kept pestering me till I'd eaten most of it. I knew she was
doing it so I'd gain my weight back in a hurry and could show
her the somersault trick I'd done at the Littleton roundup.
It sort of worried me, because it was a real tricky stunt, and I
hadn't tried it for nearly a year.

To do the trick I had to have a horse going at a dead
run, then dive out of the saddle, turn a somersault in the
air, and come down on my feet. But doing it right depended
as much on the horse as it did on me. He had to set his feet
and be sliding to a stop the instant I made a move to leave
the saddle. That would throw me forward, and if I ducked my
head and shoulders just right, I couldn't help turning all the
way over in the air. Then, when I landed on my feet, I'd be
standing right beside the horse's head. But if the horse didn't
stop quick enough it was pretty hard to go all the way over,
and sometimes I'd land on the seat of my pants.

I'd made a monkey of myself in front of Hazel times enough.

The fourth day I worked with her I decided that, before I
let her see me try that stunt, I'd practice it until I was nearly
perfect. There was a bright moon that night, and it seemed a
good time to begin practicing. I didn't know Pinch well enough
to trust my neck to him, and Lady wasn't good at quick stops.
But, after everybody was asleep, I took her to a little spongy
meadow I'd picked out, about three miles from the buildings.
I knew I'd land falling or sitting down a few times before we
got the knack of the trick again, and wanted as >soft a landing
place as I could find.

Lady and I had done the trick together dozens of times,
but she seemed to have forgotten all about it. I used to make
a little hissing sound the moment before I left the saddle,
and she'd stop pretty well when she heard it. But for a while
that night it didn't mean a thing to her. Over and over again,
I had to hiss and jerk the reins at the same time before she
learned again that the hiss meant for her to set her feet.
Then I tried my first somersault, but I was awkward, Lady
didn't stop fast enough, and that spongy meadow felt as hard
to my bottom as if it had been solid rock.

We didn't go back to the buildings until we'd tried the
stunt at least twenty times--and until I was so sore and lame
I could hardly sit in the saddle. Sometimes it almost worked,
but I never did come all the way over and up onto my feet,
and sometimes Lady forgot to stop when I hissed.

All the next day Hazel kept telling me, "Sit back in the
saddle; you act like you had a bur in your britches!" or, "By
jiminy, you look punier today than you did when Batch
fetched you back from the mountains! If you don't start to eating
more, you ain't never goin' to gain your weight back." I
couldn't tell her that I felt punier than I looked, and that
I thought I'd beaten at least five pounds of weight off my
behind. And she never guessed that I'd been up half the
night, or that I'd taken any falls.

I'd made up my mind that no matter how banged-up I felt,
I was going to practice again that night, but I didn't. When

we brought in the cows at supper time, Lady was lame in both
front legs. The sogginess of the meadow hadn't softened my
falls much, but had let her hoofs cut deep, and thrown a
terrible strain on her legs. I knew they'd have to be doctored,
or they'd swell and stiffen.

As soon as Ned was snoring that night I got up, built a
fire in the forge, and put a bucket of water on to heat. Then
I stripped a couple of gunny sacks into long bandages, the
way I'd seen Father do it, got them boiling hot, and wrapped
both of Lady's fore legs from pastern to elbow. Even though it
was a warm night, the bandages cooled off fast, and way before
moonset my hands were so swollen and parboiled they looked
like two bunches of red bananas. But just before sunrise, when
I took off the last bandages, the swelling was pretty well gone
from Lady's knees.

The next day I really felt puny from lack of sleep, but I
felt worse about having abused Lady, and because we wouldn't
be able to practice for a long time. I was thinking about it
when Hazel and I were riding over to the secret spring to eat
our noon grub, and wasn't paying much attention to Pinch
or the way we were going. Then too, my bottom was still so
bruised and lame that I wasn't sitting square in the saddle, but
kind of scrooched over to one side.

We were cantering along at a pretty fair clip, side by side,
when a pheasant flushed out of a little bush, right in front
of Pinch. I was sitting loose in the saddle, and he set his feet
so fast I didn't have a chance to catch myself. It must have
been my thinking about the stunt that made me duck my
head and shoulders when the quick stop threw me forward.
I flipped all the way over in the air, and when I landed, I
was standing on my feet at Pinch's head.

Hazel's pinto had stopped nearly as fast as Pinch, so she
came pretty near getting spilled too, but as soon as she caught
her balance, she yapped at me, "You dirty promise-breaker! You said you wouldn't try that till you gained your weight
back, and you're punier this mornin' than you been any day


yet! And besides, you done it so quick I couldn't see how it

worked!"

"I didn't promise I wouldn't try it," I told her. "I only
promised not to show you till I got my weight back, and if
you didn't see how I did it, then I didn't show you."

"Hmmfff! Show-off!"

"No," I said again, "it wasn't that either! It just happened
all by itself when Pinch stopped so quick. When I try to show
off I always make a monkey of myself."

Hazel put both hands on her hips and squinted at me as
if I'd been a weasel. "You ain't tryin' to tell me you done it
without meanin' to? Do I look like a darn dodo?"

"Well, if you did, I wouldn't tell you so," I snapped, "but
sometimes you talk like one. If you knew anything about
that trick you'd know there's nothing to it except timing and
letting yourself go loose enough, and the timing worked all
by itself."

For a minute Hazel sat there with her eyes squinnied up,
but she didn't look as if she hated me. And I knew she was
trying to figure out for herself just what made the trick work.
Suddenly she said, "Show me how... no! No! This time you
got to promise you won't even..."

I could tell from the look on Hazel's face that she'd made
up her mind to try the trick by herself, and I was afraid she'd
break her neck, so I cut in, "If there's going to be any promising,
you're going to do your share. Before I'll promise you anything, you'll have to promise me you won't try that trick
till your father says you can."

"Did your father say you could the first time you done it?"

"No," I said, "because he didn't know anything about it till
he saw me do it at the roundup."

"Then I ain't goin' to promise! If it was fair for you to do it
without your paw knowin', it's fair for me."

"It was different with me," I told her. "I learned to do it
from Hi Beckman, and he's a champion trick-rider."
"Then it ain't no different with me," she snapped. "You

won the prize at the roundup, didn't you?"

"Only because I was riding with Hi," I said. "I couldn't
have done it by myself,"

"That don't make no never-minds! If you won the prize
you're a champion, and Paw don't need to know."

I could see I wasn't going to get anywhere by arguing,
and I was afraid of her being hurt if I didn't get some kind
of a promise, so I said, "I'll promise not to try it again till
I'm back to seventy-two pounds, if you'll promise not to try
it till I say you can."

"Ain't no sense in that, you'd never say it."

"Yes, I will too!" I said. "I'll say it just as soon as I think
you and a horse are trained well enough that you could do
it without getting hurt. Do you promise?"

Hazel sat studying me for a minute with her mouth pinched
up tight, then she swiped an X across her shirt with one finger,
and said, "Cross my heart!"

I wasn't too much worried about Pinch, after the way we'd
done the trick almost by accident. But he needed to learn to
make those quick stops without having to wait for a pheasant
to fly up in his face. And long before I'd ever let Hazel try
it, her pinto would have to be dead positive on his stops.
"All right," I told her, "it's a promise, but I won't teach you
to do it till you can get Pinto to stop on a postage stamp without
a touch of a line."

That afternoon we started training Pinto and Pinch. By time to take the cows in, they had learned that a hiss meant
for them to stop, but Pinto was too slow and came down too
hard on his front feet. Pinch was a lot better at it, because he'd
been trained as a rope horse, and had learned to save his knees
by throwing all his weight on his hind legs.

12

A Man Owes It to His Horse.

WITH most of the men away, I thought I might have
trouble finding anything to do on Sunday, but I didn't. Hazel
helped Jenny bring the breakfast into the chuckhouse, and
when we were nearly through eating, she said to her father,
"You didn't ride fence this week, did you, Paw?"

"Nope," he said. "Didn't have no time. Prob'ly won't get
none this next week neither. Got to round up the wrhole
shebang and cut out the tradin' stock for next trip."

He'd barely finished when Hazel said, "Ralph and me
could ride fence for you this mornin'. Maw said I didn't have
to go to Sunday School."

Mr Bendt looked up, scowled, and asked, "You and who?"

I didn't think Hazel could ever get flustered, but her face
went as red as a sunrise, and she sort of stammered, "Me
and... me and Little Britches."

The dairyhands began laughing, and Mr Bendt chuckled,
"Put a new handle on him, did you? Well, I don't see no..."

"Oh, no you don't!" Jenny sang out. "Helen said you could
stay home from Sunday School if you'd mind the baby and
help with the dishes."

"Well, I'll do the dishes first--all by myself," Hazel told
her, "and Martha said she'd mind the baby."

"What did you bribe her with, your birds' eggs?"

"Ain't got no birds' eggs!"

"Haven't any!" Jenny corrected her.

"Well, haven't any, then! But Martha said she'd mind the baby."

Mr Bendt looked up at Hazel as if he were puzzled, and
asked, "What you rarin' to ride fence for, gal? Didn't you
kids get enough ridin' this past week?'

"Well, we... we know where there's a magpie's nest, and
we think there's some young ones in it that's about ready to
fly, and we want to get one and teach it to talk."

If we wanted anything like that, it was new to me, but when Mr Bendt looked over, I nodded.

"You ain't goin' to have much time for learnin' magpies
to talk," he told me. "You got the cuttin' horse in your string,
and we got plenty cuttin' to do 'fore Batch gets back
here."

I was in sort of a mess. I didn't want to teach a magpie
to talk, and I did want to try cutting cattle with Clay. Besides,
I'd have to get a good report from Mr Bendt if I was
to go on the next trip with Mr Batchlett. But, after Hazel's
having taught me to find and handle cows, I couldn't go back
on her, either, so I said, "Well, I don't know how to teach
magpies to talk. I'm just going to help Hazel get one so she
can teach it--if it's all right with you."

"Hmmm," he said, "wouldn't hurt none to get the fences
rode, but I reckon there's a possum in the woodpile." Then he
looked back at Hazel, and asked, "What you want a magpie
for?"

"Martha wants it. I told her we'd try to get one for her.
Can we, Paw?"

"Sounds to me like one of your two-way deals, gal; gettin'
out of Sunday School to mind the baby, and gettin' out of
minding the baby by puttin' it up to Martha that she wants a

magpie. Reckon you'd best go along to Sunday School; there'll
be plenty time for magpies after you get home."

It was easy to see that Hazel knew better than to argue.
She didn't act sulky or peeved, but just shrugged her shoulders
the least bit, as much as to say, "Well, I tried," then picked
up some dishes and went out.

When we were leaving the chuckhouse, Mr Bendt asked me,
"Want to give me a hand hookin' up the buckboard?" Then,
as we walked toward the carriage shed, he said, "If you're
rarin' to ride, it might not be a bad notion to give Clay a workout.
You ain't quite got the hang of him yet."

I'd felt guilty about picking Clay ever since Sid told me
he was Mr Bendt's prize cutting horse. And I'd felt worse
since the day I'd made a monkey of myself when I tried to use
him. It seemed to me it would be better all around if I could
give him back. So I said, "I know I haven't got the hang of
him, and maybe I never will. But if I'm going on trips with Mr Batchlett I won't have much use for him, and you'll need
him here on the home ranch. Wouldn't it be better if I traded
him for a trail horse out of your string?"

We were walking along side by side, and I watched Mr
Bendt's face when I asked him. For a second or two it lighted
up, then it sobered again, and he said, "No! No! You picked
him fair and square--with a little help from Hazel--and he's
yours for the season. Fact is, if you'd give him half a chance,
he'd do better with your weight on him than mine. Trouble
is, you rare in too hard, try to rush things too much."

"Yes, sir," I said, "I know it now. I learned it on cows and
calves. Hazel showed me how to do it the slow, easy way."

"Want I should show you on Clay?"

"I'd like it if you would," I said. "I guess I never paid
enough attention when a good cutting horse was being ridden."

"Ain't nothin' to it if you take your time, watch you don't
throw your horse off balance, and leave him have his head.
When we get the folks off to church we'll take a try at some
of them cows and calves you and Hazel fetched in. What's all
this magpie business?"

"Well, I guess Hazel just wants to get one for Martha," I
said. "She showed me where there was a nest last Monday."

Mr Bendt didn't say any more till we were hitching the
horses to the buckboard. Then he asked, "You kids ain't got
a maverick out there you been tryin' to ride, have you? You
looked pretty shook-up a couple of days back."

"No, sir," I said. "We haven't seen a horse except the ones
we've been riding ourselves."

"Betcha my life Hazel's got somethin' up her sleeve besides
magpies and fence ridin'. You ain't been learnin' her none of
them trick stunts you done at the roundup?"

It caught me so much by surprise that I was slow in saying,
"No, sir." And when it came out it was so low that it sounded
like a lie, even if it wasn't, so I had to add, "but we were teaching
the horses how to do one of them."

"That how your mare got her fore legs stove up?"

A lump came into my throat, and I felt as if I were talking to
my own father again. He had always been able to read every
sign, just as Mr Bendt did, and to know what I'd been doing
when I was out of his sight. As soon as I could swallow, I said,
"Yes, sir. I stopped her too fast on soggy ground."

"So I took note, but you ought to of put liniment on 'fore
you bandaged 'em; there's a bottle in the bunkhouse."

"I used good hot bandages," I told him, "and I don't think
her knees are sprung; she was only lame one day."

"No, they ain't," he said, "but you might'a ruined her. Ought
to filed her fore hoofs down tender 'fore you started out. That'll
learn 'em to dig in with the hind ones on them quick stops;
saves their knees."

"I know it," I said. "Hi Beckman taught me that, but I didn't
think about it."

Better take the buckboard on up to the house;
the women folks is waitin.'"

When I drove the buckboard up to the side door, all the
children had on their best clothes, and were waiting with Mrs
Bendt and Jenny. They all looked fine, except Hazel. She had

s

on a thin, light pink dress, high buttoned shoes, white stockings,
and a straw sailor hat to match her dress--with a little
bouquet of artificial flowers on it. Some girls change altogether
when they wear their best clothes, but Hazel didn't change a
bit. With her freckled face and arms scratched from getting
cows out of thickets, and with the end of her snubby nose peeling
from sunburn, she looked about as funny in those fancy
pink clothes as I would have. But Hazel didn't seem to care.

When I was holding the horses, she called, "You got Barney's
check strap too loose; leave it that way and he'll keep his head
bobbin' like a woodpecker." As she said it, she came around to
me, and whispered, "We'll be back by two. Have Pinto and
Pinch saddled up, 'cause if we don't practice 'em good and
plenty they'll forget what we learnt 'em yesterday."

Before I could answer, Jenny called, "Hazel, come here and
let me get you straightened out! My goodness, you look like a
scarecrow! Your hat's on crooked, your dress is hiked up on one
side, and your stockings are twisted."

"Well, I'm all covered up, ain't I?" Hazel called back, "and
that's what clothes are for." But she went over and let Jenny
fix her. Then, as they drove out of the dooryard, she called to
me, "Now don't forget what I told you!"

When I went back to the corral, Mr Bendt was filing one of
Pinto's front hoofs. He didn't look up, but said, "Reckon I'd
best trim these down tender 'fore you kids bust his knees up.
He ain't never been trained for ropin'; ain't learnt to take the
strain of hard stops on his hind legs."

"Then it's all right to teach him the tricks?" I asked.

"Don't see no harm, so long as you're halfway careful," he
told me, "But if I know my gal, she ain't goin' to let you stop
at learnin' tricks to horses."

I waited a minute to see if he was going to say anything
more, and asked, "Then it's all right for me to show her a few
of the tricks that aren't too dangerous?"

"They're all dangerous, ain't they?" he asked. "If they wasn't
they wouldn't be good enough to win at a roundup."

"Well, they're not awfully dangerous if you have your horses
trained just right," I said. "They all work by timing, and a lot
depends on the horse."

"Always does. Nine-tenths of being' a good horseman is
learnin' a horse what you want of him. Half the other tenth is
in leavin' him free to do what you learnt him."

I still didn't know if he meant that I could or couldn't show
Hazel how to do any of the tricks, so I said, "What I need to know most is if it will be all right to show Hazel some of the
safer stunts. She's been kind of..."

"Ain't it kind of hard for a man to tell what he needs to know
most?" he asked, without stopping his filing.

"Well, yes, I suppose it is," I said, "but I do need to know if
it would be all right for me to teach Hazel."

Mr Bendt kept on filing until Pinto flinched. Then he
dropped the hoof, straightened up, and said, "Guess that'll
learn you not to throw too much weight on 'em." He slapped
Pinto, turned to me, and said, "Tell Hazel to pull him up easy
and take care on her first few stops. He's goin' to raise dust
when he pounds them tender hoofs down. She'll get shook up,
but if she's mindful she won't get throwed. If I do say so, she
ain't a bad little rider--for a girl."

"She's the best I ever saw, but I need to know..."

"Yeah, I know! I been studyin' on it. Reckon Helen would raise Old Ned if she knowed what you kids was up to. Reckon
I shouldn't ought to put you two workin' together; not after
Hazel knowin' 'bout you trick-ridin' in the roundup. Has she
ever saw you do one of them stunts?"

"Well," I said, "not on purpose, but I did one by mistake
yesterday. A pheasant flew up in front of Pinch, and when he
stopped too quick I somersaulted without thinking."

"Land on your feet like Jenny seen you do at the roundup?"

"Yes, sir," I said, "but it was only because the timing happened
to work just right."

"The grease is in the fire then," he said, as if he were talking
to himself. "She ain't goin' to get bested if she can help it, and

she'll get stove up less if she's learnt how to do it the right
way." Then he looked right into my eyes, and said, "I don't
want you kids divin' off no horses out in the brush. If you want
to learn her, you'll have to do it here at the corrals, and when
there's one another of us men around to pick her up if she gets hurt. Now ain't it about time we got to work on them calves?"

13

Keeping Time with the Fiddler.

SUNDAY wasn't a regular working day on the home ranch,
but the day when lots of odd jobs, like separating cows and
calves, were done. As soon as he'd finished with Pinto, Mr
Bendt sent me to call Ned, while he called the dairyhands.
Until cows and calves were separated they belonged to the
cowhands, but then they were turned over to the dairymen.

Hazel and I had been bringing in about fifteen cows a day,
and they'd been put with their calves into a fenced pasture
behind the dairy barn. As soon as we were saddled up, Ned and
I brought a dozen or so cows and their calves into the cutting
corral. On one side, gates opened into smaller corrals, and
from these, runways led to the milking-herd pasture and the
calf sheds. It was our job to put each cow or calf through
whichever gate the dairymen opened for it, and then we were
done with them until they were turned back to us as pasture
calves or dry cows.

When everything was ready and the dairymen were at their
gates, Mr Bendt rode into the cutting corral on Clay. "Don't
come in for 'em till I get 'em plumb cut loose," he told us, then

turned Clay's head toward the cattle that were huddled tight
in the far corner of the corral.

No one watching them would have thought they had the
least bit of interest in those cattle. Mr Bendt sat slouched in
the saddle, with the reins held rather loosely in his left hand.
As the milling cows watched nervously, Clay walked toward
them at a turtle's pace. I was watching every move, but could
barely see Mr Bendt draw the reins one way or another to
guide him.

With all the cows and calves having to be separated, I'd expected Mr Bendt to take almost any animal on the outside of
the herd, but he didn't do it. Step by slow step, Clay came to
the edge of the huddle. The cattle didn't break away from the corner, or seem to be any more nervous than when he first
started toward them. For a minute or two, I thought Mr Bendt
hadn't made up his mind which animal he wanted to bring out.
He seemed to be slowly stirring the herd around--as if it had
been cold molasses, and Clay had been the spoon.

When it had turned about half way around, I noticed that Mrs Tompkins, the slab-sided Holstein I'd named for our substitute
teacher, was on the outside. Her black-and-white calf
was close beside her, but toward the inside of the herd. At the
moment I spotted them, Mr Bendt moved the reins just a
trifle, let them drop loose, and took hold of the saddle horn
with both hands.

From there on there was no question about which animal he
and Clay were after; it was Mrs Tompkins' calf. But how Clay
knew it, I couldn't figure. He hadn't even been looking at the
calf when Mr Bendt gave him a free rein, but he began edging
his way toward it, inch by inch. I don't believe Mrs Tompkins
ever guessed what he was up to until he had her and her calf
edged out three or four feet from the rest of the herd. Then it
was too late.

From being a turtle, Clay changed into a cat playing with a
mouse. When Mrs Tompkins tried to dodge back past him, he
dodged right with her, to head her off. She whirled and went

the other way, but he was still between her and the herd. After
two or three more tries, she threw her head up and stood, seeming
to dare him, the way she had me when she first came out of
the brush. Clay stood facing her, his weight on his hind legs,
and teetering on his front ones, ready to dodge whichever way
she did.

Watching Clay, I could almost feel him planning what to do
next. Suddenly he made a quick lunge forward. As Mrs Tompkins
sprang out of his way, he cut between her and her calf.
Before she missed the calf Clay had it against the corral fence
and running toward us. I'd been so busy watching Clay that I
forgot my part of the job, but Ned spurred in behind Clay, and
ran the calf through the gateway that one of the dairymen had
opened.

The moment Ned took the calf, Clay became a turtle again,
and turned back slowly toward the herd. It wasn't until then
that I realized I hadn't learned a thing about riding a cutting
horse from watching Mr Bendt. From the moment he'd let
the reins go loose, I hadn't seen him any more than if Clay had
been riderless. I was feeling pretty much ashamed of myself
when I noticed that Mr Bendt had turned Clay toward me.
"Catch on?" he asked, as he came alongside.

"No, sir," I said, "I don't believe I learned a thing--except to
go into the herd real slow and easy. If you picked that black
and-white calf yourself, I don't know how you let Clay know it. And after he started to crowd Mrs Tompkins out, I forgot all
about watching you."

"Mrs Who?"

"Oh," I said, "that's just a name Hazel and I put on that
Holstein when we found her."

"How come that name?"

"Well," I told him, "she held her head up and stared at Lady
just the way she did at Clay, and it kind of reminded me of a
substitute teacher we had last spring."

"Better not tell Jenny that," he chuckled. "She was a substitute
schoolma'am up to last winter. Now you pay heed while

we go in and get Miz Tompkins! You watched the horse work;
now take note what I'm doin'."

That time I didn't watch Clay any more than I could help,
but kept most of my attention on Mr Bendt. It helped, too,
to know which animal he was after.

Mrs Tompkins was standing at the edge of the herd, bawling
for her calf, when Mr Bendt turned Clay back to the cutting.
As he moved slowly toward her, she stuck out her head and
bellowed at him. When he'd covered half the distance she
turned and plowed back into the corner. Clay didn't change his
creeping gait, and Mr Bendt didn't make a move of any kind.
But I was pretty sure that Clay knew what cow they were after
as well as I did. Again he sort of drifted into the herd, mixed
with it, and began to edge slowly toward Mrs Tompkins.

She had her head turned toward him, watching, and jammed
her way along the fence. If Mr Bendt made the slightest move,
or drew the lines either way, it was so little I couldn't see it,
but Clay moved slowly to head her off. When she saw him
coming, she whirled, dropped her head, and hooked her way in
the other direction. It was then that I saw Mr Bendt make his
first move, and I would have missed it if I hadn't been watching
him like a coyote. He seemed to lean forward an inch or
two in the saddle. Then he let the lines go loose, grabbed the
horn, and Clay shouldered his way through the cows in front
of him.

Before Mrs Tompkins was more than two lengths up the
fence line, Clay had her pinned tight. His shoulder was even
with her hip bone, and she could neither turn out nor whirl
back. In her panic she raced straight forward, and Clay followed
her only until Ned and I were in position to take her through
an open gateway.

When I turned Pinch back, Mr Bendt was waiting for me.
"Wasn't nothin' to that one," he said. "Didn't give me no ridin'
to do. Want I should bring out another one?"

"I'd like it if you would," I told him. "I think I learned something
that time."

"Good! Which one you want me to fetch out?"

I started to say, "Mrs Spivak," but caught myself, and said,
"There's a big Durham in there, with thick shoulders and a
heavy brisket, and she's got a lively bull calf with a white face.
I'd like to see you get the calf,"

"Seen 'em," he said; "he'll be a good one." Then he turned
Clay and started back at a slow creep. There was nothing much
different from the first time, until the Durham and her calf had
been brought to the outside of the herd. But I did notice one
thing: when Clay stirred the cows around in the corner, he managed to get fairly close to every one of them. And it was
when his head was near the Durham that Mr Bendt drew the
lines just a trifle toward her.

Mrs Spivak didn't try to dodge back into the herd, but
lumbered away with her calf tight at her flank. Clay followed
close alongside, and I had my eyes fixed on Mr Bendt, watching
for the slightest signal. When it came, it was so slight and
quick I wasn't sure I'd really seen it. Quicker than I could
think, Clay charged at the cow and turned her. The calf didn't
turn quick enough, and in a split second Clay was between him
and his mother. Then the fun began.

That calf of Mrs Spivak's could run faster than a jack rabbit, turn quicker than a cottontail, and had the determination of a
lion. Bawling like a spoiled brat, and with his tail stuck straight
up, he was bound to get back to his mother, and did more
fancy ducking and dodging than a cork bobber when you've
got a big trout on the line. Clay was outguessing him on every
dodge, but I missed about half the fun because I had to keep
all my attention on Mr Bendt. He was all of six-foot-two, and weighed over two hundred pounds, but was always in perfect
balance. Holding the horn with both hands, he seemed to be as
loose as a sack of feathers, but anyone could see that his weight
was always with the turn of his horse.

After it was pretty well winded, Clay pinned Mrs Spivak's
calf against the fence, and brought him up for Ned and me to
take over. When I turned back from the gate, Mr Bendt had

dismounted and was taking his saddle off Clay. "Switch horses,"
he called, "if you don't mind me ridin' Pinch."

"Of course, I don't mind," I told him, as I rode up, "but I'll
never be able to ride Clay the way you can."

"A man never knows what he can do till he's tried his best,"
he told me. "Cinch your saddle on tight and go fetch that calf's
maw; she'll be an easy one for you."

I'll never be sure whether I guided Clay to that big red cow
or not. If I moved the lines it wasn't more than an inch, and if
I leaned her way in the saddle it wasn't any farther, but Clay
seemed to read my mind. His steps were as slow and sneaky as
a cat's when it is creeping up on a bird. If he'd been moving in
water, he'd barely have made a ripple, but each step took him
closer to the red cow. When I was positive Clay knew which
cow we were after, I let the reins fall loose and took the saddle
horn in both hands. From there on my only job was to keep
from hindering him.

With her calf already taken away, Mrs Spivak was easy to
cut from the herd. Clay pushed her straight out, and, if she
hadn't become confused, she'd have waddled straight to the
gate where we'd driven out her calf. But when we were only
started, another calf bawled from the herd. In an awkward,
lunging turn Mrs Spivak tried to dodge back, but Clay had
her cut off before she was half around. My bottom slipped a
bit in the saddle, and there was a pull on my arms, but I'd seen
Clay's move coming and was able to keep my balance. Mrs
Spivak made one more try to turn back, then trotted, lumberingly,
toward the open gateway. As Ned came to meet her, he
called out, "What's this one's name?"

"Mrs Spivak," I called back.

Mr Bendt, Ned, and all the dairyhands hooted and laughed as though I'd just told them a big joke. "Betcha my life Hazel
picked out that name!" Mr Bendt hooted. "Don't you boys
never tell Pete about this or he'll drop the price o' cream ten
cents a gallon."

I couldn't be sure whether the men were laughing at me because
we'd named the cow, or at the name we'd given her, but

I wanted to get the subject changed, so I asked Mr Bendt,
"Did I do all right that time?"

"Done all right at settin' him on, but don't fight them stirrups
so much on the turns; go with the horse."

I didn't know I'd used the stirrups at all, or think I'd slipped
enough in the saddle that anybody could say I hadn't gone with
the horse. But, of course, I couldn't say so, and asked, "Which
one shall I bring out this time?"

"There's a little Jersey in there," he told me. "Try fetchin'
her out and leavin' the calf."

I knew he was talking about the little cow I'd named Mrs
Hazlett for my Sunday School teacher in Littleton, and was
glad he'd picked me a gentle easy one. Hazel and I hadn't had
a bit of trouble with her, she didn't try to sneak away, and
always stayed in the middle of the herd. That's where she was
when I turned Clay back toward the corner.

We went into the herd real carefully, but I didn't know just
what to do when we got there. With the little Jersey right in
the middle, there was no use in starting the cows milling to get
her on the outside. It seemed better to move Clay in behind
her and try pushing her straight out, but at the first step he took
in her direction, she began wriggling away. I still wanted to
keep behind her, but was a little bit confused about how to do
it.

I didn't know I made a move in the saddle or with the lines,
but I must have. Anyways, I got Clay confused too, and had a
hard time making him understand which cow we were after-- and that we wanted her and not the calf. By the time I was
ready to let the reins loose I didn't need anybody to tell me
that Clay was peeved. He had his ears pinned back tight, and
shoved Mrs Hazlett roughly to the outside of the herd, as if he
were trying to show how much better he could do without any
help from me.

I thought I'd had plenty of trouble inside the herd, but when
we got to the outside I found it had just begun. Mrs Hazlett
didn't turn out to be any gentle, Sunday School teacher kind
of cow. As soon as she found she was outside the herd, and that

her calf was still in it, she went crazier than a cat with a salmon
can on its head. She could duck, dodge, and whirl so fast I
couldn't keep track of her, but Clay could outguess her at every
turn. Whirling, racing, doubling back, and sideslipping, he
made his body into a fence between her and the herd, and
never once let his head turn away from her.

With bucking horses, I'd learned to watch their heads, and
to set myself to go whichever way the head turned. With Clay
there was nothing to go by. His head swung back and forth to
face the cow, and I could never guess which way the saddle
would slip out from under me. All I could do was to hang onto
the horn for dear life, and hope I wouldn't fall off before Mr
Bendt and Ned rode in to take that pesky cow out of the corral.
In some way I managed to stick, but was never square in the
saddle for two seconds at a time.

As soon as Mrs Hazlett was out through the gateway, I rode
up to Mr Bendt, and said, "I guess I made a pretty bad mess
of it. I thought I'd learned something from watching you,
but..."

"Got the cow, didn't you?" he asked.

"No, sir," I said, "Clay got her. All I did before I gave him his
head was to get him mixed up."

"That's 'cause you was rattled when you started out. Man
lets hisself get rattled, he's bound to rattle his horse. Next time,
you size up what you want to do and stick to it. Tain't hard to
set a horse's head, once a man has got his own head set."

"I think I can do better on that part next time," I told him,
"but I don't know if I'll ever be able to ride Clay any good. I'm
not quick enough at figuring out which way he's going to turn,
and I came near being spilled three or four times."

"That's 'cause you're workin' at it too hard," he said. "Just
leave yourself foller along easy--the way your best girl does
when she's dancin' with you."

"I haven't got a best girl," I told him, "and I don't know how
to dance. Maybe that's the trouble."

"'Tain't the girl that counts, and 'tain't the dancin'. It's more

like keepin' time with the fiddler. Lose track of it and you're a
goner; stay with it and you can't go wrong--leastwise, not
less'n you go to watchin' your own feet. Now you go back and
fetch out that little Jersey's calf. He won't give you much
trouble."

Mrs Hazlett's calf didn't give me much trouble, and none
of the other cows or calves gave me as much as I expected. Except
for making up my mind and sticking to it, I wasn't sure I
was doing anything different from what I'd done before Mr
Bendt talked to me. But right from that time Clay began to
understand which animal I wanted. And there was something
to that "keeping time with the fiddler." Of course, there wasn't
any music, and there wasn't any measured time to Clay's
moves, but, once I'd found it, there was a rhythm my body
would follow if I let it go loose enough. I still slipped around in
the saddle a good deal, but only when I lost the rhythm and
tried to guess what Clay was going to do next.

When I brought up the last cow, Mr Bendt called out,
"That'll do it, boys! That's enough for today! We'll work the
rest of 'em off piecemeal during the week." Then he rode up
beside me and said, real quietly, "Betcha my life you'll ride
him! Betcha my life! 'Tain't somethin' you'll learn in an hour
or a day--nothin' worth while gets learnt easy--but you're
commencin' to get the hang of him, and that's what you're goin'
to have to do. He's older'n what you are, and he knows more
about cow critters. He ain't goin' to learn new ways from you;
you got to learn 'em from him."

"Yes, sir, I know it now," I said, "but I've still got an awful
lot of things to learn."

"Betcha my life! But you got lots o' years to learn 'em in.
Don't go rarin' at 'em like as if tomorrow'd be the day o' jedgment!
Reckon we'd best to get unsaddled and washed up for
dinner; the folks'll be gettin' home from church directly."

14

Dirty--Squealin'--Pig!

JENNY had a fine dinner ready when Mrs Bendt and the
children came home from church, but Hazel would hardly
give me a chance to eat it. She took my plates away before I'd
had seconds, and kept making signs for me to hurry.

I was still hungry when I left the table, and a little grumpy
when I went out to saddle Pinch and Pinto. Before I'd been at
the corrals ten minutes, Hazel came running from the house.
She'd changed into overalls and blue shirt, and yapped at me,
"What's the matter with you? You're slower'n a blind mule!
How can I learn stunt tricks if you're goin' to spend all day
gettin' saddled up?"

"If you don't let me finish my dinners you'll never learn!" I yapped back. "How do you think I'll ever gain any weight if
you grab my plates away before I'm half full?"

"Jiggers!" she said, "I didn't think about that! Want I should
run an' fetch you a hunk o' meat?"

"No," I told her, "but I rode all morning, and could have
eaten twice as much."

"Hmfff! Practicin' when I had to go to Sunday School!"

"Yes, on Clay, and I didn't do very well."

"Nobody never does, but Paw!"

"Then why did you tell me to pick him?" I snapped.

"Oh, just because..." Hazel smirked. Then she flared at
me, "Don't be fiddlin' with them cinches all day! It's close onto
three o'clock a'readv."

y

We'd cantered half a mile up the trail when Hazel looked
back, and called, "What did you do to Pinto's fore hoofs? He's
dog-hoppin' like they was burnt."

"Nothing," I said, "but your father filed them down so we
wouldn't sprain his knees while we're practicing."

Hazel whirled Pinto around fast enough to nearly throw him.
Her face was so white under the freckles that it looked like a
turkey's egg, and her eyes were squinnied half shut. Then she
spit out--as if she wanted each word to hit me right in the
face, "You--dirty--squealin'--pig!"

I'd expected Hazel to be mad, but not that mad, and hurried
to say, "I guess you don't know your father very well! If you
did, you wouldn't have tried to fool him about magpies this
morning. He knew you were making that up, and he knew
what we were doing out there yesterday just as well as we did.
Do you think I'm crazy enough to lie to a man like that when
he asks me questions?"

The color came back under Hazel's freckles, and she looked
more worried than mad. "What did he say?" she asked.

After her calling me a squealing pig, I wanted to keep her
worried for a while, so I said, "That I should have filed Lady's
hoofs down before I took a chance on ruining her."

"No, I mean about us,"

"Well, he said to tell you to be careful about putting Pinto
into quick stops or you'd get shaken up."

"Don't beat about the bush!" she snapped. "What did he say
about learnin' me trick stunts?"

"Well, he said I couldn't show you the somersault..." then
I waited a minute, and added, "... out in the brush, but I can
teach it to you at the corrals when he or one of the other men
is around."

I'd expected Hazel to get excited when I finally told her, but
she hung her head, and her voice was almost a whisper. "And
I said you was a dirty, squealin' pig." Then she looked up, and
said, "But I take it back... Ralph. And I'm glad I can, 'cause
I hate a squealer worse than anything else in the whole
world."

"Worse than a weasel?" I asked her.

"Well, a weasel's a sneak, and so is a squealer, and I hate
sneaks."

"Wouldn't it have been a little bit sneaky to let your father
think we were going after a magpie when we were coming out
here to practice?" I asked.

"Well... yes," she said slowly, "I s'pose it would." She
seemed to be thinking about it for half a minute. "... and
sometimes I hate my own self," she added. Then she spurred
Pinto, and raced on down the trail.

Hazel led the way to the valley where we'd practiced the day
before, but I wasn't happy as I followed her. When we'd talked
about my showing her the somersault trick, I'd only worried
for fear I'd bobble it, but, after talking to her father, it scared
me. If everything worked just right, the trick wasn't too dangerous,
but there were a lot of ways for it to go wrong. Hazel
could land on her head and break her neck, she could get
caught in the saddle gear and be thrown under the horse's feet,
or she could leave the saddle too soon and be trampled if he
failed to stop.

I'd first learned to do the trick by myself--just from watching
Hi Beckman do it once--but I'd taken some pretty bad
spills in learning. Some of the worst ones were because I didn't
have the horse trained well enough, but most of them were
because I got scared and let my muscles tighten up at the last
moment before I left the saddle. If that happened, I didn't
duck my head and shoulders enough to spin all the way over,
or my knees grabbed the saddle and kept me from being
thrown clear.

I'd done the trick at least a hundred times when I'd landed

on my feet, and probably a thousand times when I hadn't, but
I'd never practiced without doing the somersault. As I rode
along behind Hazel, I began to think that maybe the trick
could be learned without somersaulting. I couldn't teach her
anything while she was spinning in the air. There was no time
for thinking while I was doing it myself; the thinking had to
be done before I left the saddle.

That was why I'd somersaulted when the pheasant flew up
in front of Pinch. I'd been thinking about the trick, and when
I was thrown hard and loose enough, my muscles did the right
things all by themselves. It seemed to me that I could teach
Hazel most of the trick without her ever leaving the saddle.
If I could, it wouldn't be very dangerous, and would save her
a lot of bad spills.

As soon as we reached the valley we began running the
horses and stopping them short. Pinto reared and plunged on
the first few stops, but Hazel knew how to handle him, and
stuck to the saddle as tight as a bur. When he'd settled down,
she snapped, "This ain't learnin' 'em nothin' new! I thought we
come out here to learn 'em trick stunts!"

"We did," I told her, "but before we start, there are some
things you ought to know about it. It's a real dangerous trick. I nearly broke my neck fifty times before I learned it, but I
think I've figured out a way for you to learn without getting
hurt. Everything depends on the moment before you leave the
saddle. If you and Pinto can learn to get up to that very moment
just right, the worst thing that could happen to you would
be to land sitting down, but if..."

"'I ain't scairt about the worst thing that could happen to
me!" Hazel cut in sharply. "I've tumbled off a horse a million
times. All I want is to be showed the somerset trick."

"Then you'll have to get somebody else to show you," I told
her. "I never will until I'm pretty sure you can do it without
getting hurt."

Hazel's voice wasn't sharp any more, and she said, "I'm
sorry, Ralph. Go on and tell me."

"Well," I said, "the only thing that makes the trick work is
being thrown out of the saddle so hard you'll stay in the air
long enough to somersault all the way over. Everybody thinks
the hardest part is spinning over and landing on your feet, but
it isn't. The hardest part is learning to stay loose in the saddle
right through the stop."

"Hmfff! If that's all there is to it, I betcha my life I can do it
after two tries!" Hazel told me. "But it'll prob'ly take me a
whole week to learn Pinto his part. Reckon I can be doin' the
somerset by the time Batch gets back from the trip he's on?"

"No, not for at least two months," I told her. "I practiced a
whole summer before I ever landed square on my feet."

Hazel pinched her mouth up tight, then she said, "Betcha my
life it don't take me no two months, nor one, neither! But if we
don't quit fiddlin' around and get to practicing I'll never get
Pinto learnt."

"Well," I said, "we'll have to start off real easy till we find out
how hard we'll bump against the pommels when we stop. I'll do
the hissing, and the only thing you'll have to remember is to
stay loose in the saddle."

Hazel didn't answer, but pulled Pinto around to face the little
valley. Her lips were pinched together, and she had a tight hold
of the reins.

"You'll never do it tightened up like that!" I told her. "You'll
have to slump loose in the saddle!"

"I ain't tightened up! Quit killin' time!" she snapped.

I started the horses away at a slow rocking canter. Then,
before they'd gone a dozen lengths, I hissed. Pinch stopped as
if he'd run into a wall, and, even at that slow gait, I slammed
hard against the pommel of my saddle.

Pinto didn't do quite so well, but Hazel braced her feet in
the stirrups and threw her shoulders back. She knew what she'd
done, and as she turned him back, she spluttered, "How's anybody
goin' to stay loose and haul in an ornery critter like this
one?"

"Maybe it's a good thing he didn't stop too quick," I told her,

"because I'm not a bit sure my idea is going to work. I bumped
pretty hard against the pommel."

"Hmfff!" she sniffed. "You don't look bad hurt to me!"

"I'm not," I said, "but we weren't going half fast enough to
do the trick. If we had been, I'd have hit the pommel hard
enough to break a girl in two."

"What do you think girls are made of; glass?" she yapped.
"Betcha my life I don't get busted up no quicker'n you dol"

"All right," I told her. "I guess you'll have to find out for
yourself."

I didn't have a chance to get the horses away easily on the
next run. The moment we turned, Hazel yiped and started
them off at a gallop. I didn't dare let them pick up any more
speed, so I hissed before they'd gone four lengths. Hazel shot
forward in her saddle, doubled over the horn, and clutched
Pinto's neck. I didn't go quite that far, but banged hard against
my saddle pommel.

When Hazel straightened up, she was yawping for breath,
but as soon as she caught it, she lit into me like a wildcat, "You
cheater! You cheater!" she shrieked. "You hissed when I wasn't
ready! And you done it a-purpose! You done it try in' to make
me scairt to learn the trick!"

"No, I didn't either!" I told her. "I did it so you wouldn't hit
that pommel any harder."

Hazel pinched her lips up again, and sat looking at me as if
she couldn't make up her mind. Then, she said, "Well, anyways,
it ain't fair for you to hiss when I don't know you're goin' to."

I knew that Hazel would brace herself a little bit, and hit
the pommel easier if she knew when the stops were coming,
so I said, "All right, you do the hissing. But, at first, you'd better
try it at a slow canter."

We made three or four more runs, with Hazel doing the
hissing, but each time she braced herself in the stirrups before
she hissed. I knew that if I told her what she was doing she'd
get mad, so I watched her near stirrup, and, the instant it
tightened, I lifted my reins an inch.

Pinch was trained to stop short on that lifted rein. Before I
heard Hazel's hiss, I felt his rump settle down as he set his legs
for the quick stop. We were three lengths back of Hazel when
she finally hissed and stopped Pinto.

"You dir-- you're cheatin' again!" she hollered. "You pulled
Pinch up before I hissed."

"Sure, I did," I said. "I knew when you were going to do it
as well as you did."

"You did not, neither! You ain't no mind reader! You're just
a cheater; that's all!" she jabbered at me.

"All right," I told her; "let's try it again."

The next stop worked just like the one before. I think Hazel
was more peeved at herself than at me, but she blazed, "You
cheater! You cheater! You ain't tryin' to learn me! You're just
tryin' to make me look silly!"

"No, I'm not," I said. "As soon as you think about hissing you
brace yourself for the stop. All I have to do is watch for you
to kick your foot into the stirrup."

"I didn't do no such thing!" she snapped. Then she sat, tightlipped,
for a minute, and asked, "How many more tries do you
reckon we can get done today?"

"As many as you want," I said, "but it's going to be pretty
tough on your legs and stomach."

Hazel wouldn't stop practicing until long after I thought we

should have quit, but she couldn't help tightening up a little
bit every time. After more than a dozen tries, she was so mad
at herself that she was nearly crying.

"That's enough!" I told her. "You're so tired and beat-up now
that you couldn't stay loose to save your life."

"I am not! I am not!" she shrieked. "If you can do it, I can do
it! Even if it kills me, I ain't goin' to stop till I can do it!"

"You don't think I learned it in one day, do you?" I asked.
"I've been practicing this trick for more than three years, and
I still can't stay loose every time."

"Well, I ain't even stayed loose one time--leastways, not if
I done the hissin'--and I ain't goin' to stop till I do!"

I remembered what Mr Bendt had said to me that morning,
and told Hazel, "Don't go raring at it as if tomorrow'd be the
day of judgment! Your father knows what we're doing, and he
might be worried about us."

"Guess you don't know much about Paw!" she said. "If he
said you could learn me, he ain't goin' to worry about it afterwards.
But I s'pose we'd best get on back, or Maw'll go to
frettin'."

We were about half way to the buildings when Hazel pulled
Pinto back beside Pinch, and asked, "Is it sneakin' not to tell
somebody somethin' so they won't worry?"

"Well," I said, "I guess it would depend on whether you just
didn't tell, or told a lie about it. Why?"

"Well... if Maw finds out about this trick-riding business,
that'll be the end of it. I don't want to be sneakin', but I don't
want her to find out about it, neither."

I was pretty sure Hazel was right, and I did want to teach
her the trick, so I said, "As long as your father knows, I think
it would be all right if you just didn't mention it to your mother
--or to Kenny." Hazel grinned, nodded, and spurred Pinto on
toward the corrals.

I'd banged against the saddle pommel so much that my legs
ached, and I knew that Hazel's must, too. But I didn't realize

til we climbed out of our saddles. Both of us

was

were as stiff as tin soldiers, and when we tried to walk we
waddled like ducks.

I was putting the saddles in the harness shop when Hazel
went to the house, but I heard Mrs Bendt call to her, in a
real sharp voice, "What in the world have you children been
doin' to get yourselves so crippled up?" I listened as hard as I
could, but Hazel spoke too low for me to hear.

Mr Bendt was waiting by the chuckhouse steps when I went
to supper, and his face was set hard. "Didn't reckon tomorrow'd
be the day o' jedgment, did you?" he asked.

"No, sir," I said, "but I guess we rode a little more than we
should have."

"Reckon that's a good guess," he told me. "Better put some
liniment on them legs and turn in early tonight. If you're that
rarin' to ride, I'll see you get a bellyful of it 'fore the week's out.

15.
A Bellyful of Riding.

MONDAY morning I felt as if I'd slept with my legs tied
around a barrel, and I could almost hear myself squeak in the
joints. I rubbed on plenty of liniment, and made up my mind that I'd walk with my knees close together, so nobody could
guess how rough I really felt.

That was the first morning Hank was well enough to eat in
the chuckhouse. He still looked sort of puny, but being sick
hadn't slowed his talking a mite. Over and over again, he kept
telling us how sick he'd been and what the doctor had said to
him, and all the different dreams he'd had when he was out of
his head. "Yes, sir, by dogies!" he shouted. "I seen them pearly
gates a-swingin' open and old Peter..."

"Speakin' about gates," Mr Bendt cut in on him., "you reckon
you're stout enough to open and close a gate today? There's a
heap o' roundin' up and cuttin' to be done 'fore Batch gets back
here at the weekend, and short-handed as I am, I could sure
use you to man a gate."

Hank tried his best to cough, and said weakly, "By dogies, I
don't know if I can make it, Watt. I'm feelin' mighty, mighty

poorly. But with you a-bein' short-handed I'll try my best to get
out and around."

"Reckon that would be a good idee!" Mr Bendt told him.
"I'll want you at the corrals right after dinner."

There was a tone in Mr Bendt's voice that I hadn't heard
before, and he didn't speak again until we were out at the horse
corral. Then he told Ned and me, "Get your saddles on your
best horses, boys. We'll start at the north end and sweep everything this way. 'Fore the week's out we're goin' to put every
critter on the home place through the corrals. Batch wants
everything booked, the young stock put up to the mountains,
and a hundred and twenty head o' trade stock cut out and
ready by Sunday. We'll round up forenoons and cut after dinner."

The sun was just rising when Mr Bendt, Ned and I reined
onto the north trail at a good sharp canter, and we didn't slack
off till we reached the north fence--seven miles from the buildings.
And when he'd said we were going to "sweep" the cattle,
he'd used just the right word.

On open range, where a steer can be seen for a mile, cattle
can be rounded up and driven in big herds. But in brush country
they have to be swept out of each canyon, draw or hollow,
the way a woman sweeps out the rooms of her house. And you
have to sweep around every thicket and clump of scrub oak the
way she sweeps around the furniture.

We started with the canyons in the far northwest corner of
the home ranch, right up against the front range of the Rockies. Mr Bendt did the planning and bossing, but he did an awful
lot of the riding, too--and he put his sorrel down canyon sides
that looked too steep and rocky for a mountain goat. We
worked every canyon separately, with Ned on one side, me on
the other, and Mr Bendt all over it. He was always bringing
out cattle we'd missed, but he never blamed us and he never shouted. Around the corrals his voice was deep and rumbly,
but in the brush he raised it just enough to make it carry. From
a quarter of a mile away, it would come as clear as a bell,

"Above you, boy!" "Catch that side pocket!" "Watch it, Ned;
they're turning back below you!" or "Leave any cows with calves, but mark 'em down in your head!"

As we swept each canyon clean, we drove the cattle we'd
found past the mouth of the next canyon, to graze along and be
joined by the next sweeping. Pinch's shadow was so short it was
hidden under his belly when Mr Bendt called, "That's got it,
boys! We'll head on in to the corrals!"

Outside of orders, Mr Bendt hadn't said anything to me all
forenoon. But when we had the herd lined out and moving
toward the corrals, he slowed his horse as he rode by me, and said, "'Pears like Hazel done a pretty good job o' learnin' you
to find cattle in brush country."

"Yes, sir, she's a good teacher," I said, and he rode on.

It was nearly four o'clock when we brought that first sweeping
in to the corrals, but Mr Bendt must have planned it that
way. As soon as the gate was closed, he said, "Better get
washed up and to the chuckhouse, boys. Grub's on the table,"
Then he looked at me and said, "Eat hearty; you still got a big
day's work ahead!"

I don't think I looked up from my plate once during dinner.
I was too busy eating and thinking about the day's work that
was ahead of me. I knew what it would be, and had trouble
to keep from being afraid of it. There was every kind of cattle
in the sweeping we'd brought in, and the only cutting horse on
the place was in my string. I ate enough, but I didn't stuff. A
stomach-ache, to go along with my lame legs and Clay, was
something I couldn't take a chance on.

Hank hadn't come to the table, and I hadn't seen Hazel since
the night before, but when Jenny brought in the pie, Mr Bendt
said, "Tell Hazel to fetch the herd book and a pencil out to the
corral, and tell Hank I'm ready for some gate tendin'! Gettin'
his legs under him won't do him no hurt, and might work a
little of the wind out of him, so's we can eat a meal o vittles
in peace." Then he looked at me and said, "Throw your saddle
on Clay; I'll be at the cuttin' corral!"

I ate my pie in about six bites, then hurried to the bunk
house and rubbed plenty of liniment on my legs. When I'd saddled
Clay and ridden to the cutting corral, everybody else was
there and ready to work. Hazel was sitting on a little platform
by the cattle pens with a book open on her lap, Hank was leaning
against one of the gates, and Mr Bendt and Ned were
mounted--ready to take away the cattle as they were cut from
the herd. Mr Bendt opened the gate for me to ride in, and told me, " With only one man on the gates, well have to take 'em by kinds. Take the young stock first; pick 'em off the outside of the
herd as long as you can!" Then he turned back and stood his
horse beside Ned's.

There were about sixty cattle in the corral, and they were
jammed into a far corner. I've heard that a drowning man thinks
of a million things in less than a minute. If it's so, I was pretty
close to drowning as Clay walked slowly toward that herd.
From the way Mr Bendt had spoken and acted, I knew I'd
have to sink or swim without any help. And in the minute it
took Clay to reach the herd, I'd thought of every thing Mr
Batchlett, Mr Bendt, Hazel, or my father had ever taught me
--and I think I prayed a little--but over it all, I kept telling
myself, "Stay loose! Stay loose! Stay loose!"

I don't know what helped the most, but I must have had help
from somewhere. One after another, Clay took the animals I
wanted out of the herd, and when he dodged and sideslipped
I didn't feel as if I'd be spilled at every turn. I knew the job I
was doing was far from perfect, and I tightened up a good many times when I shouldn't have, but, for the first time since
I'd tried to use him, Clay didn't act as if he thought I was a
stupid fool.

As I cut each animal from the herd, Mr Bendt rode his horse
in behind Clay and took it away. As he and Ned drove it toward
the gate, he'd call to Hazel, "Yearling heifer--roan-- Shorthorn! Durham steer--short yearling--good grade!" or
''Bull--White Face--herd grade--long yearling!"

I knew that marking down the cattle wasn't all Hazel was

doing--that she was watching every move Clay and I made.
And I could almost see her keeping score of my mistakes. Each
time I tightened up or made a mistake, I wanted to peek up to
see if she'd noticed it, but I didn't let myself do it until I had
the last yearling cut out and turned over to her father. Then,
when I did look up, she didn't say a word. She just let her
shoulders slump loose, grinned, and nodded her head. I don't
know why, but it made a lump come into my throat. If she'd
shouted that I was staying loose and doing a pretty fair job,
she couldn't have told me any plainer.

My nerves were zinging when Mr Bendt turned back from
the last yearling and rode toward me. "All right," he said: "now
we'll cut out the trade stock! I'll call 'em to you as I want 'em!
Fetch that two-year-old White Face bull that's tryin' to pick a
fight! Watch ou..." Then, without finishing, he reined his
horse away and stood it beside Ned's. If he'd gone on and said,
"Watch out for his horns," it wouldn't have hurt my feelings.
But his not saying it made me pretty happy--just having him
show that he didn't think I needed to be told.

It's easy to stay relaxed when you're fishing or just watching
a herd of cattle graze, but it's hard to do when your nerves
are humming like a telegraph wire on a cold night. I'd been
keeping an eye on that White Face bull ever since Ned flushed
him out of a canyon, and there was no question about his being
ugly and looking for a fight. I wasn't exactly afraid of him, but
he outweighed Clay by five hundred pounds, and had wide,
forward-curved horns. If that kind of a bull charges and gets
his head under a horse, he can throw it as if it were a sack of
meal--and the rider has about as much chance as a fat pig at
a barbecue.

I was telling myself, "Keep loose! Keep loose!" as I turned
Clay to face the herd. The White Face bull watched us with his

head low, grumbling deep in his throat, and pawing dirt high
over his back. I let Clay take a couple of steps straight at him,
so he'd know which animal we were after, then drew him off
a trifle to get behind and push the bull out. We didn't need to

get behind; when we were within two lengths of him, the bull
charged.

Quicker than the shot of a pistol, Clay sidestepped the rush
and was between the bull and the herd. I let the reins go loose,
grabbed the horn, and from then on things happened too fast
for me to remember. I do know that the bull charged us at least
a dozen times, and that Clay used his own body to twist him
and turn him--the way a matador uses his cape in bull fighting.
And I know one other thing: that was the first time I ever really
got that feeling Mr Bendt had told me about--the one about
dancing with your best girl.

I never knew a horse could whirl, weave, twist, and bounce
away as fast as Clay did with that charging bull. But my
muscles stayed loose, and the saddle stayed under my bottom all
the way. I was getting just a little bit dizzy when Clay yanked
the bull around in a turn that was shorter than its own body. It
must have made the bull even dizzier than I, because all the
fight went out of him. He stood with his head and tail down as Mr Bendt rode in to take him away. I don't think Mr Bendt
had noticed me once during the whole fight. When he rode
past, he was slipping a six-shooter back into its holster, and all
he said was, "Lot o' horse, ain't he, boy?"

I was proud to have my voice steady when I said back, "Yes,
sir, an awful lot! What animal do you want now?"

I don't know whether Mr Bendt picked that bull on his first
call just to get him out of the herd, or if he did it to let me find
out that I'd finally got the hang of Clay--and maybe of myself
a little bit. Whichever way he intended it, it worked the second
way. From then on I never had to tell myself to stay loose in
the saddle, and I was never afraid again. It was in that fight
with the bull that the first real understanding began between
Clay and me.

One after another, Mr Bendt called for the cattle he wanted,
and as we brought them out he called the description to Hazel.

I didn't look up at her until the last of the trading cattle had been cut out of the herd, and then she just grinned and nodded.

The sun was nearly two hours from setting when we began
cutting out the brood cows that would be turned back to pasture
after the sweep was finished. Most of them were beginning
to be heavy with calf, and the job of cutting them away from
the herd was easy--now that Clay and I understood each other
better. We were about half through the cutting when Kenny
came riding to the corral gate on his donkey. He called something,
and I heard Mr Bendt call back, "Tell her to get the
grub on the fire! We'll be through a lot earlier than I reckoned on.

I glanced up at Hazel while they were talking, and she
pointed back and forth between herself and me, then at her
father. I guessed that she wanted me to ask him if we could go
and practice when we'd finished with the cattle. After his having
told me he'd give me a bellyful of riding, I didn't like to
ask, but Hazel kept motioning. So, when I brought the last cow
out of the corner, I asked, "Would it be all right for Hazel and
me to practice the horses a little while after supper?"

Mr Bendt's face had been serious all day, but when I asked
him it brightened up, and he said, "Betcha my life! Betcha my
life, boy!"

He started to ride away, then turned back and said quietly,
"Reckon you'd best to do it 'fore we eat. Hazel's maw might not
cotton to her goin' out after supper. If I was you, I don't reckon
I'd say much about this trick-ridin' business 'round the house.
How's the gal doin'?"

"Fine," I said. "I'm sorry she got bruised up so much, but it
won't be safe for her to try the diving trick till she can stay
loose in the saddle on quick stops."

For a few seconds Mr Bendt sat as if he were trying to make
sense out of what I'd told him. Then he just said, "Betcha my
life! Make her learn it good!" and rode away.

All the way to the practice meadow, Hazel was as bubbly as
soapsuds. We'd hardly hit the north trail when she called back,
"I got it all learnt! I learnt it this afternoon when you was
riding Clay--and you done... did fine!"

"Maybe I'm getting the hang of him a little bit," I called back.
"But what was it you learned?"

"How to keep loose; what else is there to learn?"

"Not much," I told her, "but I still don't know what you're
talking about,"

"Well, I do! All I got to do is to not let myself know I'm goin'
to say, 'Tsssst!' till I hear it. That way I won't get scairt and
tighten up."

"It would work if you could do it," I told her, "but I don't
see how that has anything to do with my riding Clay."
"That's what you was doin'--right clean up to the time you
had the fight with the White Face bull--not lettin' yourself
know you was scairt. I seen it plain as daylight."

"Well, I don't know how you could see what I was thinking,"
I called back, "but I guess you're pretty near right."

"I knew it!" she squealed, as if she'd just found an ostrich
egg. "I knew it, and I know something else you don't: Paw was
holding a gun on that bull all the time you was fighting him.
And he'd have pulled the trigger, too--with all he thinks of
them... those purebreds."

There wasn't any need for Pinch and me to practice the running
and stopping. With the lines draped over the horn, he'd
always set his feet at the first sound of the hiss, and all I got out
of it was a pounding against the pommel. But I couldn't just sit
back and let Hazel practice alone, so when we reached the
meadow, I said, "Why don't we trade horses for tonight? Then
you won't have to think about stopping Pinto, but only about
staying loose in the saddle."

"No, sir! No such of a thing!" she snapped. "When I do the
trick for Paw and Batch to see, I'll be doin' it off Pinto, and I
ain't going to take no easy horse now! And besides, I'll do all
the hissing from now on, 'cause I'll have to be doing it for myself
when I really do the whole trick."

I don't think Hazel had learned a thing from watching me ride Clay, but that she'd thought so much about staying loose that she'd taught it to her muscles. However it worked, we

made a dozen runs without her tightening up but once, and
Pinto behaved a lot better than he ever had before. That was
as much as I'd let her do, because I didn't want her to get
bruised any more than she had to--and I didn't want her father
to tell me again that he'd give me a bellyful of riding.

16.

Now, Mr Man!

EVERY day that week we swept in a corralful of cattle in
the forenoon, and cut them out after dinner. Each day I
learned the work a little better with Clay--and each evening
Hazel and Pinto went through a dozen practice runs without
a bobble. But the best part of my days came after everyone
else had gone to bed.
When I was unsaddling Pinch after Monday's practice, Lady
came to the corral gate and nickered softly to me. It made me
ashamed of myself. I'd been so busy with Pinch and Clay that
I hadn't paid any attention to her since I'd abused and lamed
her. I was still thinking about her when we were finishing supper,
and put two biscuits in my pocket, because she always
liked them.

After Ned and Hank had gone to the bunkhouse, I went back
to the corral gate and whistled to Lady. By that time it was full
dark and the moon hadn't come up, so I couldn't see her, but
she nickered and came to me. I broke one of the biscuits into
small pieces and stood for quite a little while, scratching her
forehead as I fed them to her, and telling her I was sorry I'd
been so rough with her.

As my eyes grew more used to the darkness, I could see that
several other horses had come over, and that Clay was among
them. I would never have thought of taking him a biscuit or
that he would like to be petted. But I was feeling happy about
the way we'd worked together that afternoon, so I opened the
gate, went in, and walked slowly toward him. He moved away
just as slowly, so I stood still--just holding out a piece of biscuit
and speaking quietly. Clay stopped when I did, stood for a
couple of minutes, then inched toward me. He let me scratch
his head and shoulders as he took pieces of biscuit from my
hand.

While I was petting Clay, there was a snort from behind me,
and when I looked around I could make out the shape of
Pinch's jug head. He didn't back away when I went toward him
with a piece of biscuit held out, but kept his ears back, and
snatched the pieces out of my hand as if he were letting me
know that he didn't want any petting.

I was probably with the horses for half an hour, then, when
I was going to the bunkhouse I began to feel ashamed of myself
again. Blueboy was my horse just as much as any of the others
--except Lady--but I hadn't even bothered to look for him.
Instead of going to the bunkhouse I went back to the chuck
house, and rapped on the kitchen door. After a minute, Mrs
Bendt opened it and said, not too pleasantly, "Yes. What is it
you want?"

I hadn't expected her to be cross, and sort of stammered,
"Nothing. I was... I was just wondering if there was an
extra biscuit left over from supper."

Mrs Bendt stopped scowling, and said, "Why, you poor little
boy. Didn't you get enough supper? You come right in the
kitchen here while I get you a piece of pie and some milk! No
wonder you're starved after the way Watt's worked the daylights
out of you today!"

For a minute I didn't know what to say or do. I couldn't tell
her I wanted the biscuit for Blueboy, and I couldn't think of
anything else to say that wouldn't sound silly. Finally I stammered,

"Well, it... it isn't for me, and I'm not hungry, and
I didn't work very hard today. I just like to keep a biscuit on
hand for... sometimes I used to give one to Lady--that's my
horse--when we were at home."

"Well, for pity's sake!" she said, as if she thought I must be
half crazy. "Who ever heard of feeding biscuits to horses? But
you wait a minute; I think there was four or five of 'em left
over from supper--if Jenny didn't throw 'em in the hogs'
bucket."

When Mrs Bendt had brought me the biscuits, and I'd
thanked her, I took them out and hid all but one of them in the
harness shop. That one I put in my pocket, and went back to
the horse corral.

Lady, Pinch, Clay, and several other horses crowded around,
but my eyes were still partly blinded from the kitchen light,

and I couldn't see anything of Blue boy. I must have made ten
trips around the corral before I finally found him--and then it
wasn't from seeing, but from hearing him snort as he raced out
of a corner.

From the pound of Blueboy's hoofs I could tell what corner
he'd run to, and once I knew where it was, it wasn't hard to
work my way slowly toward him. There was only one big
danger: if I got him too frightened or excited he might stampede
and run right over me. I was a little bit worried about it,
but I'd learned from Father and Hi Beckman that steady,
gentle talking would calm a horse better than anything else. So
I inched slowly toward the corner, holding out the biscuit and
saying anything that came into my head.

When the moon rose I'd spent more than an hour trying to
get near Blueboy, and he'd dashed out of a corner past me six
or seven times. I don't know whether it was his getting used
to me, my talking, or that he could see me better, but when the
top of the moon showed above the hill, he stood long enough
to let me get within a few feet of him. I had to remind myself
of what Mr Bendt had said about my having plenty of time
ahead of me, but I didn't hurry, and I kept talking as I
inched forward with the biscuit held out.

Blueboy stood with his feet braced, his ears pricked forward,
and white showing around his eyes in the moonlight. I couldn't
tell whether it was from hate or fear, and I knew that at any
second he might lunge and strike with either his teeth or his
hoofs. Hi used to tell me that a horse could smell fright on a
person, and I think it's true, because you can never do much
with one when you're afraid. That's why I couldn't even let
myself think that Blueboy might strike--and one of the reasons
I had to keep on talking.

My head was within less than three feet of Blueboy's--and
my heart was pounding as if it would jump out of my chest-- when he snatched the biscuit from my hand and bolted away.
When I went back to the bunkhouse my nerves were still zinging,
and it was a couple of hours before I could go to sleep.

Tuesday night I waited for moonrise before I went to the
horse corral, and when I whistled for Lady, Pinch came with
her. Clay seemed glad enough to have a piece of biscuit and
some petting, but he stood back and made me come to him.
Blueboy stayed way at the back of the corral, snorting and
stamping a hoof. But that night it only took me about ten
minutes to work my way up to him, and he didn't bolt after
he'd snatched the piece of biscuit. Still, he wouldn't let me
get close enough to put a hand on him.

It wasn't until Thursday that Blueboy would let me touch
him, and then it was only because I wouldn't let him have any
biscuit until he did. And he moved off to the other side of the
corral just as soon as he got it. Friday he was a little better,
and let me walk up to him slowly without his backing off. Even
then, he didn't want my hand on him, and only let me stroke
his muzzle a second before he jerked it away.

Saturday we made the last roundup sweep of the home
ranch. It was the one nearest the buildings, and not a very
large one, so we had all the cattle in the corral by noon. When
I was going in to dinner Hazel met me outside the chuckhouse
door, and seemed as excited as if it were already the Fourth
of July. "We're having roast pork and applesauce and peach
pie," she whispered, "and you eat every single bit you can
hold."

"Why?" I asked. "I'm not very hungry this noon."

"That don't make no never-minds!" she whispered again.
"You eat every mouthful you can stuff down! I got a special
reason; I'll tell you after dinner. And don't you go back to the
corrals till I get the dishes done! You wait for me right here!"
Then she ran away to the kitchen.

The dairyhands had just butchered a young pig, and the roast pork was real good, but I couldn't hold more than two
helpings. And all the time I was eating I could hear dishes
rattling and clicking in the kitchen. Hazel must have been
washing them just as fast as Jenny could take them in from

the chuckhouse, because I only had to wait three or four minutes
for her. Then she stuck her head out of the kitchen doorway,
and called, "Go get your chaps and spurs on! I'll meet you
up to the milk house at the dairy barn." Before I could ask her
what in the world it was all about she'd ducked back inside.

I couldn't imagine why Hazel wanted me at the milk house,
and particularly with my spurs and chaps on, but I went back
to the bunkhouse, put them on and went up to the dairy barn.
When I got there she was standing by a pair of scales, and she
had both hands on her hips. "Now, Mr Man," she said, "we'll
see if you gained your weight back yet! I a'ready got the scales
set for seventy-two pounds."

I knew it would be cheating a little to weigh with my chaps
and spurs on, because I'd weighed seventy-two pounds without
them and barefooted when I left home. But I knew how much
Hazel wanted me to show her the somersault trick before Mr
Batchlett came back, so I kept my mouth shut and stepped on
the scales. The bar went up with a good hard bump, and Hazel
squealed, "You done it! You done it! Now there ain't no reason
you can't show me how to do the somerset trick.'"

With the amount of riding I'd done that week--and with
staying up kind of late every evening--I hadn't been a bit sure
I'd gained all my weight back. But from the way that scale
arm bumped I knew I had, and I wanted to tease Hazel a little,
so I said, "Don't you think it's cheating to weigh with my
stomach nearly popping and with my chaps and spurs on?"

Hazel thought about it for a few seconds, then put a finger
out to try the scale beam, and said, "Well... the chaps might
be a little bit cheatish, but what you've et is a part of you now,
so it's fair."

"And how about the spurs?" I asked.

"They don't weigh next to nothin'! Just take your chaps off!"

"All right," I told her, "but you'll have to set the scales up a
pound."

Hazel looked at my spurs and seemed to be weighing them
with her eyes. "Take 'em off, then!" she snapped. "They don't

weigh over half a pound, and I ain't going to be cheated by no
half a pound!"

When the weighing was over, I was even happier than Hazel.
Besides gaining back all the weight I'd lost in the mountains,
I gained another couple of pounds. For two years I hadn't been
able to gain an ounce, but at last it looked as if I might be growing
up a little. "All right," I told Hazel, "as soon as we finish
cutting the cattle this afternoon I'll ask your father if I can
show you how to do the trick. But you'll have to watch me do it
at least a dozen times before you can try it yourself."

"That's just more excuses!" Hazel shouted. "That's just more
excuses so's I won't be able to do it by the time Batch gets
home--and then you'll go out on the next trip with him--and
then I won't never get to learn to do it!"

"Maybe you can try it tomorrow if your father thinks you're
ready, but unless you'll promise not to try it today I won't show
you how it's done."

"You're a cheater! You're a cheater!" she flared at me. "You're
just tryin' to save the trick all for your own self!"

I knew Hazel didn't mean what she was saying, and was only blowing off steam, so I grinned and said, "Promise?"

"Well... I s'pose I got to, but it ain't... isn't fair," she
said slowly.

"Cross your heart?"

Hazel made a quick X with one finger across the front of her
blouse, and said, "Now don't go to fiddle-diddlin' around all
afternoon with cutting that little dab o' cattle, so's to let it get
supper time on us! Get your saddle on Clay while I run for the
herd book!"

Clay worked the best he ever had for me that afternoon, and
by half past three the last animal on the home ranch had been
rounded up, cut out, and written down in the herd book. "That
done it!" Mr Bendt sang out, as Hank opened the gate for the
last cow. "By the old Harry, I'd swore we couldn't'a done it---short-handed as we was! You boys done fine--you too, Hank!
Let's knock off and call it a day."

Hazel was trying to write down the last cow with one hand
and talk sign language to me with the other, so I rode over to Mr Bendt, and said, "I've gained back more weight than I lost,
and I promised Hazel that when that time came I'd show her
how I do one of the trick-riding stunts. She's promised not to
try it herself today, but is it all right if I show her how it's
done?"

Hazel had jumped down from her little platform and was
running toward us. When her father saw her coming, he asked
real quietly, "Think she's ready? How risky is it?"

I nodded, and said, "Well, you could watch me do it a few
times and see for yourself. Of course, she could take kind of a
bad spill if she got scared and tightened up at the last second."

By that time Hazel was hopping up and down at the side of
her father's horse. "I ain't scairt the least tiny little bit!" she
squealed, "And I ain't tightened up once at practicin' all week!
And anyways, I ain't going to do it myself today. Can't he show
me? Can't he show me, Paw?"

"Can't see no hurt in him showin' you, gal," he told her, "but I ain't about to let you break your neck in somethin' you
couldn't prob'ly make out at. You kids go get your horses
saddled! Where at do you reckon on doin' this stunt?"

"Well, you said we'd have to do it here at the corrals," I told
him, "but I think the horses would do better for the first time
or two if we did it where we've been practicing. I'm not much
worried about Pinch, but I'm going to use Pinto mostly--he'll
probably spook the first couple of times; most horses do."

Mr Bendt rose in the saddle, so that his head was higher
than the corral poles, and looked toward the house. "Hmmm,"
he said, "where's this practicin' place at?"

"A little valley about three miles up the north trail," I told
him; "the one where you swept out the big White Face bull and
three heifers."

"Hmmm," he said again. "Reckoned that was it by the way
the turf was chawed up. Might not be a bad idee."

17.

I Done It! I Done It!

WHEN Mr, Bendt said I could show Hazel how to do the
somersault trick, I saddled Pinch and Pinto as fast as I could.
Then he rode out to the little practice meadow with us, at a
slow jogging pace.

I'd never done the trick without being just a little bit scared,
but when we got to the meadow I told Mr Bendt, "There's
nothing about this trick to be scared of if the horses are trained
right, and I think these are. Pinch hasn't made a bobble all
week, and Pinto's only made a couple of little ones. If you and
Hazel will stand your horses right over there, I'll try to do the
trick so you can see every part of it. And I'll do it first off
Pinch, because he didn't spook the time I did it by accident."

I rode Pinch back to the starting line, took off my spurs, then
put him into a hard run. At the moment he was passing Mr
Bendt and Hazel, I hissed and ducked my head and shoulders.
The quick, hot taste I always got came into my mouth, I spun
in the air, and the next instant Pinch and I were standing with
our two heads side by side.

"Good job!" Mr Bendt called out.

"You done it too fast!" Hazel shouted. "Why didn't you do it
slower so's I could see how you done it?"

"I have to do it fast," I said, "or I'd only go part way over.
Let's change saddles now and I'll try it off Pinto, The thing to
watch is the way I duck my head as I leave the saddle--as if
I were trying to poke it between my legs."

Pinto was fidgety with me on him, so I didn't take him all
the way back, but turned him into a quick start. As soon as he'd
picked up enough speed, I hissed and ducked my head. Pinto
set his feet in good shape, but when he felt me leaving the
saddle, he spooked and whirled away to the right. He did it
so fast that the saddle horn bumped my leg as my foot came
up out of the stirrup. It wasn't a hard bump, but enough to
throw me a bit sideways and off balance.

I'd practiced the trick so much that my muscles would
remember what to do quicker than my head could. My arms
didn't go out to balance me, or my legs to reach for the ground,
but I stayed curled up like a sleeping cat. I landed sort of
cornerwise, on the back of my shoulder, somersaulted on the
ground a couple of times, and came to a stop on my hands and
knees--right in front of Mr Bendt's horse. I'd hardly come to
a stop before he picked me up and asked, "Are you hurt, boy?"

"No, sir," I told him, "not a bit. I'm all right."

"Betcha my life." he said, and I heard Hazel gasp. When
I looked up, her face was so white that the freckles looked
like mud spatters.

"Jiminy!" she panted, as if she were all out of breath. "I
thought you was going to get killed."

"That's why I've been making you practice to stay loose,"
I told her. "You don't get hurt if you stay loose and doubled
up; it's only when you get scared and stick out your arms and

le??'"

"Wasn't you scairt?" she asked. "I was! Green."

"No," I said, "I didn't have time to be. Where's Pinto? I
want to try it a few more times with him; he won't spook
after another time or two."

Pinto hadn't run when he'd whirled away, but was standing
stiff-legged, with his nostrils wide, watching me as if he thought
I'd gone crazy.

"Don't you reckon you've had enough for one day?" Mr
Bendt asked. "Don't you reckon you'd best to leave him a day
to settle down 'fore you try him again?"

"I think it would be better if I tried it right now," I told
him. "Every horse I ever tried it from--except Pinch.--spooked
the first time, but after they get used to it they never spook
again. If I'd leave him now, don't you think he might be worse
next time?"

"Like as not you're right," Mr Bendt said after a minute.
"Like as not! Go on ahead, but watch out there's no loose
gear to get tangled up in!"
I took a couple of practice runs on Pinto, but didn't leave
the saddle. Then, on the third run, I ducked my head and
somersaulted. He spooked again, but not quick enough for
the saddle to bump me, and he whirled only half way. So
long as the saddle didn't touch me, his spooking didn't bother
the trick, but my muscles were still afraid. They kept me curled
up in a bunch right through the split second when I should
have been throwing my arms out for balance and setting my
feet to land.

I hit the ground on my feet, but I was scrooched way
down--with my bottom right behind my heels--and my arms
wrapped around my stomach. That didn't leave me any way of
putting on the brakes, so I bounced like a thrown ball. About that time my head caught up with my muscles in thinking,
and I threw my arms out wide to slow me down, but it worked
just wrong. For a tenth of a second I must have looked like
a wild goose coming in for a landing, then my feet touched
the ground again and I flopped forward on my face. The first
landing didn't hurt at all, but the flop forward knocked the
wind out of me. When Mr Bendt picked me up, I was yawping
for breath like a fish on a hook.

Mr Bendt saw what the trouble was, and gave me a slap
on the back. He wasn't a bit afraid or excited, but his mouth
was set hard, and he said, "This ain't no game for girls--boys,
neither! How come Beckman learnt it to you in the first place?
How come your paw let him do it?"

"They didn't," I told him. "I saw Hi do it once, and then
I practiced it by myself--when I was out alone herding cattle --in a good soft sandy place. It isn't nearly as dangerous as
it looks. I've taken a thousand spills with nothing worse than
getting the wind knocked out of me."

"Well, this ain't no soft sandy place." Mr Bendt told me.
"Reckon you'd best to call it a day!"

Hazel hadn't made a sound, but when I looked up, two big
tears were rolling down her cheeks. I didn't know if it was
because she was afraid I'd been hurt, or because she was sure
her father wouldn't let her learn the trick. But I did know
that he'd never let her learn it unless he saw me do it over
and over without a bobble, so I said, "Can I have just one
more try? If I don't do it right this time, I won't try it again
while I'm here."

Mr Bendt rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand, as
if he were thinking hard, then said, "Reckon every man's due
the right to draw one card, but I'm tellin' you you'll have
to come up with a full house or better!"

I'd never played poker, but I'd watched the men at the
Y-B ranch enough to know that a full house was a hard hand
to beat. And I knew that Mr Bendt was telling me that, unless
everything went exactly right, my trick-riding was over for
the summer.

I decided that, with only one card to draw, I'd better not
take any chances, so I told Hazel, "We'll have to trade saddles
again; I'm going to use Pinch this time."

Mr Bendt helped me change saddles, and his face stayed
hard and set, but Hazel's was nervous. As I kneed the air out
of Pinch, she crowded up close beside me, and whispered,
"Don't take no chances, Ralph... but... but... make
it work."

I didn't say anything back, but nodded, pulled the cinch
tight, and hopped to get a foot in the stirrup.

Among all of us, I think Pinch was the only one who wasn't
nervous. Hazel was so jumpy that she excited Pinto into dancing,
and Mr Bendt's face was set as hard as rock. As I turned

Pinch toward the starting line, my knees played a tattoo against
the saddle, and pins-and-needles ran up and down my backbone.
I walked him real slowly, and waited a full minute at
the line, telling myself to stay loose and to make the trick
work. Then, when my knees stopped trembling, I kicked my
heels against Pinch's belly. I don't remember anything about
that try, right from the take-off to the moment I found myself
standing on my feet with Pinch's head at my shoulder.

I think it was Hazel and Mr Bendt who sort of woke me
up. She was squealing and clapping her hands as if she'd been
into the loco weed, and her father called out, "Pick up the
chips, boy! It's your next deal!"

"Can I draw more than one card this time?" I called back,
"I'd like to try it off Pinto, so he'll get used to it, but I can't
be sure it'll work just right the first try."

"Dealer's choice! You've got the deck!" he said, so I shifted my saddle back onto Pinto.

All the time I was changing saddles, Hazel fussed around
with Pinto like an old hen with one chicken. She kept patting
him, and scratching his muzzle, and telling him not to get
fidgety, and to behave himself. Then, when I climbed into the
saddle, she looked up and whispered, "Don't kick him hard in
the belly. He's as scairt as I am of what might happen, and
you'll only make him worse."

"You're the one that's making him nervous," I told her. "If
you don't stop fiddling around you'll make me tighten up
too, and spoil everything."

Hazel let her arms drop loose, but her face was still excited
when I turned Pinto away. His take-off was good, and when
I hissed and flipped he threw his head up, but he didn't spook.
And when he saw me standing beside him at the finish, he
looked at me as much as to ask how I got there.

Hazel didn't pay any more attention to me than if I'd been
a post standing there. She ran to Pinto, patted him on the
shoulder, rubbed his neck, and told him she'd known he could
do it all the time.

I took half a dozen more somersaults off Pinto. They weren't
all perfect, but there were no really bad ones, and he behaved

in good shape. My worst trouble was with Hazel. She kept
yapping at me for doing the trick too fast for her to see, and
saying she'd never be able to learn it. At last Mr Bendt said,
"Why don't you ride alongside of him, gal, so's to watch it
from close in? But stay off far enough to give him room! Your
horse could tromp him if you get in too close."

With Hazel on Pinch, I knew there was no danger of my
being trampled. He always stopped quicker than Pinto, and
I'd land well in front of him. But I didn't think Hazel could
learn much from riding along beside me. At the very moment
she ought to be watching what I did, she'd be flung against
the saddle pommel, and wouldn't be able to see a thing. At
the take-off line, I stopped and told her, "If you're going to
learn anything this way, you've got to almost think you're
doing the stunt yourself. Try ducking your head a little when
you hear me hiss, but look out you don't get it low enough
to bump the saddle horn."

I didn't have any time to watch Hazel at the last moment,
but, just as I landed, I heard her father call, "Careful, gal!
You'll bust your head on that horn!"

On our second run together, he called to her again, "Watch
out for that horn, gal!"

Before we left the starting line for our third run, I told
her, "Lean a bit to one side, then you'll miss the horn when
the pommel stops you and your head jerks down."

That could have been a bad thing for me to tell Hazel. It
could have thrown her off balance and made her take a nasty
spill, but it didn't work that way. Both horses were going
like sixty when I hissed and ducked my head, and as I went
spinning through the air I caught a glimpse of something
flying right along with me. I didn't realize what it was until
I'd landed on my feet and saw Hazel take two or three running
steps, then fall forward on her face. For a split fraction
of a second my heart stopped beating, and I had that taste
like hot blood in my mouth. Then Mr Bendt shouted, "Hazel!"
and leaped out of his saddle.

Hazel fell less than three yards in front of me, but before
I could collect my wits and get to her, she'd scrambled to
her feet. She was hardly on them before she started bouncing
and jumping around like a cat on a hot stove. "I done it! I
done it!" she shouted, and her braids flapped like latigo strings
on the saddle of a bucking horse. "I ain't hurt one tiny little
bit, and I done it!"

I knew she'd done the trick by mistake, just the way I
had when the pheasant flew up in front of Pinch. She'd watched
me enough that her muscles knew what to do without her head
telling them, and she'd been just enough off center in the
saddle to be thrown clear when Pinch stopped. I think her
father knew it too. His face looked as proud as my father's
did when he first saw me do the stunt at the Littleton roundup,
but all he said was, "Is that all the worth there is to your word,
gal? Thought you promised you wasn't goin' to try that stunt today!"

Hazel stopped hopping, and her face went sober. Then she
peeked up at him under her eyebrows and said, "I didn't do
it a-purpose, Paw. Honest, I didn't! It just kind of happened
all by itself."

That time he smiled, and said, "I reckoned right from the
start-off that's the way it had to work. Maybe you'd best to
let Little Bri... to let Ralph here show you how to keep
from fallin' over after you land."

"Well, I think I can tell it to her better than I can show
her," I said. "I learned it from watching a pigeon light on
our barn. Did you ever notice how they use their wings for
brakes, and how they reach out to feel for a landing with their
feet? That's the way I do it, but it's too fast to watch in the
middle of a somersault, and that's when I begin to push my
arms and legs out."

"Betcha my life! Betcha my life!" Mr Bendt said. "Reckon
you can get the hang of it, gal?"

Hazel began hopping again, and squealing, "Sure I can!
Sure I can! Let's do it again!"

I knew Hazel would make plenty of bobbles until she'd

practiced the trick over and over, and I didn't want her father
to stop her if she took a few spills, so I said, "You know, she
can only learn it by practicing, and she'll be sure to take some
more spills. But if she doesn't get scared and tighten up, she
can't break anything."

"Hmmm! Nothin' but her neck!" he said. Then he laughed
and told Hazel, "Reckon I'm loco as a range maverick to let
you try it, gal. Your maw would peel the hide off me if she
knowed of it. But now you done it once you'd best to go on
and learn it the safest way there is." His face set hard, and
he went on, "Look here, gal! The boy'll be away with Batch
most of the time. I want your word that you won't try this
stunt alone! Is it a go?"

Hazel swiped a quick X on the front of her blouse, and
said, "Cross my heart! But it's all right if we practice when
Ralph's on the home ranch, ain't it, Paw?"

Mr Bendt nodded slowly, and I did the trick a few more
times to show Hazel how I kept from falling forward. When
it came time for her to try the trick alone, I could see she
was nervous, so I rode to the starting line with her. We'd
turned the horses, and while I was telling her to stay loose
and not to be afraid, her lip began to quiver. "Ride with me,
Ralph," she almost begged; "I'm scairt."

I knew that the longer we waited the more afraid she'd
get, so I yipped, "Let's GO!" and kicked my heels against
Pinch.

Both horses jumped at the word, and we were racing neck
and neck by the time we'd gone fifty yards--then I hissed.
I had to--so Hazel would somersault again without thinking
about it or having time to tighten up. It worked fine, She
went all the way over, lit on her feet, staggered a couple of
steps, then stopped without falling down. She didn't remember
to put her arms out till she was already on her feet, but I
knew she had the trick learned--and so did her father.

He didn't even bother to come over to us, but called, "Two
more times and we're goin' in! Your maw'll be wonderin' where
we're at."

18.

A Glow of Light.

THAT Saturday was a good day for me in lots of ways. I'd
found that I was growing again, Mr Bendt had said I'd done a
good job cutting cattle, and I'd taught Hazel to do a hard trick
riding stunt without getting hurt. But the two things that made
me the happiest came after that.

We'd eaten supper and I was sitting on the bunkhouse steps
with Hank and Ned when I heard a cow bellow from far to the
east. I listened, and heard another bellow with a different tone. Mr Bendt was at the harness shop, and I called to him, "I think
one of the trail herds is coming in! I heard cows bellowing way
off to the east!"

Mr Bendt came out and listened for a minute, then called
back, "Betcha my life it's Batch! You boys want to saddle up
and come along to meet him?"

Ned and I started to get our saddles from the harness shop,
but Hank beat us there. He hadn't been on a horse since he'd
been sick, and had been acting as if he were too weak to open
the gates, but he yanked his saddle down and hurried off to
catch up a horse,

I hadn't used Lady all week, so I whistled for her when I

reached the corral. It didn't surprise me much that Pinch and
Clay came to the gate with her, but I could hardly believe it
when I looked up and saw Blueboy follow them half way across
the corral. He stuck out his muzzle and sniffed while I was
saddling, then stamped a fore hoof and turned back.

Both trail herds had met in the early afternoon, and Mr
Batchlett had thrown them together. When we were still
half a mile away, I could hear Sid and Tom yipping and driving.
We met them about two miles east of the corrals when
twilight was just beginning to settle. There were over a hundred
cattle in the combined herd--all cows that were going to have
calves before long--and they were so trail-weary they were
hard to keep from scattering.

We spread out wide, so we wouldn't turn the herd, and I
went to the side where I'd heard Sid's voice. "Hi, there, Little
Britches!" he called, when he saw me coming through the
brush. "How you doin'? How's that little Jenny Wren?"

"Fine!" I told him. "Everybody's fine, even Hank. He rode
out with us. Did you have a good trip?"

Instead of answering me, Sid started to say something about
Hank being a lucky old buzzard to get sick and have Jenny
take care of him. But some cows pushed out of his side of the
herd and he had to ride after them. I rode a little farther on and
began pushing back stragglers. In a few minutes I heard Hank
doing the same thing still farther toward the back of the herd.
From the way he was shouting, anyone might have thought he
was trying to handle the whole herd alone.

As twilight deepened the tired cows tried to leave the
herd and find places to bed down. If I'd used my head I'd
have known how they'd act, and would have ridden Pinch.
But I didn't think about it when I'd saddled, and Lady wasn't
much good in scrub oak. A dozen cows had slipped past us-- and things were about as bad as they could be--when I heard Mr Batchlett's voice from back where Hank was, "Take it
easy, Hank! They'll scatter if you rough 'em!"

I hadn't seen Hank since we met the herd, and in that tall
scrub oak he couldn't have seen me, but he shouted back to Mr
Batchlett, "Don't you fret none about me, Batch! I got 'em
fenced in tighter'n hog wire, but that there kid's in plenty
trouble up yonder."

In a minute or two Mr Batchlett rode into sight and began
rounding up my stragglers. I helped as much as I could, but it
was a poor job, and he had to double back for cows that I'd let
slip past me. He didn't say a word when he rode up, and all
he said when he left was, "Keep 'em in close as you can!" Then
he rode on toward where Sid was working.

I didn't see anybody else till we had the cows out of the
brush and headed across the valley to the corrals, and I didn't
want to. All week I'd been proud of the job I was doing, and
had been anxious for Mr Batchlett to get back, so he could
see how much I'd learned. Then, when he'd come, he'd found
me doing a terrible job, and Hank had made it sound as if

I never did any better. After that, I was sure Mr Batchlett
wouldn't take me on a trading trip with him, and I thought he
might pay me off and send me home.

All the others stood around after the herd was in the corrals,
but I unsaddled and went right to the bunkhouse. I didn't light
the lamp, but undressed and crawled into my bunk. It wasn't
that I was tired; I wasn't. I just didn't want to see anybody, and
particularly Mr Batchlett.

I must have lain there fifteen or twenty minutes when I
heard Mr Bendt's and Mr Batchlett's voices coming toward
the bunkhouse. I was sure Mr Batchlett was going to turn in
early, and I didn't want him to see me awake when he lit the
lamp--and to have him tell me I was no good and that he was
going to pay me off. So I turned over to face the wall and tried
to snore quietly, as if I were sound asleep.

We always left the bunkhouse door open on summer evenings,
and I heard the voices come nearer and nearer till they
stopped there, outside the doorway. Mr Batchlett was telling Mr Bendt something about his trip, but I didn't pay any attention
until I heard him ask, "Where'd Little Britches go to? Ain't
seen him since we come in."

"Betcha my life him and Hazel's up to somethin'," Mr Bendt
sort of chuckled. "Them kids is as full o' beans as poorhouse
chili."

Mr Batchlett's voice hadn't sounded as if he were peeved
at me, so I turned back from the wall. Just then there was a
glow of light from the doorway, and against it I saw the dark
shadows of two pairs of wide shoulders and two hats nearly as
wide. The men were sitting on the bunkhouse steps, and Mr
Batchlett was lighting a cigarette. When he'd snapped out the
match, he asked, "How's the kid doing? Still raring into things
like he was killin' snakes?"

"Never seen the beat! Must'a been that stay abed, or Hazel,
or.. ""What's he been up to now?" Mr Batchlett asked, with a
little edge to his voice.

"Ever see him do that trick where he dives off a horse and
lands on his feet?"

"Yep, half a dozen times," Mr Batchlett said. "Quite a
stunt, ain't it?"

"Betcha my life. He's been learnin' it to Hazel."

"Break their necks, the both of 'em!" Mr Batchlett said.
"Ought to had better sense than to fetch him out here. Been
gettin' too much attention around town--ruins a kid that age.
Had some hopes for him when I left here, but..."

A big lump came into my throat, and I was turning back
toward the wall again when Mr Bendt said, "Trade you Tom
for him."

"What's that?" Mr, Batchlett snapped.

"Trade you Tom for him," Mr Bendt said again. "Him and
Hazel's the best team of calf hunters ever I seen, and you'd
ought to lay eyes on him and that old Clay horse cuttin' cattle
--smoother'n cat hair. Old horse gets around mighty spry with
a light kid on him--cut and handled every critter on the place
in less'n six half days."

"Well, I'll be go to... I Reckon maybe the kid was right.
Reckon maybe that losin' up in the mountains didn't do him no
hurt," Mr Batchlett said, and I knew he was remembering
what I'd said to him when he'd left for his trading trip. Then
he asked, "Usin' his head, you say?"

"Ought to seen him learnin' Hazel that trick stunt; learnt
it to her like a schoolma'am--wouldn't let her make no move
till she'd learnt the one before it dead right. Fetched her
through without a scratch. 'Course she ain't no ways good as
him at it yet, but she's honin' to show it off to you." Then he
chuckled, and said, "Won a poker hand off'n me, the kid didl
Come up with a full house on a one-card draw."

"Don't reckon his maw would..."

"Oh, 'twasn't no card game, Batchl It was on learnin' Hazel
that stunt. I reckoned 'twas too dangerous for her, and was
about to freeze him out o' the game, but he called my hand.
Wasn't ornery. Just called for a one-card draw and laid his

hand down."

I didn't feel right about lying there and listening when they
were talking about me, and I couldn't get out of the bunkhouse,
so I coughed.

"Reckon Hank turned in early," Mr Blatchett said quietly.
Then he asked, "The kid gained any of his weight back?"

From then on they kept their voices low, but it was so still
that I couldn't help hearing, and I couldn't just sit up and say,
"I'm not Hank, and I can't help hearing you."

"All back, and a couple to spare," Mr Bendt said. "Says he
reckons he's started to grow again--first weight he's gained
since his paw passed on."

"Reckon I'll be takin' him along next week," Mr Batchlett
said. "Told him I would if he gained back and done a good job
while I was away. Dang shame he ain't got a better string of
horses for trail work! Couldn't keep his hands off that blue
devil, and his own mare ain't worth a dime in the brush. Pinch
is too old for hard trail work, and Clay's needed here. What
you reckon ailed the kid to pick that kind of a string?"

"He didn't pick none but Blueboy--and you're the man
ought to know why he done that," Mr Bendt said slowly.
"Hazel picked him the rest of 'em." Then he chuckled again.
"And I'm getting a sneakin' idee why she done it."

I wanted to know what Mr Bendt's idea was, but Mr
Batchlett didn't ask him. Instead, he asked quickly, "That little
devil been on Blueboy? I told him to stay off."

"Nope! Nope! Ain't had a strap, a rope, or a leg on him
since you been gone. But he's workin' on him. Been out
there in the horse corral till late in the nights--soft-talkin' him
and feeding him biscuits that he tells Helen he wants for his
mare. And dag-goned if the ornery maverick ain't cottonin' up
to it like a spring foal. What routes you figure on workin' this
next trip out?"

I couldn't guess how Mr Bendt knew about my working
with Blueboy, and I couldn't ask. I didn't cough again, but
lay with my eyes and ears wide open.

Mr Batchlett lit another cigarette, and didn't answer for
two or three minutes. Then he said, "Figured I was licked on
putting out more than two teams this next trip, but with the
kid... and this little Sid turned out to be a right smart
trader--joshes a man into a pretty good deal and makes him
like it. Might send him back into the South Park country. Lots
of good milkers over there that's due for fall calves, and the
ranchers don't want to winter 'em through. They'll trade even
up for a dry cow that'll drop a spring calf."

"Who you aim to send along for driver?" Mr Bendt asked.

Mr Batchlett dropped his voice even lower than it had
been, and asked, "You reckon old Hank's in shape to go?"

"Betcha my life!" Mr Bendt whispered back. "Old bluffs
been belly-achin' 'round here all week account of I put him
to swingin' a gate, but he sure perked up when he heard you
was comin'. Do him good to wear out a little saddle leather."
Then his voice boomed up again, and he asked, "Who you figure
to send out with Zeb? You ain't countin' on taking the kid
and Tom both away from the home ranch, are you, Batch? I
got to have..."

"Wasn't counting on it," Mr Batchlett told him. "Wasn't
counting on having three teams out when I sat down here.
Reckon I'll ride on over to The Springs tomorrow; see what I
can pick up to go along with Zeb. He can get along with most
anybody, but I wouldn't dast send a new man with Sid or Hank.
Little Sid ain't got that red hair for nothing, and Hank would
like as not get a new man lost."

"Sendin' Zeb back down Pueblo way?"

"Aim to," Mr Batchlett said. "That'll leave him where he
can keep an eye on the peak, and he says there's still some
good cows to be had down that way."

"And you?"

"Well... I been studyin' on it here for a bit," Mr Batchlett

said slowly. "Been wanting to get down the Arkansas Valley
for the past three, four years. Like to take a look at that country
as far down as the Purgatory. Hear there's some right good
ranches down there; ought to be some good trades to be made."

"Mighty long swing for two weeks, ain't it, Batch?"

"Longish, but I aim to take all young stock, push straight
across country to the Purgatory, then trade back along the
Arkansas. If I'm lucky enough to trade for late fall calves
they'll travel good, and I ought to make out all right. Wish,
by dang, that kid had picked a better string of trail horses!"

"Wish, by dang, you. was takin' Tom," Mr Bendt told him.
"With three teams out there'll be a heap of cuttin' work to do
around here, and havin' the kid to handle Clay would leave me
loose for other jobs I ought to get done."

"Nope!" Mr Batchlett said, and I saw his shadow against the
sky as he stood up. "I promised the kid I'd take him if he done
a good job, and I ain't going back on it. Reckon I'll turn in; it's
been a long day. Tell Hazel I'll be rarin' to see her do that trick
of hers in the mornin'."

I'd turned back to face the wall before Mr Batchlett came
into the bunkhouse, and was breathing slow and steady when
he lit the lamp. I'm sure that when he saw me he thought I was
asleep, because he half mumbled, as if he were talking to himself,
"Little devil! I'd sure have bet against you 'fore you got
lost, but I reckon you're goin' to make it."

I wanted to sit up and thank him, but, of course, I couldn't.

Mr Batchlett moved around the bunkhouse quietly for a
couple of minutes, then blew out the lamp, and I heard the
tight horsehide squeak as he got into his bunk. In a few minutes
he was breathing long and steadily, but I didn't want to
go to sleep then. It was too nice just to lie there and remember
back over the things I'd heard him and Mr Bendt say while
they were sitting on the steps.

The moon had risen when I heard the other men coming toward
the bunkhouse. I could hear Tom's and Sid's voices, but
Hank was drowning them out. "By dogies," he shouted, "I'm

a-tellin' you, it's a-goin' to rain cats and dogs 'fore noontime
tomorra! Can't nobody fool us oldtime cowhands on the
weather! Take note how that there moon's a-canted over to
spill the water! Why, I recollect when..."

Boots scuffed as someone came up the steps, there was a
glow from a struck match, and Tom's voice came--low but
sharp--"Shut up, Hank! The boss is sleepin'."

The glow brightened as Tom lit the lamp, then there was
the gentle scuff of boots on the steps and floor, and Sid whispered,
"Well, I'll be dogged if old Little Britches ain't turned
in, too! Reckoned he'd went off to the house to visit with Jenny
Wren and the girls. Can't make out why he turned in so danged
fast! Still kind o' puny, I reckon."

Ned's slow twang came from somewhere across the bunkhouse,
"Beat out, I reckon! Watt's been poppin' the whip all
week long. Rounded up, cut and booked the whole shebang.
Britches, he done all the cuttin'."

There was no more whispering, and one by one I heard the
horsehides squeak as the men turned in. As I lay listening I
heard the breathing grow longer, and the sound of gentle snoring
came from here and there around the bunkhouse, but the
lamp was still burning. I thought the last man to turn in had
forgotten to blow it out, and was just going to get up and do
it myself, when I heard a low drone, "She wore a yella ribbon
around her neck."

I didn't roll over, but turned my head slowly till I could see
out into the room. Zeb was sitting, slouched on the small of his
back, and with his bare feet crossed on the table by the lamp.
A pair of steel-rimmed glasses were perched on the end of his
long nose, and he was darning a hole in the heel of a sock. With
each dip of his needle, he was mumbling one syllable of, "She
Wore a Yella Ribbon."

There haven't been many times when I've been happier--just
lying there in my bunk and listening to Zeb drone, and thinking
how glad I was that Hank had got us lost in the mountains.
If he hadn't, I might not have waked up to a lot of my own

mistakes, and Mr Batchlett would have sent me home.

Zeb must have darned socks for nearly an hour, then I heard his chair squeak, and the padding of his feet on the floor boards.
I tried not to change the rhythm of my breathing as the sound
stopped, almost beside my bunk. And I didn't let a muscle
quiver when I felt a hand touch my back. But when it lifted the
blanket carefully and drew it up over my shoulders a lump began
to swell in my throat,

I couldn't go to sleep, and there was no sense in lying there
awake. So, as soon as Zeb began to snore, I slipped out of my
bunk, felt for my clothes, and tiptoed outside. After I'd pulled
on my overalls, shirt and boots, I went to the harness shop for
a biscuit, and wandered over to the horse corral. The moon
looked like a tilted golden saucer, and there was just enough
light that I could see the horses standing in groups at the far
side of the corral.

I stood outside the gate and watched them for a minute or
two, then gave a soft bob-white whistle--the call I'd always
used for Lady. There wasn't a stir among most of the horses,
but a few heads lifted and turned toward me. When I whistled
again, four dark shapes separated from the groups and came
toward me. One of them was Blueboy, and he didn't stop
half way, but came right up to the gate with Lady, Clay, and
old Pinch--nickering a whisper deep in his throat for a piece
of biscuit. He let me scratch his forehead, the way the rest of
them did, and stood quietly while I soft-talked--telling them about the trip we were going on to the Arkansas, and that they
were the best string of horses in the world.

19.

No Profit A-fightin'.

WHEN I went to the chuckhouse the next morning everybody
seemed as excited as they had been the Sunday we picked
our horse strings. Sid kept calling Jenny, "Jenny Wren," and
trying to make jokes she'd laugh at--but she wouldn't. And
Hank was wound up like a new dollar watch. He'd heard that he and Sid were going out as a team, and was hardly down at
the table before he shouted, "By dogies, Batch, you sure ain't
made no mistakel With this here little redhead to give me a
hand, I'll show you a job o' tradin' like you ain't saw in many
a year! No, sirree, by dogies, they don't make tradin' men no
more! Why I recollect when we was a-fetchin' trail herds up
from Texas, I and old Tom..."

"Pass the flapjacks!" Mr Batchlett cut in. Then he began
talking to Mr Bendt about cutting out seventy head of young
stock for our trip down the Arkansas.

Hazel came into the chuckhouse three or four times, to bring
coffee or help Jenny carry out dishes. Every time she tried to
whisper something to me, but she did it so low and fast that I
couldn't understand what she was saying. When we were
nearly through eating I noticed her just inside the kitchen doorway,

ducking her head and making the motions of throwing a
saddle onto a horse. Of course I knew then that she was telling
me to get saddled up so she could show Mr Batchlett the
somersault trick. I nodded to let her know I understood, and
within two minutes I heard dishes clicking and clattering in
the kitchen faster than Hank's false teeth did when we were
lost in the mountains.

While the trading teams had been away I hadn't noticed that
Jenny paid the least bit of attention to Ned. But at breakfast
that morning she kept asking him if he'd like more coffee, telling
him she liked his Sunday shirt, and things like that. Then,
when Sid was telling a joke, she looked out the window, and
said to Ned, "I thought I heard a little redheaded woodpecker,
but I must have been mistaken."

Everybody but Sid laughed--and he tried to--but his face
and neck got as red as his hair. I thought he might blow off, but Mr Batchlett cut in again. "How about it, boys?" he asked;
"Want to pitch in and get the trail herds made up this morning?
I'm aimin' to ride over to The Springs this afternoon; any that
wants can ride along. We'll have to work right through the
Fourth, and this is the only chance you'll get for a celebration."

The men all nodded, and the last thing I saw when I was
leaving the chuckhouse was Hazel in the doorway. She had a
plate in one hand and a dishtowel in the other, and was making
diving motions with her head.

I didn't know just what Mr Bendt might want me to do
about helping to make up the trail herds, so I walked up beside
him on the way to the horse corral, and asked, "Which horse
should I put my saddle on this morning?"

He looked down at me, closed one eye, and said in a low
voice, "If you don't want to get et up alive, you'll put it on
Pinch while I'm puttin' Hazel's on Pinto. If she don't get to
show off that trick stunt to Batch 'fore Sunday School time,
she'll bust a hame string."

Mr Batchlett and all the men--even the dairyhands--must
have known Hazel was going to do the somersault trick before

we worked the cattle. When Mr Bendt and I brought the saddles,
they were standing around behind the horse corral, and
Hank was telling in a loud voice about riding tricks he used
to do when he was a boy.

We hardly had the saddles on when Hazel came running
from the house. She was holding the herd book in one hand-- sort of waving it around so it would show from behind--but
with the other hand she was hugging a new ten-gallon hat
against her chest. As she ran up to the corral gate, her father
called, "Hazel, what you doin' with that new Stetson I bought
you for the roundup?"

"Well..." she panted. "Well... the Fourth o' July is
only two days off, and I'll need... I'll need..."

In less than a second I knew what she'd need, and Mr Bendt
did too. Before she could go on, he said quietly, "Betcha my
life! Betcha my life, gal! Now don't go to gettin' all het up or
you won't do too good. The boys is waitin.

Until then, I'd thought, of course, that we'd be going to the
little meadow for Hazel to do the trick, so I said, "If she's going
to do the trick here at the corrals, I won't have any need for
Pinch."

"Yes, you will too!" Hazel snapped at me. "If you don't ride
with me and do the hissin' I'll get scairt, and then I'll tighten
up, and then I'll make a mess of it."

I still thought it would be better if Hazel did the trick alone.
If I lit on my feet and she bobbled it, she might be ashamed.
So I said, "I'll make a few practice runs with you here in the
corral--the kind where we don't leave the saddle--then, if
you're loose enough, you can do better alone."

"Nope!" Mr Bendt told me. "You go on and take your practice
runs, but it's your trick, you learnt it to her, and you'll do
it together--she'll feel more to home." Then he tossed Hazel
up onto her saddle and left the corral.

The practice worked fine, and Hazel stayed as loose as a rag
doll in the saddle. After Mr Bendt opened the gate and we
rode out, I didn't say a word about the trick, but kept soft
talking about anything else--the way I'd have talked to a nervous
horse. When we were fifty yards beyond the men I turned
the horses. Then, before Hazel had time to get scared, I
snapped, "Let's GO!"

I kept Pinch well clear of Pinto, and the little crowd of men
seemed to rush toward us as we raced. When we were almost
on them I hissed and ducked my head. The next moment we
were standing in a row, with Pinto's head between Hazel and
me, and Pinch's at my right. As I looked along the line, Hazel
swept off her new Stetson and bowed--the way I'd told her
I did it at the Littleton roundup.

The men whistled and shouted for us to do the trick again,
but I told Hazel I didn't think we'd better. With the little bit
of practice she'd had, there wasn't one chance in fifty of our
doing it that well again--and there wasn't one chance in fifty
million that any other girl could have done it that once.

I never saw another cutting horse work with the sureness and
speed Clay showed that Sunday. Long before noon we had
three trading herds cut out and ready to take the trail Monday
morning. Mr Batchlett bossed the making up of the herds and
told me which animal to bring out each time, and when we'd
finished, he nodded, and said, "Good job, Little Britches."

Before I could tell him that it was Clay who had done the
good job, he wheeled his horse away and called to the men,
"I aim to ride in to The Springs in half an hour. Get your glad
rags on if you want to come along--we'll eat in town." Then
he rode away toward the house with Mr Bendt.

I didn't want to go to Colorado Springs, but I did want to
talk to Mr Batchlett before he went. With Clay having to stay
on the home ranch, and with me going on a long trip, I'd need
Blueboy in shape to use. From the day I'd picked him I hadn't
ridden him an hour, and he'd fought me every minute. I hoped
that during the past week he'd settled down enough that I
could handle him--but I thought I should ask Mr Batchlett
before I tried it.

As soon as I'd unsaddled Clay I went to the bunkhouse, but Mr Batchlett wasn't there. Tom and Ned were trying to shave
in front of a little mirror a foot square, and Hank was hollering
for his turn. Sid was nowhere in sight, but Zeb was sitting on
the steps, patching a pair of overalls, so I sat down beside him.

I knew a half hour must be up before Mr Batchlett and Mr
Bendt came from the house. They'd both shaved, and kept right
on talking while Mr Batchlett changed his shirt and boots. I
got up and stood around, waiting for a hole in their talking.
Then I asked, "Would it be all right for me to ride Blueboy
this afternoon? I'll need to get him..."

"Dasn't risk it." Mr Batchlett told me. "He's too dangerous
for you to be messing around with by yourself."

Zeb looked up from his patching, and said, "Me and Sid'll
be hereabouts. We could lend a hand if needs be."

Mr Batchlett stopped for half a minute and stood looking
at the steps. "Bad streak in that outlaw," he said, as if he were talking to himself; "can't tell when it'll bust loose." Then he
looked at me, and asked, "Why'd you pick him?"

"Because I... because..." I was going to say, "had to
have him," but I knew it would sound silly, so I stopped.

Mr Batchlett must have read what was in my mind. He gave
me a quick slap on the shoulder, and said, "All right, Little
Britches, I ought to know without asking, and I do. Go ahead,
but be danged careful!" He started on, then turned back, and
said, "Don't saddle him without two men around, and don't
get on him without a man mounted and alongside!"

I stood in the bunkhouse doorway and watched the riders
out of sight. Then I went inside to write a letter to Mother,
but I couldn't think of much to say, so I just wrote:

"I am going on a trip to Pergatory with Mr Batchlett. I have
a blue horse in my string that is the most butiful horse I ever
saw. I think he is beginning to like me. I have gained 2 pounds.
Your loving son Ralph."

When I'd finished my letter, I thought I'd better rig a double
saddle before I tried Blueboy, so I went to the

harness shop to do it. Sid was there, and working over something
at the bench. When I went in, he sang, "Hi-ya, Little
Britches! Come look what I done made for that little old Jenny
Wren! Been workin' on it odd minutes o' night herdin'. Pounded
out the dee-zign on the saddle horn with a boot heel. Batch, he
let me ride on into Pu-ay-blo to get the buckle offn a harness
store."

Sid held up as pretty a horsehide belt as I'd ever seen. It was
seal-brown, almost as soft as velvet, and polished till it glowed
--with a vine pattern hammered into it. The buckle was dull
silver, with a bright gold horsehead set in the middle. I never
would have put all that work into anything for a girl who
treated me the way Jenny treated Sid, but, of course I couldn't
say so. He was still polishing the little belt and talking about
Jenny when she and the girls drove into the yard from church.

While I was waiting for the dinner bell to ring, I finished rigging
my saddle, then went to the bunkhouse to put on a clean
shirt. Zeb had finished his patching, and was washing the
overalls in a bucket of water beside the steps. He didn't say
anything as I went in, and he didn't look up when I came out,
but said, "Better fetch me that shirt, son. Ain't no sense in the
both of us gettin' into the suds, and might happen you'll need a
change whilst you're on the trail."

It wasn't until I took the dirty shirt back to Zeb that I noticed
my spare pair of overalls, all washed and hanging on the fence.
When I tried to thank him, he only shook his head and went
right on washing--and crooning, "'Yella Ribbon."

All the dairyhands had driven into town as soon as the milking
was done, so there were only the three of us at the table
that Sunday noon. Zeb didn't look up from his plate till he was
finished, then cut himself a big chew of tobacco and went outside.
I couldn't saddle Blueboy till Sid was with me, but he
dawdled over his pie so long that I went out and left him at
the table.

Zeb was waiting for me when I came out. He rifled a thin
squirt of tobacco juice, got up from the steps, and walked along

with me toward the horse corral. "Been studyin' "bout that blue
hoss," he said when we were halfway to the corral. "Awful
full o' fight, ain't he?"

"Yes, he is," I said, "but he's been letting me feed him some
pieces of biscuit this past week."

"No profit a-fightin' a man as ain't lookin' for a fight," Zeb
said, then he spit again and we went on.

I was pretty sure Zeb was telling me that when I'd tried
to ride Blueboy before I'd let him know I was looking for a
fight, and that he'd keep right on fighting me as long as I gave
him anything to fight against.

We carried our saddles to the horse corral, and I took along
a biscuit, but we had to wait fifteen or twenty minutes for Sid.
While we were waiting Zeb stood outside the gate and mumbled, "Yella Ribbon" and I went in and fed pieces of biscuit
to all four of the horses in my string. Blueboy even stood while
I reached back for the hackamore Zeb passed me through the
gate, and he didn't try very hard to pull away when I slipped
it over his head.

Sid was whistling like a meadow lark when he brought his
saddle, and as he came up to the gate he let out two or three
coyote yelps. Even after Zeb had whispered, "Watch out afore
you spook the hoss!" he kept whistling, and he wasn't much
help in saddling Blueboy.

I didn't stop soft-talking to Blueboy until all three of us were
in the saddle and Zeb had opened the gate. For the next few
minutes I couldn't have soft-talked to save my life. The second
he saw the gate open, Blueboy went up like Old Faithful
Geyser. And when his fore hoofs hit the ground he was running
--running with his head and neck stretched out and his hoofs
beating like sticks on a snare drum.

When Blueboy went up I had to double over, with the saddle
horn in the pit of my stomach, and when he came down I
bounced high. The natural thing to do was to haul hard on
the hackamore rope, to hold me tight down in the saddle, but
I wouldn't let myself do it.

Blueboy streaked along the wagon road across the valley,
just as he had done when he ran away with me before. Sid
raced behind, and yelled for me to jerk the hackamore, but I
left it loose, and tried to keep my heels from kicking Blueboy
in the belly. The other time, he'd left the road at the end of
the straightaway, and raced up the hill through the scrub oaks,
trying to rake me off on each one. This time he followed the
winding of the road, and hardly slowed his driving pace all
the way up the long hill.

He raced across the top of the rise and onto a rock-strewn
piece of road that corkscrewed through the deep gulch beyond.
It seemed crazy to let a horse race down that road without
at least holding his head up tight. With it down, a stumble
would have somersaulted us, but I decided I'd rather risk my
neck and his than to let him think I was fighting him, so I left
the hackamore loose and rode it out.

Blueboy went through the gulch and up the rise beyond
without a break in his pace, then I felt his stride lengthen,
and the sound of his breathing came back above the clatter of
his hoofs. There'd been times on some of those hairpin turns
when I hadn't been sure I'd be able to stay in the saddle, but
that feeling was all gone now. I eased a hand up along Blue
boy's neck and began soft-talking again.

For at least three miles Blueboy held that racing, killing
pace, and I was sure he was going to run himself to death. Then
his head began to rise, his ears lifted, and I knew he was watching
me from the corner of his eye.

I didn't let myself change the tone or timing of my soft
talk, I didn't try to drive or slow him, and I kept one hand rubbing
along his neck. In another half mile Blueboy had dropped
his gallop to a swinging canter, and wasn't blowing any more.
His breathing whispered through his nostrils with as little effort
as his white-stockinged legs reached forward for the road.
I looked back for Sid, but he and his piebald horse were nowhere
in sight.

I think I could have turned Blueboy easily then, but I
wanted him to be sure I wasn't fighting him, so I let him go
on for another mile. I'd never felt small on a horse before, but
there was something about Blueboy that made me feel even
smaller than I was. It couldn't have been his size--he wasn't
much bigger than Pinch--but I think it was his drive and
power. When I turned him back, it was only because I thought
Zeb and Sid might be worried, and I brought him around in
a wide circle--with only the slightest draw of the hackamore
rope against his neck.

Blueboy didn't break his canter when I turned him, and I
didn't want him to. He'd held the pace steadily for a couple
of miles when we topped a rise and I saw Sid coming up from
the gully below. His horse was making hard work of the hill,
and was blowing badly. Sid let him down to a walk, and called
up to me, "Way you took off, I reckoned you'd be in Kansas
'fore now. Why didn't you jerk that hackamore and haul him
in? Sure you ain't broke his wind?"

I didn't want to make Blueboy nervous by shouting back, so
I waited till I'd ridden down to Sid, and told him, "I didn't
need to haul him in, because, after the first mile, he wasn't
running away. And it looks to me as if Pie is the one that might
be wind-broken."

Sid turned his horse, and we jogged side by side, with Blue
boy breathing easily and the piebald fighting for each lungful
of air. "By jiggers, it's a wonder if I ain't went and broke his
wind!" Sid spluttered. "If that danged maverick wasn't runnin'
away with you, why didn't you turn him back 'fore you scairt
the livin' bejeebers out'a me? What you messing with him for?
He won't never be no more use to you than a wooden leg!
Ain't it best if we take him up to the mountain pasture and
turn him loose? One day that dag-goned outlaw's goin' to kill
you if you don't get shut of him."

I couldn't be sure Sid wasn't right, but from the way I felt
right then, I was willing to take my chances of being killed. I

knew without Sid's telling me that Blueboy would probably
never be any good for a cowhorse, but something made me feel as if I needed him and had to have him. I couldn't say
those things to Sid without sounding foolish, so I just said, "I
couldn't turn him back now, Sid--not unless Mr Batchlett
told me I had to."

Sid had started all over again about Blueboy's being a worthless
outlaw when we heard the pound of a running horse's
hoofs. I guessed who it would be, and leaned a bit in the saddle.
Blueboy leaped forward as if I'd spurred him, and raced
up out of the gully. As we topped the hill I saw Pinto running
toward us. Hazel was clinging to his bare back, and whipping
him with the line ends at every stride. I forgot all about making
Blueboy nervous, and shouted, "What's the matter, Hazel?
What's happened?"

For a moment I thought she was going to fall. She jerked
up straight for an instant, then slumped in a heap on Pinto's
back. When I got to her she was laughing and crying at the
same time, and her words came in gasps. "I... I reckoned
he'd... he'd killed you," she sort of burbled. "I seen how
he was runnin'... crazy mad, with his head down. ,. like
a killer stallion."

Blueboy didn't like to be stopped. He sidestepped and
bobbed his head, but didn't act mean or try to break away, so I
said, "Look at him now! He doesn't look crazy or mad, does he?
Zeb told me how to handle him, and it worked all right. Blue
boy wasn't mad, he was just trying to find out if I was looking
for a fight." Then I realized that Zeb should have been close
behind Sid if he'd come with us, so I asked, "Where is Zeb?"

"That crazy old coot!" Hazel blurted. "When I run to get
Pinto he was settin' by the horse corral gate--just settin' and
spittin' at a rock."

Zeb never told me I did a good job in handling Blueboy, or
that he thought I was a good rider, but, after that, he didn't
need to--and I loved him for it.

I was sorry Hazel got so scared when she didn't need to be,
but it made me a little bit happy that she worried about me.
Maybe that's what made me remember that I wouldn't see her
for a couple of weeks, and why I thought it might be nice to
ride out to the secret spring and back. Hazel thought so, too,
and her mother said it would be all right, so I saddled Lady and
Pinto and we went.

It was still fairly early in the afternoon, so we spent about
an hour watching some rabbits play by the basin below the
spring. And I made a slingshot out of a latigo string and a willow
crotch--to scare away the weasel if it came again. Then
Hazel thought it would be fun to go around to the beaver dam
in the valley west of the buildings. She said that if we crept
up to it real quietly we might see a beaver swimming.

We left Lady and Pinto nearly a quarter of a mile below
the beaver dam, and went up the little valley by the cattle
path through the willows. We went as quietly as we could,
but when we got to the dam we didn't see any beaver. There
was an outcropping of rock on the shady side of the pond, and
Jenny and Sid were sitting on it. She was holding the belt he'd
made for her, looking down at it and rubbing her fingers over
the buckle. Sid was looking down too, picking petals off a
flower and dropping each one into the water. Jenny was saying
something, though her voice was too low to be heard
across the pond, but it didn't sound as if she were making fun
of Sid the way she usually did.

The minute we saw them, Hazel put a finger to her lips and
motioned for me to go back the way we'd come. I didn't make
a sound until we were halfway back to the horses, then I
said, "That's the funniest thing I ever saw! From the way Jenny's
been treating Sid I thought she hated him."

"Hmmmff! That's all you know about women!" Hazel told
me, as if she thought I was just plain stupid.

I couldn't help remembering her calling me a dirty squealing
pig, and making fun of me when I slipped off Kenny's

donkey, then her crying when she thought Blueboy had hurt
me, so I said, "I guess I don't know much about women, but
they're an awful lot harder to figure out than horses."

Hazel didn't even bother to answer, but sniffed again, and
walked on down the path through the willows.

20.

Trinidad.

SID AND Jenny must have left the beaver pond right after
Hazel and I did. We rode straight back to the corrals, and they
came into the dooryard while I was unsaddling. Jenny had her
arm hooked inside of Sid's, and they were walking slowly,
still talking. By the time I'd spread the sweat blankets to dry
and gone to the bunkhouse, Sid was already there. He was
whistling like a meadow lark, and getting a big piece of seal
brown leather out of his war sack.

With Sid busy and Zeb taking a nap, there wasn't much for
me to do, and I began to worry about the trip I was going on
with Mr, Batchlett. I'd be his driver, and it was the driver's
job to do the packing, cooking, and camp making, but I didn't
know any more about it than a jack rabbit.

At the Y-B ranch we'd always had a chuckwagon when we
were out on the range, and I was supposed to have been the
cook's helper, but the most he'd ever let me do was to haul
wood and water and peel potatoes. I couldn't even make flapjacks,
and didn't have any idea how to make a trail pack or
what to put in one. Besides that, we were going to start away
from the home ranch at the crack of dawn, and I'd look pretty
silly if I didn't have our packs made up and ready.

I could think of only one way to begin. I got a piece of paper
and began writing down everything I could remember that
we'd had in the Y-B chuckwagon. I was still trying to remember
things when Zeb yawned, stretched, and sat up on the
side of his bunk. "Tobacca's better chawin' than pencils," he
said. "What's got you throwed?"

"Well," I said, "I'm trying to write down the things Mr
Batchlett and I will need for our trip, but I've already got
enough to load nine horses, and know there must be something
I've forgotten."

"Always is," Zeb yawned. "Ever make up a trail pack?"

"No, I haven't," I said, "but I think I've remembered almost
everything we had on the Y-B chuckwagon."
"Wouldn't doubt me none," Zeb yawned again. "I seen
packs the likes o' that. Want I should lend a hand?"

Zeb did more than lend a hand: he did nearly the whole
job of making up the packs for both his trail trip and ours. As
I brought flour, sugar, canned goods and frying pans from the
kitchen, he explained why everything had to go just where
it did, and how to balance a pack to make it ride square on a
horse's back.

We'd finished our packing, and were sitting on the bunk
house steps in the deep twilight, when I heard a faint shout
from far away toward the east. As the breeze shifted a bit,
the sound of shouting came clearer. Zeb turned on one elbow,
looked into the bunkhouse where Sid was busy with his leather,
and drawled, "Reckon you might as leave go to makin' pack,
Sid. Hank, he's had him a Fourth o' July celebration."

It was full dark before the men reached the home ranch,
and we went out to the horse corral to meet them. As they
rode toward us across the little valley we could hear them
laughing and talking, but Hank was the only loud one. He'd
never stopped shouting from the time we'd first heard him.
When he rode up to the corral gate he was hanging half out
of his saddle, and yelling, "I'm a wild coyote (hie)--a-huntin
jor a high place to howl!"

In the darkness I didn't notice the new man until Zeb had
lifted Hank out of his saddle and started for the bunkhouse
with him. The man was as big as Mr Bendt, dressed in fancy
cowboy clothes, and riding a silver-studded saddle on a palomino
that looked like a circus horse. He was leading another
palomino with a big trail pack on its back. The new man didn't
step down from his saddle when the others did, but said to Mr
Batchlett, "Where's the bunkhouse at? Reckon I'll stow my
gear." Mr
Batchlett was unsaddling, and said, without looking up,
"The boy'll show you."

The cutting corral and harness shop stood between the horse
corral and the bunkhouse, so I couldn't point it out, but said,
"It's over here; I'll show you," and led the way.

The man rode along beside me until we were past the cutting
corral, then asked, "The old man your paw?"

"No," I told him, "I just work here."

Then, when we'd rounded the harness shop, I said, "There's
the bunkhouse right there," and started to turn back.

"Come here, kid!" the man ordered. "Lug my stuff inside!"

I didn't like having a new man order me around like that,
and I knew that if I let him boss me once he'd always do it,
so I turned back toward him and said, "Mr Batchlett gives the
orders around here."

"And when he ain't around, I'll do it! See!" As he said, "See!"
he popped the quirt on the end of his bridle reins at my shoulder.
It would have drawn blood if I hadn't ducked quicker
than a prairie dog. When the quirt snapper missed me it
cracked like a pistol shot, and before I caught my balance
the bunkhouse door opened. Against the yellow light of the
lamp behind him, Zeb's black outline towered to within two
inches of the top of the doorway, and he drawled, "What's the
ruckus?"

I kept quiet, but the man sort of growled, "Any more yap
out o' this smart-aleck kid, and I'll..."

"Doubt me I would," Zeb drawled into the growling. "If

you're the new hand, light down and fetch your stuff in."

I stood where I was, ready to duck if the man popped the
quirt again, but he didn't. He climbed out of his saddle and
began untying the lashings on his pack. Zeb didn't move from
the doorway, but motioned for me to go back to the corral.

I'd only gone part way when I met the men. Tom was dragging
both his saddle and Hank's by the horns, and Ned was
staggering a little, with his saddle hugged up against him in
both arms. Mr Batchlett and Mr Bendt were laughing, and
asked Sid why he hadn't gone along for the celebration, but
neither of them seemed a bit drunkish.

Mrs Bendt had waited supper, and Jenny rang the bell while
the men were putting their saddles away, but Ned and Tom
weren't hungry. As I watched them go toward the bunkhouse
I noticed that the new man's horse was all unpacked, and that
Zeb was leaning against the door jamb.

The dairyhands went right at the milking when they got
home, and none of them came to the chuckhouse for supper.
At first there were only four of us at the table: Mr Batchlett, Mr Bendt, Sid and I. Jenny brought the meat and potatoes,
and we'd filled our plates before Zeb came slouching in. When Mr Batchlett saw he was alone, he asked, "Where's Trinidad?
Didn't you tell him to come in and eat?"

"Unsaddlin'," Zeb drawled, as he sat down. "Don't calc'late
he's back'ards. He'll be along."

I'd had my second helping of meat and potatoes, and Jenny
was bringing in the pie when the new man came into the
chuckhouse. He had his hat on, but when he saw Jenny he
swept it off and stood staring at her. Mr Batchlett looked up,
and said, "Miss Warren; Trinidad Bates. He'll be going out as
driver for Zeb, Jenny."

When I looked around, Trinidad was holding his hat against
his chest, and bowing so low that only his curly black hair
showed. "Jennv Warren," he said in a voice that was almost
singing, "a beautiful name for a beautiful lady. One day soon
I will sing and play for her,"

Jenny's face turned as red as a windy sunset, and she bowed
her head a little, but Mr Batchlett cut in, "This day you'd best
to sit in and eat your grub; it's gettin' cold." Then he looked at
me and said, "Reckon you'd best to find us a lantern after
you've had your grub. We got a job of pack makin' to do 'fore
we turn in."

"It's all done," I told him. "Zeb did it this afternoon. All
we'll have to do in the morning will be to put in our bedrolls
and war bags."

"Good!" Mr Batchlett said, and nodded toward Zeb. Then
he looked back at me, and asked, "Ride Blueboy today?"

"Yes, sir," I said, "I rode him half way to The Monument and
back, and he didn't buck or fight the hackamore."

"Run away with you?"

"Well..." I said, "he kind of acted like it... but he
wasn't toward the end, and..."

"Couldn't hold him, eh?"

Before I could answer, Trinidad asked, "That blue devil
with the white socks?"

Mr Batchlett nodded,

"Too much horse for a kid." Trinidad said, but looked at
Jenny instead of Mr Batchlett. "Outlaw showed fight when I
turned my palominos into the corral. Needs handlin'l I'll take
him in my string."

"He's took," Mr Batchlett said, without looking away from
me. Then he asked again, "Couldn't hold him?"

"I didn't try to," I said. "Zeb said he wouldn't fight back if
I didn't fight him,"

Zeb had pushed his chair back and was leaving the table
when I spoke, but he slumped back into it and said, "Naw!
Said there wa'n't no profit a-fightin' a man as wa'n't lookin'
for a fight." And when he said it he was looking right square
into Trinidad's eyes.

I guess everybody knew Zeb was talking to Trinidad instead
of me. We were all watching them when Mr Batchlett said,
"Takes two to make a fight. Sit tight a minute, Zeb! I want to

lay out your trip with you." Then he nodded to me and said,
"Better turn in, Little Britches! We'll be hitting the trail at
crack o' dawn."

Sid had finished his pie when I left the table, but was sitting
with his fork in his hand, watching Jenny with eyes as big and
soft as a sheep's. She was pouring Trinidad's coffee, and he
was saying something to her, so low I didn't hear it. Whatever
it was, it made her face as red as it had been when he bowed
to her.

When I went to the bunkhouse Tom, Ned, and Hank were
snoring to beat the band. I didn't want to wake them by lighting
the lamp, so felt my way to the bunk. As I reached my hand
out, my fingers struck tight wires that twanged sharply. I
couldn't have jumped back quicker if I'd found a rattlesnake
in my bunk. When my heart stopped pounding I lit the lamp.
My bunk was piled high with fancy clothes, boots, and saddle
bags. A guitar was propped against the headboard, and lying
on top of everything was a silver-studded gun belt and holsters
--with two pearl-handled six-shooters, and every loop of the
belt filled with.45 cartridges.

All the bunks in our bunkhouse were double ones, and the
posts between them ran up to the roof. About a foot and a half
above the floor, a tanned horsehide was stretched tight to
make the spring for the lower bunk. There were three double
bunks on each side of the room, and one across the back wall.

When you went to work on a ranch, nobody ever said, "This
will be your bunk." You looked around till you found one without
a blanket on it, then pushed your war sack underneath and
moved in. No cowhand would take an upper bunk if he could
get a lower one, but it was first come, first served. Once you'd
moved in, the bunk was yours till you quit or got fired, and it
didn't make any difference whether you were top hand or the
horse wrangler.

When I'd gone to the bunkhouse the first evening I'd come
to the home ranch, there had been blankets on the three lower
bunks along the south side of the room, so I crawled into the

front one on the other side. Sid had taken the one next to me,
then Hank, and Zeb had the one across the back, but all the
uppers were empty.

When I found all Trinidad's stuff on my bunk, I looked to
see if he'd bothered my war sack. Both it and my blanket
were gone. At first I thought he'd thrown them outside, but
when I stepped up onto a chair I saw them, slung into the far
corner of the upper bunk above Hank.

I had to stand there a few minutes before I could make up my mind what to do--and I was so mad that I bit my lip till
it bled. I couldn't run back to the chuckhouse and tattle to Mr Batchlett. Hank, Ned, and Tom were too drunk to be of
any help to me, and it would have been almost like tattling
to have waked them anyway.

I thought about yanking Trinidad's stuff off my bunk and
stinging it up where he'd slung mine--but I didn't more than
think of it. He hadn't been fooling when he'd popped that
quirt at me, and he might come back to the bunkhouse before
any of the other men did. I decided that it would be best to
climb up where my blanket and war sack were and say nothing --but I decided something else, too. As much as I liked my
job, and as much as I wanted to keep it, I'd quit if Mr Batchlett
let Trinidad keep my bunk. Then I blew out the lamp and
shinnied up into the bunk above Hank.

I'd lain there about half an hour when I heard voices coming
toward the bunkhouse. A minute later boots scuffed on the
steps, I heard the scratch of a match on rough cloth, then the
tinkle of the lamp chimney, and the bunkhouse glowed with
light. At about the same moment Mr Batchlett called, "Little
Britches!"

I sat up and said, "Yes, sir."

"What you doin' up there?" he asked. "Did you trade bunks
with Trinidad?"

"No, sir," I said, "but this is where I found my blanket and
war sack when I came out from supper."

When I first sat up, the light from the lamp blinded me.
As I blinked, my eyes cleared, and I was looking down on three

tall, big men--each of them standing as still as if he'd been
frozen. Trinidad stood in front of the bunk that had been
mine, and I couldn't see his face. Zeb was just inside the doorway,
crouched to a few inches shorter than his six-feet-four,
and with his long arms hanging a little out from his body. From
above, he looked like the gorilla in the Denver Zoo, and he
was watching Trinidad with the same look that the gorilla
had when he watched the people in front of his cage.

Mr, Batchlett was looking at Trinidad, too, but it wasn't
the first time I'd seen the look that was on his face. I'd seen
it when I'd ridden a matched race against his horse the summer
before. His rider had spit tobacco juice in my face when
we were in the home stretch, and if the other men hadn't held Mr Batchlett I think he'd have torn that rider to shreds. He
didn't make a sound as he watched Trinidad, but stood there
by the bunkhouse table with his hands right in front of his
pants pockets--as if they were poised to grab the handles of
six-shooters.

There was something about the whole sight that made me
hold my breath, and my heart was thumping crazily when
Trinidad said in a sort of dry, husky voice, "I got a bad leg;
can't make it into them high bunks."

Mr Batchlett flicked a glance up at me, and said, "Hop
down!" Then he rapped out to Trinidad, "Git movin'!"

As I jumped down to the floor, Trinidad stood looking back
and forth from Mr Batchlett to Zeb--as if he couldn't make
up his mind whether to move his stuff into the upper bunk
or to make a break for the doorway.

My heart jumped into my throat as I noticed one of Trinidad's
hands moving slowly back toward the bunk, but I wasn't the only one who noticed it. Zeb crouched lower for a spring,
and Mr Batchlett said, "I wouldn't!" in a voice that was as flat
and cold as pond ice. Without the least bit of hurry, he walked
toward Trinidad, reached around him, and picked up the gun
belt and six-shooters. "I'll take care of the artillery while you're
here," he said, "my men don't have no need for it. Now get
your dunnage out o' here! This boy needs his sleep."

21.

Trail Driver.

BY FOUR o'clock Monday morning we'd had breakfast, Mr
Batchlett had helped me lash my trail pack onto Lady, and I
was saddling Pinch. I didn't want to come right out and ask if
I could take Blueboy along, so I said, "Would it be better to put
a drag rope on Blueboy and turn him in with the herd, or
should I tie him to Lady?"

"He wouldn't be no use to you," Mr Batchlett said. But
my face must have shown how I felt. "Oh, tie him to the pack
if you want to," he added; "you're goin' to be mighty short of
horseflesh for a long trip."

There were seventy head of cattle in our trail herd, all
two-year-old steers and White Face bulls. In the cool of early
morning they stepped out at a good pace, and by sunup we
had the worst of the brush country behind us. About an hour
later, Mr Batchlett dropped back to where I was pushing up the stragglers, and asked, "How you makin' it?"

"Fine!" I told him. "If it's as easy as this all the way, I
won't have a bit of trouble."

"It won't be!" he said, "It'll be rough as soon as these

critters get a little tender-footed, and if water's scarce it
might turn out to be doggone rough." He rode along beside me
for a minute or two without a word, then said, "It ain't too
late if you want to turn back and send Tom along."

I couldn't be sure he wasn't telling me that he was sorry
he'd brought me, and that he'd rather have Tom, so I had to
think a little before I said, "If you'd rather have Tom I'll go
back, but I'm not afraid of a hard trip."

"I'd lay my chips on you," Mr Batchlett said, as if he were
still thinking it over, "but I don't want to do nothin' to make
your maw sorry she let you come out here."

"If she hadn't thought I was going to do a man's job, she
wouldn't have let me take a man's pay for coming," I told
him. "She'd be sorrier if I didn't go with you than if I did
and had a hard trip."

"Then forget about Tom," he said, "but it's sure goin' to be
a man's job. I aim to hit the head of Black Squirrel Creek
by nightfall; that's close onto thirty-five miles. If there's water
there, we'll be all right; if not, we could be in bad trouble.
Spare your horse when you can! I aim to stop and day-graze
on the divide above the head of Cherry Creek." He didn't
mention Tom again, but touched his spurs to his horse and
rode back to his side of the herd.

We crossed the Denver highroad about twelve miles north
of Colorado Springs, and watered the stock at a ranch that had
two windmills. From there we drove east onto the high divide
that separates the water running into the South Platte and the
Arkansas rivers. It was broken by high rolling hills, and dotted
with clumps of brush or scrub oak. I had never seen that
country before, but Mr Batchlett seemed to know every foot
of it. We didn't follow a straight line, but wound around the
high hills and deep gulches.

Because of his habit of pinching the laggards, Pinch was
better for working the drag than Mr Batchlett's chestnut. So,
without any planning, we each took our own position with
the herd. Mr Batchlett rode near the front, turning the leaders

into the right draws and valleys, and I pushed the laggards
along and held in the stragglers.

As the sun rose higher, its heat bore down from the clear
sky, and bounced up from the dry buffalo grass under foot.
I guessed it to be about ten o'clock when Mr Batchlett dropped
back for the first time. "Ease off a bit!" he told me. "We're
pushin' 'em a little too hard. If my recollection's good there's
a pretty fair valley beyond them hills yonder. We'll drift 'em
along to it and day-graze 'em three-four hours. They won't
feed good if we dry 'em out too much before we leave 'em
graze." Then he rode back to the point again.

There had been nothing in what Mr Batchlett said to make
me happy, but it was in the way he'd said it--not as if I were
a boy, but another man. The sun didn't feel nearly so hot
after that, and the dust that rose from the cattle's hoofs didn't
seem to be smothering me. I wouldn't have traded jobs with
the President of the United States.

Mr Batchlett had been right about the valley. After we'd
drifted the herd along for another hour, we came out into
a valley that was shaped as if a great bowl had been pressed
down among the hills when the earth was made. In the center
there was a little pond, hardly more than a puddle, and a few
stunted cottonwood trees grew around it.

Before the pond came into sight, the cattle and spare horses
smelled the water and quickened their pace. Mr Batchlett
took the coffee-pot from his trail pack, and cantered ahead of
them to fill it before they muddied the water. By the time I'd
brought in the stragglers, he had a little fire going under the
cottonwoods, and the pot on to boil.

All morning I'd been worried about its being my job to do
the cooking, but Mr Batchlett didn't seem to expect it of
me, and went about it as if he were the driver instead of
the trader. He didn't give me any orders, but unlashed both
of the packs, lifted them down, and took out the things he'd
need for cooking dinner.

I'd never been on a trail trip before, but I'd been around

cow camps enough that I knew what had to be done, so I
unsaddled Pinch, hobbled him, and turned him loose to drink
and graze. Then I caught a spare horse, hobbled it, and tied
the drag rope up around its neck. After I'd taken care of Mr
Batchlett's horse string, I picked up a pair of hobbles and
started toward Blueboy with them. I didn't know Mr Batchlett
was watching me, but he called, "Leave him be. Tie him to a
tree here, and hobble your mare! He's tough; he'll make out
all right without grass! If he's goin' to be any use to you, it'll be for day-herding."

Deep down inside, I knew that Blueboy wasn't a cowhorse,
and that I'd never be able to make one of him. He was all
run and drive, without any patience or cow savvy, and he'd
always fight me if I tried to rein him hard enough for working
cattle. I didn't like to admit it even to myself, but I knew
that I'd brought him along because I couldn't bear to leave
him behind.

When Mr Batchlett called to me, a lump came into my
throat. It wasn't because of what he'd said about Blueboy,
but about day-herding. I was his driver, was getting full cowhand's
wages, and I wanted to do my job the way any other
cowhand would have done it. When a trail herd stopped for
day-grazing, that was the driver's time to get what sleep he
could. It was his job to do the night herding while the trader
slept. From what Mr Batchlett had said, it was plain that he
was going to do the night herding himself. I knew he wouldn't
have done it if he'd had Tom with him instead of me, and
wanted to tell him that I'd rather do the night herding like
any other driver. But I couldn't be sure that he'd trust me
alone at night with cattle in a strange country, so I watered
Blueboy, tied him to a tree, and kept my mouth shut tight.

"Fetch your canteen!" Mr Batchlett called to me while I
was tying Blueboy. When I got to the fire, he went on, "This
puddle water ain't fit for a man to drink without boilin', but
there's no telling when we'll strike any better. It's got the
taste of all the cows this side the Platte in it, but it'll be

better than none. Hold out your bottle!" As I held out my
canteen, he filled it with boiling water from the coffeepot,
then threw a big handful of coffee into the pot and set it
back on the fire. "A man can make out most any place," he
said, "if he's got good stout coffee." Then he lifted the lid
and tossed in another handful.

The coffee was so strong and bitter that it made my mouth
pucker, but the dinner was a good one. Mr Batchlett had fried
a dozen thick slices of bacon, cooked a can of beans in the
hot grease, and baked biscuits in an iron pot. When we'd
finished eating, he scrubbed out the frying pan with dry grass,
and asked, "Reckon you can get a saddle on Blueboy alone, or
want I should lend a hand?"

At the home ranch I'd always saddled Blueboy from the
top of the corral fence, and always had someone to help me.
But, after Mr Batchlett's putting me on day-herding, I didn't
want any help that any other cowhand wouldn't have had, so
I said, "I think I can do it alone, but if I need help I'll call you."

I picked up a biscuit that was left over, took my saddle
and blanket, and walked slowly to the place where Blueboy
was tied. I didn't make any quick moves, but fed him a little
of the biscuit, untied him, and moved him to a place where a
couple of trees stood just below a little cut-bank. After I'd
scratched his neck a minute, I eased the folded blanket over
his back, and climbed up onto the bank with my saddle.

Blueboy spooked away when I lifted the saddle toward
him, bumped against one of the trees, and bounced back,
so all I had to do was to drop the saddle on him. Once it was
on, he stood fairly quiet while I pulled up the cinch and slipped the hackamore over his head. I didn't notice that Mr Batchlett
had mounted and ridden over until, from just above me on the
bank, he chuckled and said, "Reckon you'd best to take that
set-up along with you. It won't be long now till we'll be gettin'
into flat country."

I wasn't too sure of what Blueboy might do when I mounted
him, and I don't think Mr Batchlett was nearly as sure as I.

He shook out a loop in his catch rope, and pulled his horse
in tight against Blueboy's off side. I went up as easy as I could,
and was careful not to haul on the hackamore rope. Just as
he had done the day before, Blueboy reared straight up and
came down running hard. But this time he wasn't holding his
head so low, his ears weren't pinned back tight, and there
wasn't that driving feel under the saddle.

Mr Batchlett's chestnut was fast, but Blueboy left him rods
behind in the first ten seconds. I tried to stay loose in the
saddle, brought the hackamore lines up snug but not too tight, and drew one gently against the side of Blueboy's neck. He
didn't answer it sharply, but bore off into a sweeping circle.
I let it be a good wide one, and began bringing him around
toward the place where I could see Mr Batchlett pulling in
his chestnut.

From the moment I began to rein Blueboy I knew he was
willing to do what I wanted. Mr Batchlett knew it too, and
when we pulled up beside him, all he said was, "I'll be turnin'
in for a spell. Leave the herd spread out, so long as it don't
scatter." Then he reined his horse back toward the cottonwoods,
hobbled it, and turned it loose.

There was nothing for me to do on that day herd. The grass
in the valley was good, the cattle and spare horses were well
watered, and there was no reason for them to scatter. It gave
me about three hours to do the kind of work I'd always wanted
to do with Blueboy; to learn how short I could turn him, how
hard I could pull him in without making him angry, and to
get him used to my feel in the saddle. At first he reared and
plunged when I tried to turn him too short. But as we grew
more used to each other, he fought the reins less, and his turns
and stops began to smooth out a little.

I guessed it to be about half past three when Mr Batchlett
ya-hooed and motioned for me to round up the herd and bring
it in. I knew I couldn't do it the way I would have with Pinch
or Lady, but I held Blueboy in as much as I could, circled
the herd, and began drawing it toward the cottonwoods. The

biggest trouble I had was that Blueboy was too much wild
horse--that he'd been too used to doing his own herding in
the driving, slashing, wild stallion way. If an animal lagged
or tried to dodge away, he wanted to rush it and slash hide
with his teeth.

Mr Batchlett stood and watched until I had the herd fairly
well drawn in, then he called, "Leave 'em be!" and motioned
me to him. "You done pretty good," he told me as I rode up,
"but you'll never make a cowhorse out of him if you both
live to be a hundred. Too much wild stud in him! I ought to
have turned him loose in the mountains when he was a yearlin'.
Pull your saddle off; I reckon he'll trail with a drag rope now.
Better catch up your mare for the rest of the day."

The afternoon went a good deal like the morning, except
that a few of the steers began to get tender-footed, and Lady
wasn't nearly as good as Pinch at keeping them afraid of her.
With a long drag rope that he'd step on if he tried to run,
Blueboy trailed well and caught up on his grazing. By late
afternoon the high hills, the brush, and the scrub oaks were
behind us, and the prairie stretched out ahead in long rolling
swells.

The sun was sinking low in the west when Mr Batchlett
dropped back to me for the first time that afternoon. "How's
them tender-footed ones holdin' up?" he asked me.

"Pretty well," I told him. "I think it's more laziness than
sore feet with most of them."

"Reckon so," he said, as if he were thinking of something
else. Then, "I ain't been over this country in ten years or
more. Not much in the way of landmarks to recall, but if I
ain't twisted and too far north we'd ought to have raised the
head of Black Squirrel Creek. Didn't see nothin' that looked
like cottonwoods off to the right, did you?"

"No, sir," I said, "but if any had been there I think I'd
have seen them. This is new country to me, and I've been
kind of looking it over so I'd remember it."

"Not a bad idea," he said. "Reckon I'll head a little more

to the southeast. We'll be in a bad way if we don't hit water
by nightfall. This hot wind's dryin' out the cattle." Then, as
he rode away toward the point of the herd, he called back,
"Keep a sharp eye out to the southward!"

I'd been so busy during the afternoon that I hadn't noticed
the hot wind until he mentioned it. It was coming in from
the south, off the New Mexico deserts, and the air hadn't
cooled at all with the sinking of the sun. Mr Batchlett turned
the herd well south of east, and rode to the top of every hill,
looking off to the south for the cottonwoods that would mark
Black Squirrel Creek.

Just before sunset Blueboy spooked at a jack rabbit that
jumped out of a clump of Spanish dagger. He raced away up a hill to the north--holding his head far to the side, to keep
the drag rope out from under his feet. I had to spur Lady hard
to get around him and head him back. As we topped the hill,
I glimpsed a thin line of green along the gray-brown of the
horizon--but it was far to the northeast.

Mr Batchlett raced his horse up to me when I shouted and
motioned to him. At first he couldn't see the line of green, then
his eye caught it, and he said, "You're rightl You're right as
rain, boy! That's what happens to a man when he mistrusts his
judgment and goes to worryin' too soon. If I'd held straight
on east, we'd have fetched the headwaters of the Black Squirrel
an hour ago. For its first five-six miles, it runs toward the
southeast." Then he raced his horse back to turn the herd.

It was deep twilight before we got the trail-weary herd
over the last hills and to the cottonwoods--and when we got
them there Black Squirrel Creek was nothing but a bed of
powder-dry sand.

Often a prairie creek that seems dry will have water under
the sand, but the Black Squirrel was dry as deep as we could
dig. Most of the men I'd worked for would have sworn at
their bad luck, but all Mr Batchlett said was, "Well, son,
we've got a rough night's work ahead! Ought to have knowed
that hot wind would dry up this creek! Ought to have rode

day herd and let you catch a wink o' sleep! Catch up my horse
string while I rastle some grub together! Your mare's put in
a big day, and you got to have a pack horse--no sense tryin'
to tote a pack on Blueboy."

By the time I'd caught the horses, Mr Batchlett had the
packs unloaded, a fire going, and beans and bacon on to fry. "Leave me have your canteen!" he said, as I came up to the
fire. "Coffee'll hold you together better'n water on a night
ride; keeps a man from drowsin' off in the saddle." As he spoke,
he emptied both canteens into the pot and put in three big
handfuls of coffee. "That ought to do it!" he said, as he flipped
the lid down. "Coffee that's too strong for night ridin' won't run
out of the pot. Light into them beans! I aim to get lined out
for Big Horse Creek before full dark falls. There won't be no
moon till close onto mornin'."

The night drive from Black Squirrel to the Big Horse wasn't
easy. But I was lucky to have Pinch under me--and good
strong coffee in my canteen. The hot wind kept up right
through the night, but the stars were bright and the cattle
didn't try to scatter. My biggest trouble was with the tender
footed ones. If I didn't watch them every minute, they'd pull
off to the side and lie down.

The cattle in the herd bawled more and more as the night
went on, but those that tried to fall out never made a sound.
In the darkness, I was afraid I might have passed some of them
and lost them. It worried me most after I'd run out of coffee.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't help drowsing off in
the saddle. Each time my head jerked and I woke up, it seemed
as if I'd only closed my eyes for a second. But once, I woke
up to find Pinch standing stock still, asleep on his feet, and
the herd out of sight ahead. Another time I woke to find him
nipping at a steer that was lying down, but I'd never even
seen it leave the herd.

It was only about sixteen miles from the Black Squirrel
to the Big Horse at the place where we crossed, but it took


us all night to make the drive. In the first gray of dawn, the
spare horses started leaving the herd at a trot, and Mr Batch
lett called out to me, "Water up ahead! The horses smell it!"
A few minutes later the dark outline of trees showed against
the pale sky to the east.

There was only a trickle of water in the Big Horse Creek,
and the stock fought each other for it. As the bulls and larger
steers fought the smaller and weaker ones away, Mr Batchlett
called to me, "Spread 'em down the line; I'll spread 'em up-- give 'em all a chance!" By clear dawn the cattle were strung
out for a quarter mile along the damp snake of sand in the
creek bottom--bellowing, pawing into the sand, and sucking
up any drop of water they could find.

I was so tired and sleepy I was seeing double, but Mr
Batchlett seemed as fresh as ever. "That was a close one!"
he called as we met again at the center of the strung-out herd.
"Hated to put you through it, boy! But we'd have lost the
weakest if we'd waited to cross in daylight--lost 'em if you
hadn't saw them cottonwoods before dark come on!"

"I'm afraid we've lost some anyway," I said. "I drowsed off
once or twice after my coffee ran out, and I'm afraid..."

"Don't fret you!" he told me. "Old Pinch wouldn't pass up
none of 'em. Never seen a better drag horse."

"Well, once when I woke up he was sound asleep on his
feet," I told him.

"Poor old devil!" Mr Batchlett said, and gave Pinch a slap
on the rump. "Shouldn't ought to took him on a rough trip
like this; he's twice as old as you are. He belongs on the
home ranch; he's earned it." Then he grinned at me and said,
"Reckon a little coffee and some flapjacks wouldn't do you
no hurt. Rastle up some firewood while I make a count and
dig up a pot o' water!"

I gathered a little pile of wood, but must have drowsed
off when I laid down the last armful. I was dreaming I was
at home when Mr Batchlett called out from right behind me,
"Full count! We'll have coffee boilin' in a few minutes! Got
to drift the stock along down-creek right away! With this
wind blowin', they've got to have more water."

I unsaddled Pinch while Mr Batchlett cooked breakfast,
but I had trouble in staying awake to eat. Once he slapped
me on the face--not hard, but enough to sting. "You need
grub," he told me when I jumped and woke up. "Get some
coffee and bacon in you, then you can turn in for a bit while
I drift the stock on down-creek."

22.

Fireworks.

I WOKE up lying on a pile of leaves at the foot of a cottonwood.
Lady was saddled and tied to a tree, my boots were
off, and the sun was about four hours high. I sat up and looked
all around, but there was nothing to see except trees, the
prairie, and a dry ribbon of sand. A hot wind was blowing, my
mouth was dry, and a crack on my lip was bleeding. It was
a minute before I remembered where I was.

I supposed Mr Batchlett had let the cattle work their way
down the creek, grazing, and drinking where they found water.
So I pulled on my boots and swung into the saddle, but I'd
ridden a good five miles before I caught up to him. He was
pushing the herd along the dry creek bed as fast as it would
travel. "Weather man's sendin' the fireworks for the Fourth!"
he called, as I rode up. "It's sure goin' to be a scorcher! Feelin'
better?"

Until Mr Batchlett mentioned fireworks I hadn't thought of
its being the Fourth of July, but the wind did feel as if it
were coming off a fire. "I feel fine!" I told him. "I felt all right
before, only I couldn't keep awake. Haven't you found any
pools of water yet?"

"Nary a drop! Won't be, this high up the creek, and with this
wind blowin'." He leaned from his saddle, scooped up a handful
of powdery sand, and tossed it high. Watching it whip
away, he said, "Bad enough now; hope this wind don't veer to
the west--dirt's commencin' to rise a'ready! We got to hightail
for water or we'll lose these critters!"

We hightailed five or six miles down the creek bed, but
found only one shallow pool of water. The loose horses and
stronger stock smelled it before we reached it, and ran ahead. Mr Batchlett wanted the horses to drink, but to hold back
the stronger cattle and let the weaker ones at the water. I
double-knotted my throw rope and swung it like a flail, but
fighting those water-starved bulls and steers was like fighting
so many wild elephants. Mr Batchlett couldn't do much more
with them than I, and before we could get the weaker cattle up to drink, the water was gone.

The sharp gravel in the creek bed cut into the cleft of the
cattle's hoofs, so we had to fight the herd out onto the prairie,
where there was no protection from the sun and the burning
wind. With each hour the dust in the air grew thicker and
the herd harder to handle. The weaker and tender-footed
wanted to turn tail to the wind and stand, the stronger ones
kept trying to break back to the creek in the hope of finding
water. Each mile, Mr Batchlett held the herd alone, while I
rode to the creek and searched up and down it for any drop
of water.

By early afternoon the wind had turned full into the southwest.
The air was so thick with dust that the sun looked like
an orange-yellow blot. All my coffee was gone, and Mr Batchlett
used part of his to wet spots on our bandannas. We tied
them over our mouths and noses, trying to keep out some of
the dust. In two minutes the spots were patches of mud, and
in another two they were dry again. The wind hissed through
the short, curled buffalo grass with a sound like steam escaping
from a boiler. At the creek, it roared through the wildly flailing
branches of the cottonwoods. Tears ran from the animals' eyes

and ours, turning into streaks of thick mud. To drive half
blinded cattle against that quartering wind was almost impossible.

I'd swung my knotted rope until both arms ached, and
Lady was all in when Mr Batchlett rode up. "Catch up Pinch,
and drive 'em hard!" he shouted. "Got to reach shelter and
water before nightfall or we'll lose 'em all!"

I caught Pinch, and drove him so hard he staggered, but
I could barely keep the tender-footed and laggards moving.
The sun was entirely gone, and twilight began falling when I
knew it couldn't be more than five o'clock. Half the time I
could see only the laggards, but every once in a while Mr
Batchlett rode past me through the dust, and shouted, "How
you makin' out?" "You're doin' fine!" "That's the stuff; keep 'em
movin' or, "Here! Get a swig o' this coffee!"

Twilight had deepened nearly into darkness when he rode
up and passed me his canteen. "Get to the creek!" he shouted.
"Follow it till you find damp sand, and dig for water! If it's
plumb dark before you get back, keep hollerin'! I'll be downwind
to hear you."

I tried to shout back, but my throat was so dry that I only
made a croaking sound. What I wanted to tell him was that
a couple of cattle were down farther back, and that I hadn't
been able to get them up. When I found I couldn't shout, I
tried to tell him in sign language, but he shook his head and
motioned me to ride for water.

In the quarter-light, with the trees whipping and groaning,
the creek bed was a scary place. I was afraid, but kept low
in the saddle, looking for any damp spot on the sand. I tried
to spur Pinch into a canter, but the best he could do was a
shuffling trot. By the time we'd covered two or three miles, his
head was hanging so low it was just above the sand. I was
sure, from the way he was swinging it back and forth, that
he'd give out any minute--but that was because I didn't know
old Pinch well enough.

At a place that looked just as dry to me as any other, he

stopped, circled, and began to paw into the gravel. When I
slid out of the saddle I could see that water was seeping into
the hole he'd dug. I found a piece of a broken limb and dug
the hole deep, but didn't drink or fill the canteens until Pinch
had drunk all he wanted.

Water was still seeping into the hole after I'd filled the canteens
and drunk again. We needed every drop of water we
could get, but I had nothing to carry it in, and was afraid
I couldn't find the place again after dark. I could think of
only one way to do it: I walked Pinch back up the creek bed
counting each step as he took it.

It was almost full dark, so, when I thought I was nearly
back to where I'd started from, I began hollering. Pinch had
taken seven hundred steps more before Mr Batchlett rode out
from among the trees. The moment I saw him, I shouted, "It's
fifty-one hundred and thirty-six steps!"

"What's that?" he shouted back. "Did you find water?"

"No, but Pinch did," I yelled. "It's in a hole we dug, fifty-one
hundred and thirty-six steps down the creek."

"Good boy!" Mr Batchlett shouted back. "That's usin' your
head! You watch herd as best you can while I take the horses
down to drink. Listen for my holler in about an hour."

Mr Batchlett had moved the cattle to the east side of the
creek, to give them a little shelter behind a few stunted cotton
woods. As I rode up out of the creek bottom, they looked like
great blurry balls of tumbleweed on the prairie. A few were
lying down, others stood humped with their tails to the storm,
and some were drifting away down the wind. If the drifters
weren't stopped before full dark came on, I knew they'd keep
right on going all night.

I put Pinch into a trot, to get around the drifters, but before
we'd gone more than a mile it turned from deep twilight to
pitch darkness. I couldn't see my hands on the reins, and,
in the wail of the wind, I couldn't tell whether the bawl of a
steer was near or far away. There was only one thing I could
do: turn Pinch straight into the wind, knowing that, sooner

or later we'd get back to the creek--if he didn't break a leg in
a prairie-dog hole, or stumble over a down animal and fall
on me.

I knew when we were back near the creek by the roar of
the wind in the cottonwoods, but I didn't know we'd reached
it until I was almost raked off against a tree. Of course, I
couldn't tell just where I'd struck the creek, but most of the
drifting cattle were straight downwind from there, so I had
to stay to mark the place.

All around me the trees were screeching and groaning. There
was a crack like a rifle shot close by, then the crash of a
falling tree or a heavy limb. I was afraid to stay where I was,
but I didn't dare leave for fear of missing Mr Batchlett and
losing the cattle. It seemed as if I waited in the blackness for
at least two hours--expecting a tree to fall on me every second.
I'd made up my mind that we'd missed each other in the dark
a long time before I heard Mr Batchlett's "Hi-ya! Hi-yal" It
sounded as if it were half a mile away the first time, but a
couple of minutes later it came from almost beside me.

"Here I am!" I yelled back into the wind, and a moment
later a horse bumped into Pinch.

"You all right?" Mr Batchlett shouted, almost into my ear.

"Yes, but I couldn't stop the drifters," I hollered. "It got
pitch dark. They're straight downwind from here. Did you
find the water hole?"

Mr Batchlett's hand found me, and he called out, "Yeah,
by countin' steps! Here, take holt of this lead line! Hang tight;
there's horses on it!"

He didn't give me the end of the line, but a hold somewhere
along it. Then it pulled tight in my hand as he moved his
horse slowly downwind. We left the creek bottom at a creeping
walk, but some horse behind me must have got his head
on the wrong side of a tree. The lead rope snubbed short and
slipped a foot or two through my fist, burning as it went.
Then it slackened as the snagged horse came back into line,
and we crept on.

I thought we'd gone about a hundred yards when the rope
fell slack in my hand. In a minute or two Mr Batchlett was
beside me, and shouted, "Sit tight! We'll tie the horses to old Pinch! He'll stand and ride out the wind!"

One by one, Mr Batchlett brought the horses up, feeling
his way along the lead line. Each time, he found my hand
and showed me how short to tie the drag line to my saddle
horn. When I'd counted seven ties, he shouted, "Give me your
throw rope, and sit tight till I come back!"

I couldn't keep track of time, but it seemed to me that Mr
Batchlett had been gone an hour when, from out of the
blackness, his hands touched me, took me under the arms, and
lifted me out of the saddle. He carried me three or four steps,
stood me down, and guided my hand to a rope that hung like a. low, loose clothesline. Then he shouted, "Follow me!"

I'd taken fifteen or twenty steps when I bumped into Mr
Batchlett. "There's a hole here," he shouted. "Lay down and
follow the rope into it! Go feet-first!"

I'd only wriggled a few feet when Spanish-dagger spears
pricked and stung my legs. The rope led into a hole among
them. It was smaller than I, but I kept flat to the ground and
pushed myself back with my elbows. In another minute or
two I felt as if I were in a cave--with Spanish daggers all
around me. There was no wind, and the roar of it outside was muffled. When I stopped to feel around, Mr Batchlett's boots
pushed past my head.

I didn't need to be told where I was or what Mr Batchlett
had done. In some way he'd taken the tarpaulin off one of the
trail packs, and had lashed it over and around a big hollow
clump of Spanish daggers, almost in the shape of a giant mushroom.
There was so little room inside that we had to curl up
like kittens, and every time I moved a dagger pricked me, but
it seemed almost like getting home.

We didn't have to shout in our little tent, and as soon as Mr Batchlett was in beside me, I said, "I'm sorry I let the
cattle get away."

"Done all you could, didn't you?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I said, "but..."

"That's all any man can do, ain't it?" he asked.

"I guess it is," I told him.

"Dang right!" he said. "We done our best, and when a
man's done his best he's got nothin' to bawl over if he loses.
Wouldn't doubt me we'll round up most of the herd when this
wind breaks. How 'bout some cold beans and raw bacon? It
ain't fancy, but there's worse where there's none."

23.

Diamond Crosses.

IT WAS pitch black in our little tent when Mr Batchlett
woke me. "Wind's let down a bit," he said. "It's time we was
up and at it. Reckon you could water the horses while I pull
camp and rastle up some grub?"

When I crawled outside, the air was thick with dust, and
the wind was still blowing from the southwest, but it wasn't
roaring as loud in the trees as it had the night before. In the
dim gray-brown light I could make out a blurred mound that
looked like a small haystack. As I walked toward it, I could
make out a huddle of horses, standing with their tails to the
wind. Pinch stood with his head hanging nearly to the ground,
and the others were crowded close around him.

I retied the ropes so the horses could string out, bridled
Pinch, mounted, and turned him toward the creek. Except for
Blueboy, no horse moved until its lead rope pulled tight, and
old Pinch walked as though he were still half asleep.

The water hole had seeped only half full, and digging it
deeper didn't help, so I could let the horses have only a few
swallows apiece. Blueboy was the only one that fought for it.

The rest let me lead them away easily, and stood with heads
drooped and tails to the wind.

When I got back to camp, Mr Batchlett had the packs made
up, coffee boiling, and beans and bacon fried. There had been
no dawn, but the light had grown strong enough that we
could see nearly a hundred yards through the dust. As we
ate, Mr Batchlett watched the horses, and said, "Beat-out
lookin' bunch of horseflesh, ain't it? Old Pinch won't last out
another day and night like this. Drink good?"

"No, sir," I told him. "There wasn't much water, so I could
only let them have a few swallows. Blueboy was the only
one that fought for it."

"Wild horse in him! He'd stand up to a month of this. Reckon
you'd best to try usin' him today. You'll need to save your
mare--case old Pinch don't make it. I'll take the sorrel; hobble
the rest and turn 'em loose!"

When I came back from hobbling the horses, Mr Batchlett
was tramping out the breakfast fire. The first thing I noticed
was that he was wearing his six-shooter. He saw me looking at
it, and said, "Reckon we'll have need of it. Want I should
help you saddle up?"

I told him I thought he'd better, and as we carried our
saddles to the horses, he said, "Blue devil might turn out worth
his salt on this trip! Never looked to see the day he would!
Glad you fetched him along!"

Then, when I was ready to mount, he told me, "You'll have
to fight him if need be this time! Don't dast let you get out
o' sight in this dust! Like as not the wind'll veer, and there's
no landmarks to go by."

Blueboy reared when I went into the saddle, and came down
in a driving run, but I brought him around in a fairly close
circle. After that he bobbed his head and sidestepped, but
let me hold him to a walk.

When I brought Blueboy back, Mr Batchlett called out,
"Wind shifted a couple o' points to westward about midnight!
Reckon we'll find the stoutest drifters well north of downwind

--eighteen to twenty miles out. But we'd best to do our dirty
work first--'tain't right to let 'em sufFerl We'll spread out to
hunt 'em, but don't get out of sight!"

I didn't need to be told what to hunt for, and was the
first to find one. It was a tender-footed steer I'd had trouble
with the day before. He was stretched out with his legs stiff,
his eyes closed, and half buried in sandy dust--but there was
a light breathing in his flank. A shudder ran through him
when Mr Batchlett pulled the trigger, then he lay still, for
the blowing dust to finish its burying. We found eleven more,
but six were past the need of bullets.

I'd never have been able to find any of the drifting cattle
in that storm, but Mr, Batchlett led off across the prairie as
if he were following a road. He spurred his sorrel into a canter,
and Blueboy swung along beside it. After a mile or two, Mr
Batchlett had to ease his blowing horse to a jog, but Blueboy
fretted, bobbed his head, and side-danced. Two nights and
a day without grazing hadn't sapped his strength, and the
driving need to run was still in him.

We'd cantered and jogged a dozen more times before Mr
Batchlett drew his horse close to me, and called, "Keep a sharp
lookout to the right! Ought to be seem' some of our stock most
any time now!"

The way he said "our stock" made me forget that my mouth
was dry and my lungs burning with dust. "Had I better pull
away a little?" I shouted back.

Mr Batchlett nodded, and called, "But keep an eye on me! Give a high-sign if you see anything!"

We'd jogged and cantered twice more when I thought I saw
a blurry shape off to my right. My eyes were burning and
watering, so I couldn't be sure I'd really seen anything, but
I waved my hat to Mr Batchlett and drew Blueboy around.
He'd hardly taken a dozen strides when two of our smaller
steers loomed out of the dust in front of us. Their backs were
humped, their heads low, and they were barely creeping along

--as if they were walking in their sleep.

"About done for," Mr Batchlett shouted, as he rode up. "But
they might make out yet if this wind lets down. It's shifted
another point to the west. Did you take note?"

I shook my head. With the dust blowing and no landmarks
in sight, the wind could have veered all the way around
without my knowing it.

Mr Batchlett pulled his sorrel around to the up-wind side
of Blueboy, so he wouldn't have to shout, and told me, "Leave
'em drift; we'll know where to find 'ern on the way back. The
stout stuff'll be ten or twelve miles further on--off more to
the north. Wouldn't doubt me some of it's drifted as far as
South Rush Creek."

We left the steers to drift sleepily on, and went back to
jogging and cantering. We rode about a hundred yards apart
--just so I could keep Mr Batchlett in sight. I waved each
time I saw cattle, but he only waved back and rode straight
on. After what I thought was about an hour and a half, trees
stood like dark shadows against the curtain of dust in front of
me. When I looked for Mr Batchlett he was motioning me to
him. "South Rush Creek, I reckonl" he shouted as I rode up.
"Ought to hold the drifters if it ain't dry! They wouldn't move
on and leave water!"

South Rush Creek was as dry as Big Horse had been, but
we found twelve of our better steers huddled in the lee of a
little cottonwood thicket. Mr Batchlet looked them over carefully,
and shouted, "Ain't bad off, but they got to have water
before another day's out! Reckon the rest has drifted on to
the Middle Rush. If I ain't mixed up, it branches off a few
miles south of here. Ought to be two, three miles to eastward!
Better creek; might have water in it!"
Mr Batchlett was right about the distance to Middle Rush
Creek, but there wasn't a drop of water in it. He rode it four
or five miles to the north, and I rode south to its joining with
the South Rush, but we found only ten of our cattle. We
herded them into what shelter the few cottonwoods offered,
and Mr Batchlett sat looking off glumly toward the east "If

my recollection's good," he told me, "there ain't another creek
in twenty miles. After crossin' two dry ones, cattle would scatter
like blowed leaves. Reckon you could hold a course to ride
diamond crosses?"

"I could try," I shouted, "but I don't know what they are."

"Light down!" he told me, then took a stick and drew a long
straight line in the sand. "That's the wind." Then he drew
three or four diamonds straddling it, with their points meeting
along the line. "Them's diamonds. You ride this zigzag; I'll ride
this one! Keep the wind bio win' your horses' mane acrost his
right ear till you think you've gone a quarter mile, then turn
him so's to bring it acrost his left! Go a quarter mile and
stand still till I meet you!"

Mr Batchlett took off his gun belt, buckled it around my
waist, and told me, "If I don't meet you at a point by the
time you've waited ten minutes, fire once! Count a hundred
slow and fire again till I do meet you! Keep a sharp lookout;
the best cattle are the ones that goes the farthest!"

When we were back in our saddles and ready to quarter
away from the wind in opposite directions, he shouted, "Take
a slow lope; you can see best at that gait!"

To ride those diamond crosses in the dust, I needed to
know when I'd gone a quarter mile, or Mr Batchlett and I
wouldn't meet at the points. I used to go a mile and a half to
school when we lived on the ranch, and usually rode Lady at
an easy lope. Just for something to do, I often counted her
strides, and they always came to few over 1,300. Blueboy took
a little longer stride, so I figured that 200 of his strides would
be a quarter mile, counted them off, and made a right-angle
turn. I'd counted up to 190 after making the turn, then Mr
Batchlett rode in from an angle to meet me.

"See anything?" he shouted.

I waved a hand back and forth, and yelled, "No!"

"Keep goin' another quarter, and turn left!" he called out
as he crossed my line and rode on.

We made three diamonds and met almost perfectly on each

of them before I saw any cattle, but they weren't ours. They
were long-homed, slab-sided range cattle. When I met Mr Batchlett at the point, I held up my hand for him to stop.
"There are other cattle around here!" I hollered. "I saw four
steers, but they weren't ours."

"Seen some, too!" he called back. "Keep a sharp lookout, but
don't stop or turn off course if you see cattle you know. We'd
miss one another at the point."

Before we met at the next point I'd seen two of our White
Face bulls, drifting along slowly, but not looking too bad. On
the next diamond I saw three more. I reached the next meeting
point well ahead of Mr Batchlett, and when he rode up he
seemed nearer excited than I'd ever seen him. "We're right in
amongst 'em!" he shouted. "And if I ain't forgot all I learnt
in the panhandle, we're due for a change o' weather. Didn't take note how the wind's haulin' 'round, did you? You're near
onto a quarter mile off point. Next leg, keep your horse's mane
straight right till you turn, then straight for'ards!"

I did as Mr Batchlett told me, and saw four more of our
steers and bulls, but that wasn't what excited me--I could
have sworn I heard thunder.

"Hear that?" Mr Batchlett shouted, as we passed at the
next point. Then, before I'd counted two hundred more strides,
big drops of muddy rain hit me. In less than two minutes, the thunder claps were almost overlapping, and sounded like
dynamite blasts all around me. With each crack, lightning
turned the dust in the air bright yellow. Then the rain came
down as if some great lake in Heaven had overflowed.

There was no need to count strides any more, and no sense
in trying to ride in the downpour. There was only one thing I
really wanted to do--and I did it. I jumped out of the saddle,
pulled off my muddy clothes as fast as I could, and danced
around, and shouted and yelled in the rain. Blueboy stood with
his legs braced, snorting and watching me. Then he seemed
to get the same feeling I had. He buck-jumped half a dozen
times, shook himself as if he were trying to tear off the saddle,

then faced into the whipping rain and let it beat against his
upturned head.

The shower didn't last more than ten minutes, but an awful
lot of water fell, and when it was over the sun came out
clear and bright. It seemed as if I could see almost to the
ends of the earth, and all around me the prairie sparkled with
drops of water on the buffalo grass. I was on top of a low
hill, and, as I pulled my dripping clothes back on, I could
see nearly a hundred cattle in the shallow valleys. They were
no longer humped up, but stood with straight backs and heads
to the ground, sucking up the moisture on the grass. Before
I climbed back onto Blueboy, I stood for a few minutes,
stretching, looking off across the prairies, and wondering why
I'd never before noticed how beautiful they were.

I'd been having so much fun in the rain that I didn't think
about Mr Batchlett till he rode out from behind a little knoll,
half a mile to the north. I guess he'd taken a bath the same
way I did. When we met, his face was shining, his hair was
wet, and he was smiling. "That done it!" he sang out. "Doubt me we'll lose another head--if Rush Creek ain't rose too fast
and caught a few of 'em. 'Bout ready for some grub?"

While I unsaddled and hobbled the horses, Mr Batchlett
laid out the grub he'd brought in his saddle bags. It looked
as good to me as a Thanksgiving dinner. There were hardtack
crackers, two cans of sardines, a can of beans, and a can of
tomatoes. For some reason the tomatoes tasted better to me
than anything I'd eaten in months.

The horses hadn't had a bite to eat in two days, so we didn't
hurry, but gave them a full hour to graze. While we were
lying on a blanket, letting our clothes dry and soaking in
sunshine, I asked Mr Batchlett, "With nothing to go by, how
do you know when the wind veers a point? I wouldn't know
if it turned all the way around the compass."

"Never's a time when there's nothin' to go by," he said,
"exceptin' it's plumb dark with no stars out. Always keep three points in your eye--same as if you was aimin' a rifle: back

sight, front sight, and the spot you're shootin' at. Don't need
to see more'n twenty feet, so long as you pick a new front sight
before you ride up on the back one."

"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 improving 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 being' 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.

WHEN 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 chuck
house, 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 F6 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 chuck
house 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 midair.

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 being'
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."

25.

Swing-Over.

WHEN Mr, Batchlett hired me I thought I was going to
spend the whole summer on trading trips. And when we'd
picked our horse strings I thought Sid was going to be my
partner. But things didn't work out that way. After the dust
storm trip, I spent most all my time on the home ranch, and
things just sort of worked themselves out so Hazel was my
partner. While Mr Bendt and Ned rounded up the stock in
the forenoons, Hazel and I hunted out the new calves and any
sick or lame cattle. Then, in the early evenings, we'd all work
together--cutting, booking, and making up the trail herds for
the trading crews.

Hazel had ridden with her father ever since she was big
enough to sit on a horse, but that summer was the first time
she ever worked as a hand. Mr Batchlett had her father put
her on the payroll at fifty cents a day, and she didn't have
to wash dishes or help take care of the baby. And, even if
she was a girl, she was a good partner for handling milk cows.
She didn't play around when we were working, and she didn't
try to push all the dirty jobs off onto me. There was never

a day when my job at the home ranch wasn't fun, but the
evenings were even better than the days.

When the trading teams were away, we had supper as soon
as the day's sweep of cattle had been cut and sorted. Sometimes
there was an hour or so of daylight afterwards, and Hazel
always pestered me to teach her more riding stunts. Mr Bendt
didn't want me to show her any new ones unless he was with
us, and he didn't have a spare minute during the first week I
was back from the dust-storm trip.

Most of the really good tricks I knew were ones that Hi
Beckman and I had done together. I couldn't teach those to
Hazel, because I was neither big enough nor strong enough.
But there were a couple of solo tricks that I thought she
might learn.

One of them was done by crawling all the way around a
horse while he was at a full gallop. All it took was two loops
of strap on the cinch, a little timing, muscles strong enough
to keep tight against the horse's belly, lots of practice, and
not being afraid. Hi had made me practice the trick on a
standing horse until I could do it like a squirrel going around
a cage. After that, I'd never had any trouble in doing it on
a running horse.

If the horse was well-trained for the somersault trick, there
wasn't much to the other solo stunt. With the horse in a hard
run, I'd take a shoulder stand on his neck, bracing my chest
against the saddle horn. When I'd hiss, the quick stop of the
horse would throw me forward, feet first. By arching my back
a little and spreading my arms wide, I'd travel in a quarter
circle, and land on my feet in front of the horse. Neither of
the tricks was hard, but, of course, there was always danger
of being trampled if I fell.
Every evening that first week, Hazel and I practiced the
somersault trick a dozen times or more. But the better she
could do it, the more she pestered me to show her new stunts.
I wouldn't do it, but finally I told her that when she could
do five somersaults in a row without a bobble, I'd talk to her

father about new tricks. Saturday evening she did seven
somersaults, and landed on her feet every time.

After I told Hazel I'd talk to her father, I riveted straps
on my cinch, and practiced a little with Pinch--when everyone
had gone to bed--first standing, and then running. With
his being used to the somersault trick, it didn't take much
teaching for him to learn the new ones. Then, Sunday forenoon,
when Mrs Bendt, Jenny, and all the children were at
Sunday School, I asked Mr Bendt if he'd go down to the little
practice meadow with me while I showed him a couple of
new tricks.

At first he shook his head, but then he said, "Being' it's
Sunday, and after you kids done such a good job this past
week, I'll go along with you for half an hour, but don't get no
idees this is goin' to be a regular thing. Trick stunts is fine
for roundups, but they ain't no good around a cow ranch-- kill too much of a man's time. If I let you show Hazel another trick, you tell her to quit pesterin' the life out of me to
come watch her practice."

"Well," I said, "I told her she couldn't even see me do
these tricks unless you saw them first and said she could learn
them. They wouldn't take but a little of your time. Most all
the early practicing has to be done with a standing horse, so
you wouldn't have to spend hardly any time with us."

"Get your horse saddled, then!" he told me. "I'll spare you
half an hour. But, understand me right, this ain't goin' to be
no regular thing!"

Mr Bendt watched me do both tricks three or four times,
then he shook his head, and said, "Don't you never let Hazel
see you do them stunts, and don't you be doin' 'em yourself
while you're around here! They're too danged dangerous! One
slip and you'd be a goner."

"All right; I won't," I told him, "but I could teach Hazel
to twist a little in the air on the shoulder-stand trick, and to
land at one side. Then a horse couldn't run over her if he failed
to make a full stop."

"Ain't one trick enough?" he asked a little bit crossly. "You
kids get all het up over trick stunts and you won't be worth
a nickel as cowhands. Short-handed, with Tom away, there
won't be no time for playin'. Besides, them tricks is too
dangerous for any girl."

It looked as if our trick-riding was just about over, and I
knew Hazel would be mad at me for not doing a better job
with her father. We'd turned the horses and were riding out
of the little meadow when I got an idea. "I know how busy we
are now," I told Mr Bendt, "but I know a couple of tricks
that aren't very dangerous--ones you could teach Hazel yourself
after the busy season is over. I can't explain them very
well, but if you could spare a few more minutes I could show
you how they work."

Mr, Bendt was riding along with his face set hard when I
started to talk, but when I'd finished he was looking at me
as if he were real interested. "Betcha my life!" he said, "If
it won't take more'n five or ten minutes. Helen's due to raise
hob if I don't have the kettle on and spuds boilin' when she
gets home from church."

The two tricks I wanted to show Mr Bendt were ones that
Hi Beckman and I had done together at the Littleton roundup.
They depended a lot on timing and horse training, but even
more on one rider's being twice as big as the other. I was
pretty sure that if Mr Bendt tried them once he'd want to be
able to do them with Hazel, and that he might be a bit more
willing for us to practice a little.

As we rode back to the bottom of the meadow, I said, "For
the easier trick, I stand on the ground facing you, with my
left arm held out at a high angle. You race your horse past
me, with your left arm held out and down to meet mine. If
our wrists hit right together, our hands will grab hold all by
themselves. I'll have kicked my right leg up just a split second
before our arms met, then all you have to do is to hold on
tight, and I'll go flying up and land behind the cantle of your
saddle. If our hands miss I'll take a tumble, but it isn't any

worse than falling down when you stub your toe, and by the
time I'm down, the horse will have run past, so there's no
danger of being stepped on."

The pickup trick wouldn't work when Mr Bendt tried to
use his bay. It shied off when it passed me, and our hands
missed. But old Pinch was getting used to tricks. When Mr
Bendt tried him, he ran past me perfectly. Our wrists met,
our hands grabbed hold, and I went sailing up behind the
saddle smoothly. I'd barely landed when I asked, "Don't you
think that would be a good trick for you to teach Hazel?"

"Betcha my life! Betcha my life!" he sang out. "Want we
should try it again... so's I get the hang of it good?"

I guess Mr Bendt forgot about the potatoes. Anyway, we
tried the pickup trick at least a dozen more times, and on
five of them I went up behind the saddle. I took a few nosedives
when our hands missed their hold, and I broke open the
cracks I'd got in my lips during the dust storm, but they
didn't bleed much or bother our practicing.

After the fifth time I'd gone up behind his saddle, Mr Bendt
turned his head back, and asked, "Didn't you say there was
two tricks I could maybe learn Hazel?"

I nodded, and said, "The other one is harder to learn. You'd
have to practice a lot before you could do it good."

"How does it work?" he asked.
"Well," I told him, "it has to be done with two horses running
side by side at a high gallop and in perfect step. I ride at
your left, and we lean toward each other, with our arms
up and bent into an arch. After we've taken a good tight double
wrist hold, you straighten up, jerk me out of my saddle, and
swing me over your head in a half circle. As my feet touch
the ground on the far side of your horse, I bounce hard, so
you'll be able to swing me back into the saddle. All I have to
do is the bouncing, but you'll have to hold the saddle real
tight with your knees or you'll get pulled off balance. It's better
to practice with the horses standing still until we get used to
doing it together."

I thought we might try the trick a couple of times, but Mr
Bendt didn't want to stop until we could do it smoothly. "It
will never be very smooth until we do it with the horses
running," I told him. "If they're going real fast, I can bounce
hard enough that you can swing me back as smooth as a
stream of oil. Hi Beckman says that when I land with them
running, it winds the muscles in his back and shoulders up
like a mainspring. I think that's a good part of what makes
the trick work."

"Wouldn't doubt me none! Sounds reasonable!" Mr Bendt
said. "Want we should give it a try?"

We ran the horses together a couple of times, but Mr
Bendt didn't try to swing me out of the saddle. Old Pinch
didn't like having another horse run close to him. He kept
snapping at Mr Bendt's bay, and driving him far enough away
that we couldn't get a wrist hold. Right after the second run, Mr Bendt looked up at the sun, and sang out, "Great bulls o'
Bashan! Where do you reckon the time's gone to? Helen'll
skin my hide off for not gettin' them spuds on to boil."

From the first high hill, we saw the buckboard coming-- way off to the east--and Mr Bendt raced to the house in
time to have a fire built before Mrs Bendt drove in.

That Sunday the dairyhands had driven off to town as soon
as the morning's milking was done, and Ned had gone when we
finished our forenoon's work, so I was the only hired hand on
the home ranch at dinner time. Jenny didn't bother to set the
table in the chuckhouse, and Mrs Bendt invited me to eat
with the family.

We were hardly down at the table when Kenny began trying
to tell me things Hazel had said about me, but she got so
mad that Mrs Bendt had to tell him to keep still. He sat for
quite a while, just calling out, "Pass the meat!" "Pass the spuds!"
"Pass the gravy!" Then he looked over at me, and said, "Betcha
my life you can't ride better'n Ned! You fell off Jack and he
didn't."

"Ned was never on your old donkey!" Hazel yapped.

"If you children can't behave, you can both leave the table," Mrs Bendt said sharply. "I won't have no squabblin'!"

For a while the talk was about the minister's sermon that
morning, but when Jenny was bringing in the pie, Mr, Bendt
asked Hazel, "Want I should saddle up Pinto after you've
helped with the dishes, gal?"

Before Hazel could answer, Mrs Bendt cut in, "Ain't she
rode enough this past week! Why didn't you keep Ned to home
if you needed an extra hand this afternoon?"

"Oh, I wasn't aimin' to work her none," Mr Bendt said;
"just wanted to see if we had some horse that would hold a
gait along with Pinto. Old Pinch, he's too ornery to work
double, and there's times it comes in right handy to have a
matched pair to work close alongside one another."

"Well, I guess that's all right," Mrs Bendt said, as if she
weren't quite sure, "but I don't know what's got into the
child of late! She wouldn't stay off a horse long enough to
sleep if I didn't put my foot down."

Hazel's toe touched my leg under the table, then she looked
up at her father, and said, "This little dab o' dishes won't
take over five minutes. I'll be right out."

As soon as Mr Bendt and I were outside, I said, "If you
were thinking about that swing-over trick, Lady has done it
lots of times with Hi and me, and it doesn't make much
difference about the other horse; she'll keep pace with it."

"How's she on the pickup trick?" he asked.

By that time, I was sure that Mr Bendt wanted to show Hazel the new tricks, but Lady was only good for the swing
over one, so I said, "I guess we'd better take both Lady and
Pinch along; she's not very good at the pickup trick."

"Wouldn't want to ride Pinch down to that little meadow,
and lead your mare, would you?" he asked. "I don't generally
ride no horse that ain't in my own string--and the women
folks might get to wondering."

I rode Pinch and led Lady down to the little meadow. We
hadn't been there three minutes before Mr Bendt and Hazel

came racing in. He was on the same bay he'd ridden that
morning, and stepped down as he slid it to a stop beside Pinch.
For a second or two I wished I had been wall-eyed, so I could
watch both Hazel and her father at the same time. She was
making hand-shaking signs behind his back, while he winked
and motioned for me to get down off Pinch.

I could only guess that Hazel was telling me I'd done a
good job in getting her father to let her learn new tricks.
But I knew what Mr Bendt wanted all right; he sort of kicked
a foot up when he winked at me, so I winked back as I stepped
down out of the saddle.

When Mr Bendt put his saddle on Pinch and rode off toward
the end of the valley, Hazel watched him as if she thought
he'd gone crazy. She looked at me, puzzled, and asked, "You
ain't goin' to learn Paw my somerset trick, are you?"

I wanted to surprise Hazel as much as I could, so I stepped
in front of Pinto, looked up at her, and said, "No, he's going
to show you a trick of his own."

As I spoke, I nodded my head to show Mr Bendt I was
ready, but I didn't take my stand or raise my arm until he
was nearly abreast of me. Then I shot it out, and kicked high
with my right foot. Hi Beckman and I had practiced that way,
but without the rider's having a target to aim for, it was pretty
hard to get a wrist hold. Mr Bendt and I were lucky that time.
Our wrists slapped together squarely, our hands grabbed their
hold, and old Pinch didn't even slow down until well after I
was sitting behind Mr Bendt.

I was kind of proud of the way our trick had worked, and
thought Hazel would be proud of us both, but when her father
pulled Pinch around, she was beating her fists on her saddle
horn. "You cheat) You cheat. You cheat." she shouted. "You're
both cheaters! You're too busy to go to Sunday School, but
I have to go, don't I? Then, while I'm gone, you ain't too busy
to learn Paw the tricks you promised to learn me. You're
cheaters! You're cheaters!"

"This wasn't any trick I was going to teach you," I told her.

"I'm not big enough to do this one with you. I showed it to
your father so you and he could do it together."

Hazel could change quicker than any girl I ever saw. She'd
been madder than a cat with a clothespin on its tail when I
began explaining to her, and by the time I'd finished she
was off Pinto and hopping around like an Indian in a war
dance. "Can we do it now, Paw? Can we do it now?" she almost
shrieked. "I seen everything he done, and I can do every bit
of it! Can we do it, Paw?"

"You just keep your garters tight," he told her. "This trick
ain't one you can learn in no half hour."

Hazel buttoned up her lips so tight they turned white, and
looked from one of us to the other. "Then you're even worse
cheaters than I thought you was!" she told us. "You've been
practicin' behind my back ever since... ever since..."

"No we haven't either!" I told her. "We only tried it a few
times this morning, but I've been practicing it for three years.
In this one, the rider doesn't need to have very much practice."

When I said that, I didn't think about its sounding as if Mr Bendt wasn't very important in the trick, but I guess that's
the way it sounded to him. "That's right as rain, gal," he said,
"but we got another one where most of the job's the old man's.
Want we should show it to you?"

The swing-over trick looked to be the hardest of all, but
if the horses ran shoulder to shoulder there wasn't much to it.
With Lady trained to keep pace, I wasn't much worried about
our having trouble, but I had Mr Bendt put his saddle on her,
and I rode Pinto. He'd be the horse Hazel would ride when she
did the trick, and he needed to get used to my leaving the
saddle and coming back to it.

We only tried the trick once with the horses running, and
it didn't work too well. Pinto shied off when he saw me coming
back toward him through the air, and I almost missed the
saddle. It scared Mr Bendt a lot more than it did me, and
after that he wouldn't even let Hazel try it with the horses
standing. But he promised her that he'd come out and practice

with us after supper on evenings when we got through with
our work early.

Maybe we all worked harder and faster after that Sunday,
but, when the trading teams were away, there was always
time for an hour's trick practicing after supper. At first, Hazel
had to practice the swing-over trick with a standing horse.
But she learned so fast that she'd done both the new tricks
at a hard run by the end of the first week.

26.

Bunkhouse Fight.

THAT week-end was sort of a bad one--one I'll remember
for a long time. Saturday noon the creamery driver brought a
letter from Mr Batchlett. Mr Bendt read it at the dinner
table, then told Ned, "Batch has took the train from The
Springs to Littleton to see his missus. You hightail on out and
help Tom in with the herd!"

He looked up at Mrs Bendt, who was listening anxiously
in the kitchen doorway. "She ain't bad off," he said; "just poorly.
Batch, he'll be back Sunday night. Wants I should meet the
nine o'clock train at Castle Rock. Wants a lot bigger trail herd
than what I've got ready. Aims to keep three teams out, plumb
up to Labor Day."

I could see that we'd be plenty busy that afternoon, and
with Ned away, I thought we'd be awfully short-handed, but
we weren't. I was just finishing my second piece of pie when
Jenny came into the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a blue
shirt, overalls, chaps, the belt Sid had made her, boots, and
a five-gallon Stetson. "Forgot I had these, didn't you, Watt?"
she laughed. "If you'll let me have Juno, I'll bet I can still
hustle a steer as well as I could three years ago."

I was so surprised that I sat there with a mouth full of pie
and forgot to swallow it. I'd never thought of Jenny as anything
but a pretty schoolteacher, who could nurse, cook, sew,
and wait on the chuckhouse table. But, when we got out into
the brush, I found that she could ride and handle cattle almost
as well as Hazel--better than some cowhands.

With Jenny and Mr Bendt working as one team, and Hazel
and I as another, we made a clean sweep of all the stock within
three miles of the buildings. By sunset, we had the big cutting
corral the fullest I ever saw it.

Tom and Ned came into sight with their trail herd just
after we'd closed the gate on our last sweeping. I don't think
Jenny wanted the men to see her in her working clothes. She
stepped down from her saddle, passed the lines to Mr Bendt,
and said, "It's time Hazel and I went to help Helen with the
supper." Then, as they started toward the house, she looked
back at me and laid one finger across her lips.

At twilight, we heard Zeb's herd bellowing, far to the east,
and rode out about three miles to meet it. The trail-weary
cattle were trying to scatter, and I had the bad luck to head
off a cow that had slipped past Trinidad. Before I knew he
was anywhere around, his knotted rope-end bit me on the leg.
I thought it was a rattlesnake, and jerked Pinch away quick
enough that the second snap of the rope missed me. The knot
whizzed past my shoulder with the same kind of a hiss a bullet
makes. There was the same hiss in Trinidad's voice as he said,
"Keep out o' my business, Smart-aleck."

I wished I could have been as brave as Sid, and told Trinidad
he was a four-flushing coward, but I found that I was a coward,
too, and got away from there as fast as I could. I kept an eye
on Trinidad until it was too dark to see him, but he really
didn't need much help with the cattle. Whatever he wasn't,
he was the best man I ever saw with a knotted rope-end, and
he was a real rider--not the kind that works as a partner with
his horse, but one who rides rough and keeps his horse scared
into trigger action.

It was full dark before we had Zeb's herd in the corral, and Mr Bendt called out, "Reckon we'd best hightail back to find
Sid! Wouldn't doubt me he's run into trouble!"

My leg still stung where Trinidad's rope-end had bitten it,
and when I put my finger on the spot, my overalls were sticky
with blood. The first thing that came into my head was that,
out there in the dark, Trinidad could sneak up on Sid and kill
him with one snap of that knotted rope. He could snap it hard
and straight enough to hit a man's head or neck at ten yards,
and the only sound would be the cracking of bone. Nothing
could ever be proved, and, in the dark, Sid wouldn't be missed
until we got back to the home ranch.

I wasn't going to tattle on Trinidad for clipping me, but I
wasn't going to let him get out there in the dark with Sid if I
could help it. I pulled Pinch around and headed for Mr Bendt,
but I was only half way when he called out, "Reckon you'd
best to stay here, Trinidad! Cut the horses out of the trail herds
and run 'em to the creek for water!"

It was nearly nine o'clock when we met Sid, and he was
still more than five miles east of the home ranch. He was having
plenty of trouble, too, but I think most of it was with Hank.
I heard Hank shouting and yelling from a mile away, and he
was raving mad when we reached the herd. When Mr Bendt
rode over to quiet him down, he shouted, loud enough to have
been heard in Castle Rock, "This here red-headed kid don't
know no more 'bout bossin' a trail herd than... by dogies,
if he'd a-listened to me... why, I knowed more..."

It didn't take Mr Bendt long to quiet Hank down, but it
took us till nearly midnight to get the scattered herd rounded
up and into the corral at the home ranch.

Trinidad was nowhere in sight when we brought in the
herd, but when we went to eat, he was sitting on the chuck
house steps--playing his guitar and sort of crooning. I don't
know if Jenny and Mrs Bendt had been listening to him, but
they had a good hot supper ready for us. And when Jenny
passed Sid the meat and potatoes, I noticed that she brushed

against his shoulder. Everybody was too tired to do much
talking, and we turned in as soon as we'd eaten.
That Sunday there was no time to practice trick-riding, and
we had to work as hard as we could go until nearly seven o'clock. While the other riders swept in more cattle, Mr Bendt,
Sid, and I did the cutting and sorting. Hazel even stayed
home from Sunday School to keep the herd book.

Ned and Tom changed their clothes and rode off to The
Springs as soon as they'd brought in the last sweeping. Then, after supper, I helped Mr Bendt harness a team to the buck
board. As he drove away, Jenny came out of the kitchen, took
Sid's arm, and they walked toward the beaver pond.

I was afraid Trinidad might follow them, but he didn't. He
went to the bunkhouse with Zeb and Hank. When I got there
he was shining the silver studding on his saddle.

I tried to write a letter to Mother, but didn't have any better
luck than I'd had the week before. Zeb was darning socks
and Hank was stretched out on his bunk--talking his head off
about a cloudburst being due any day, and telling how much
better he was at trading and trail-herding than Sid, but nobody
was listening to him.

After I'd started my letter over for the fourth time, I heard
Sid's meadow-lark whistle, coming nearer from the direction of
the house. If anybody else heard it, he didn't make a move,
and Hank kept right on talking.

As Sid came in, Trinidad got up with his fists cocked. He
started across the floor slowly, and said, just as slowly, "I
warned you, Redhead!"

Hank stopped talking, my hand shook so much that I drew
zigzags on the paper, and Zeb rose in that half-crouch of his,
but Sid didn't seem a bit afraid. He jumped to one side, and
lit balanced on his toes, with his fists up and his chin tucked
in behind his shoulder.

Trinidad took a quick step and swung a punch at Sid's head
that would have knocked a mule down, but Sid bobbed under
it. Trinidad's back was toward me, so I couldn't see Sid's punch,

but it must have been a sharp one to the stomach with his left
fist. Trinidad grunted, doubled over a little., and lunged forward
from the force of his missed swing. As Sid danced out
from in front of him, his right fist shot up and caught Trinidad
square on the nose.

Trinidad whirled and rushed at Sid with both fists flailing,
but all he hit was air. That time I saw Sid's punch. As he
ducked and sidestepped, he shot his left into the soft spot
under Trinidad's wishbone. Then, without raising his head,
whipped his right up to the face, and danced away.

I've never seen a man look so much like a bull as Trinidad
did when he whirled back from that punch in the face. He was
nearly twice as heavy as Sid, a full foot taller, with arms as
big and long as Sid's legs. For a moment he stood with his
head and shoulders hunched down--then he charged. It was
almost exactly the way the ugly White Face bull had charged
Clay when we'd had our fight in the cutting corral. And Sid
handled Trinidad just as Clay had handled that bull.

He stood teetering back and forth on the balls of his feet,
ducking and dodging his head, but never moving his eyes from
Trinidad's face. Each time the big man rushed he ducked
and slipped around him, but each time his fists flashed out
like the heads of striking rattlesnakes--one to the soft spot
under the wishbone and the other to the face.

The only sounds in the bunkhouse were the scuffling of feet
and the grunts that Trinidad made when Sid's fist knifed into
his stomach. The whipping rights to the face were so quick I
couldn't see where they landed, but after the third one, blood
smeared across Trinidad's nose and mouth.

Trinidad charged seven or eight times, swinging punches
that would have broken Sid's neck or mashed his face to a pulp,
but not a single one of them landed. Around and around they
went in the middle of the bunkhouse floor, Sid waiting for the
charge, ducking under the blows, and ripping in a shot with
each fist as he danced away.

With each charge Trinidad looked madder and swung harder,

but he might as well have been trying to hit a fly in midair,
and the harder he swung the farther he missed. His last swing
was so wild and hard that it threw him off balance and he
nearly fell. He staggered as he turned to face Sid, stood a few
seconds with his feet spread wide, his shoulders heaving, and
his head stuck forward. Then he charged again, roaring like
a range bull, but he didn't swing.

As Sid ducked low, Trinidad threw his arms out wide and
drove a knee up. Sid saw it coming and tried to jump back, but
he wasn't quite quick enough. The knee caught him square
in the stomach and threw him higher than my head. He came
down in a crumpled heap, and Trinidad swung a foot back to
kick him as he landed,

I'd been so excited as I watched Sid rip his punches in and
dance away that I hadn't moved from my chair or noticed Zeb.
Then, when Trinidad kneed him, I caught my breath and
froze, but Zeb didn't. A split second before Trinidad's boot
would have smashed Sid's ribs, Zeb's shoulder slammed into
him and nearly knocked him out the doorway.

Trinidad caught himself against the door jamb and didn't go
down. He whirled and charged at Zeb, with his fists held wide
apart and high. Zeb neither fisted his hands nor put them up,
but just stood there in front of his bunk--crouched a little
and with his long arms hanging as his sides, as if he were
bewildered.

The punch Trinidad threw at Zeb's face would have killed a
man--but Zeb's face disappeared. He dropped, almost as if
he'd been shot. Then he came up like a wild bull. His head
rammed into the pit of Trinidad's stomach so hard that it threw
him flying back onto the table in front of me. There was a
ripping, tearing sound as the table legs buckled, then a crash
as Trinidad hit the floor, and the ringing of broken glass from
the lamp.

When the table went down I got knocked over, and scrambled
for the corner where Sid lay holding his stomach and
gasping for breath. I pulled him farther back into the corner,

then realized that the bunkhouse had become so quiet it almost
hurt, I looked around and saw Zeb and Trinidad facing
each other across the broken table. Zeb was motionless, in
that half-crouch, with his arms hanging loose at his sides.
Trinidad was on his feet, edging around the table toward him.
Blood trickled from his nose and a small cut high on his cheek.

Zeb didn't move a muscle or blink an eye as Trinidad edged
around the broken table, creeping toward him like a mountain
lion ready to spring. I was behind Trinidad then, and could
have knocked his knees out from under him, or thrown something
at his head, but neither my body nor my head was
working. I just knelt there, holding my breath and feeling my
heart pound against my ribs. I couldn't even yell for Zeb to
watch out when I saw Trinidad pull his foot back to kick.

How Zeb did it I'll never know, but he caught that flying
foot in mid-air, flung it high, and sent Trinidad crashing back
over the broken table.

I'd been scared plenty of times before, and I'd seen men
plenty scared, too. But I'd never been so frightened as I was
then, or seen a man show fear the way Trinidad did when he
crawled to his feet. Zeb had moved around the table and was
standing motionless in front of him. Trinidad backed away
until he was against a bunk post--with his eyes darting this
way and that, hunting for any sort of weapon he could get his
hands on.

Sid gasped, only half-conscious, but I hardly noticed him.
Zeb was closing in on Trinidad, inch by inch. I could no more
have stopped watching him then a cow can stop watching a
rattlesnake that is coiled in front of her. Trinidad was watching,
too. His lips were white, and, even under the blood and
tan, his face was a muddy gray. Once he pulled his foot back
to kick again, but changed his mind and crowded tighter
against the bunk post.

Zeb crouched lower and lower, then drove up and forward.
His shoulder caught Trinidad square in the chest--crushing
him against the post. He crumpled, but before he could fall

Zeb's arms were around him in a grizzly bear hug. I've heard
horses scream in a burning barn, and it's a sound that no one
can ever forget, but there isn't the fear in it that was in
Trinidad's shriek. I was afraid Zeb was killing him, and my
voice squeaked when I yelled, "Don't kill him, Zeb!"

My yell seemed to bring Zeb to himself. He dropped Trinidad
in a limp heap, turned, and in his usual slow drawl, said,
"Don't reckon he's worth it nohow. You all right, Sid?"

Sid was still yawping for breath, but pulled himself to his
feet, saying he was all right, and trying to thank Zeb for
helping him.

"Ain't got no thanks a-comin'," Zeb told him, then went
back to his darning. A couple of minutes later he was mumbling, "She wore a yella ribbon around her neck. She wore it
for her lover who was far, far away." That was the first and
only time I ever heard him sing the second line.

As soon as Trinidad could get up, he gathered his stuff and
took it outside. Even if Sid wouldn't admit he was hurt, he
could hardly straighten up, and began getting ready to turn in.
Hank had been so far back in his bunk during the fight that I
hadn't seen him, and I'd forgotten all about him till he shouted
at Sid, "Why'd you let him knee you in the belly? By dogies, if
he'd a-raised a hand agin me, I'd a-..."

If I hadn't been so nerved up--and ashamed of myself for
having been a coward--I'd have kept still. But, before Hank
could go on, I'd blurted, "You'd have run, like I would!" Then
I pulled off my clothes and turned in, too.

I was hardly in my bunk when I heard the sound of horses'
hoofs coming toward the bunkhouse. Zeb shuffled to the doorway,
and stood leaning against the jamb until I heard the hoofs
again. As the sound faded away, he went back to his darning,
but all he said was, "Reckon them six-guns Batch is a-holdin'
ought to be worth a lamp and table. Tears like Trinidad's
moved on."

27.

Cloudburst.

MR BATCHLETT never mentioned the fight in the bunkhouse,
nor asked any questions that I know of. I didn't hear
him come in during the night, but he was dressing when I
woke up Monday morning. At the breakfast table, he looked
over at Mr Bendt, and said, "Reckon you could spare Ned to
go along with Zeb till I pick a new hand? The way the trade's
goin', I don't like to pull a team off the trail."

Mr Bendt winked at me, and said, "The way old Little
Britches and me had our crews workin' Saturday, I reckon we'll
make out--find a new hand or no."

That was the last of our having a regular home ranch cowhand. Mr Bendt, Hazel, and I were in the saddle every morning
at sunrise, and, until it went down again, we were only out
long enough to eat. But we seldom missed a half-hour's practice
on the tricks, and it wasn't too long before Hazel and her
father could do them as well as Hi and I ever had.

Little by little, Lady learned to handle cattle in brush as
well as on open prairie, but Blueboy was almost useless. I
tried him at cattle-sweeping a dozen times when I had both

Pinch and Lady worn down, but I could never stop him from

plunging and ripping. I knew he should have been turned out
to the mountain pasture, but I couldn't seem to give up on
him. Night after night, I rode him at a high run for eight or
ten miles, to see if I could work some of the drive out of him,
but it never did any good.

Most of the time Mr Bendt, Hazel, and I worked as a team
--sweeping the canyons and gullies during the day, bringing
in the stock we'd gathered before the sun was too low, then
cutting, sorting, and booking in the early evening. If we got
behind with our work, Jenny would come out and help us
for part of the day.

Jenny didn't know anything about our naming cows until
she began working with Hazel and me. She thought it was a
lot of fun, and helped us until we had nearly every cow on the
home ranch named. Of course, we ran out of last names after
the first few weeks, so we had to name some of the older cows,
"Mrs Arthur Jones," or, "Mrs Frank Smith," but we saved all
the girls' names for the heifers.

By mid-August we'd used up all the trading stock on the
home ranch, so Mr Batchlett decided to bring in the best
yearlings from the mountain pasture. It was about twenty
miles up there, and we started out at dawn on Sunday morning
--taking spare horses, grub for two days, and Clay to do
the cutting. I was riding Lady, and as I led Pinch and Clay
out of the horse corral, Mr Batchlett said, "Why don't you
take Blueboy along and leave him up there? It won't be long
till Labor Day, and you'll have to be goin' back to school
anyways."

I didn't know I cared so much about Blueboy, but a lump
came into my throat when I tried to say, "All right."

My feelings must have showed in my face, too, because Mr
Batchlett grinned, and said, "Aw, leave him stay I We'll run
him out with the rest of the horses when the tradin' season's
over."

I remembered to say "Thank you," but I hurried away
before he could change his mind.

Our ride up to the mountain pasture would have been fun
if Hank hadn't got on everybody's nerves. He was wound up
tighter than I'd ever known him to be, and couldn't keep still
two minutes at a stretch. First he was bragging about things
he used to do when he was young, then about how much better
trader and trail herder he was than Sid, and in between he
kept telling us that a cloudburst was coming.

"By dogies, Batch," he shouted, so loud that the echoes
overlapped each other in the canyon, "I'd be danged careful
'bout a-puttin' men and hosses up this here canyon with a sky
the likes of that there one yonder to the east. Cloudburst
sky! That's what it is! Why, I recollect when..."

"Aw, recollect to yourself." Tom called to him. "You wouldn't
know a cloudburst if you was caught in one!"

"By dogies, I'm a-tellin' you!" Hank yelled back, but Mr
Batchlett looked around hard at him, and he kept still a few
minutes. When he began again, it was about my being a fool
for not bringing Blueboy along to pasture.

The mountain ranch was really Government land that Mr
Batchlett leased. I don't know how many miles square it was,
but, if it had been smoothed out flat, I think it could have
covered the whole state of Delaware. There were no fences,
but old Tom Haney lived up there in a little cabin, and kept
the stock from drifting. With the mountains and canyons for
natural fences, old Tom didn't have much to do. He was deaf
and old, with long white whiskers, but he knew every foot of
that mountain ranch, and just where we'd find the stock Mr
Batchlett wanted brought in.

Mr Bendt knew the mountain ranch almost as well as old
Tom. They bossed the roundup crews, while Mr Batchlett,
Hank, and I did the sorting, cutting, and holding. Mr Batchlett
told me which yearlings to cut out, took them away from the
herd, and ran them into a box canyon for Hank to hold. I
think he gave Hank that job just to keep him from bothering
the other men. We worked until full dark Sunday night, then
were at it again by dawn Monday. By mid-afternoon, we

had a hundred and sixty yearlings ready to move back to the
home ranch.

Even with young stock, there isn't much work to driving
cattle through mountain canyons. There's hardly any place
for them to go except where you want them to. After a hard
day and a half of rounding up and cutting cattle, we were all
tired and wanted to rest a little, but Hank kept up a steady
stream of howling about a cloudburst coming.

When we were within a mile of the canyon where I'd first
heard Zeb sing, "Yella Ribbon" I saw Mr Batchlett wink at Mr Bendt. Then he stopped his horse and called out, "Where's
them three brindle steers that was laggin'? Hank, you let 'em
slip past you! Go on back and hunt 'em! And don't show up
again till you've found "em!"

Hank pulled in a lungful of air to shout something, but I
guess the tone of Mr Batchlett's voice changed his mind. He
let his shoulders sag, turned his horse, and jogged it back up
the creek bed.

I couldn't have been the only one who saw Mr Batchlett
wink. As soon as Hank was out of hearing, all the men--except
Zeb--began to laugh, and called back and forth to ask if anybody
had seen three brindle steers. Sid had wanted to visit
with Jenny that week-end instead of going to the mountain
pasture, and he'd been a bit grumpy. But, as soon as Hank was
gone, he started to clown and act as if he were trying to do
trick-riding stunts.

Sid had everybody, even Zeb, laughing when the lead yearlings
headed into high-walled Yella Ribbon Canyon. Suddenly,
we heard shouting and the pound of a horse's hoofs in the dry
creek bed behind us. In another minute, Hank raced his horse
around a shoulder of the mountain, waving his arms and
shouting, "It's a-comin'! It's a-comin'! Cloudburst! Cloudburst!
Flood's a-comin'!"

The sky above us was clear and bright, but there was no
mistaking the terror in Hank's voice. And, above the sound of
his shouting, I could hear a low, dull rumbling--kind of like

thunder that's a long way off. I had never heard that exact
sound before, but Mr Batchlett and Mr Bendt seemed to know
all about it. Mr Bendt spurred his horse out of the creek bed,
and ran it along a narrow, rocky ledge--racing to get in front
of the herd and turn it back from the narrow canyon. Mr
Batchlett was right behind him, shouting orders as he spurred:
"Split 'em! Split 'em, boys! Turn 'em back and up the mountain
side."

With ropes flogging and spurs flying, we fought our way
through the frightened, bewildered yearlings; splitting the
herd, stampeding it, shouting, yelling, and driving it up a
mountain side that was steeper than a church roof.

I was lucky to have my saddle on Pinch. He seemed to sense
the danger as well as any man in the outfit, and he was no
longer pinching. His bare yellow teeth ripped and cut, driving
the frightened yearlings in a swarm before him.

There were only two men who were not shouting at the top
of their voices--Zeb and Hank. A dozen or more times I saw
Hank, striking with his rope-end as a rattlesnake strikes with
its head, but his mouth was clamped tight, and there was no
fumbling. Each time his rope flashed out, the knot caught a
yearling on the rump, and no man in the outfit kept his head
any better.

We had most of the stock out of danger when I saw a wall
of water come around the shoulder of the mountain where
Hank had raced three minutes before. It didn't look very dangerous,
or as if it were moving very fast, but within another
three minutes the creek was a racing, raging river, ten or
twelve feet deep. Where it sucked in to shoot through Yella
Ribbon Canyon--the one we'd have been in if Hank hadn't
saved us--it leaped and plunged, with white foam whipping
back and forth like the mane on a fighting stallion.

Mr Batchlett stepped down from his horse, took off his hat,
and with it in his hand, climbed along the mountainside to
where Hank sat his horse. We couldn't have heard him if he'd
spoken, but I was watching his face and knew he didn't. He

just reached up, shook hands, then turned and put his hat on
as he went back to his own horse.

There was no way out of the mountains except through Yella
Ribbon Canyon, and any stock that went through it that night
would be coyote food. Three or four of our yearlings did go
down fighting wildly for a minute or two, then being rolled and
swept along with the deadwood that rode the crest. There was
nothing to do but cling to our perches on the mountainside
until the flood passed and dawn came.

I think all the men expected, as I did, that Hank would brag
of his having been right about the cloudburst's coming, and of
his saving our lives--but he didn't. One by one, they climbed
to where he was perched, took off their hats, and shook hands.
When I put my hand out and told him he'd saved my life, he
said, "Reckon that leaves us even. I ain't forgot the time I got
us lost up here."

I know I dozed off a little during the night, wedged behind
a boulder so I wouldn't roll into the flood, and I think most of
the others did, too. A heavy dew fell, and toward morning a
chilly wind came down the canyon. It made our teeth chatter
and our legs and stomachs cramp, but I didn't hear anyone
complain. I guess they were all thinking, as I was, that we
might have been tumbling and rolling like the dead calves and
driftwood on the crest of that flood.

By dawn the flood had passed, and the creek was only a
sprawling brook again. But the high-water mark showed, black
and far above my head, as we pushed the nervous yearlings
through Yella Ribbon Canyon. When we'd passed through and
come out between the hogbacks, the buildings of the home
ranch came into sight across a sea of brush-covered ridges.
They were little more than specks among the brush, but few
places have ever looked better to me.

It had been less than two and a half months since I'd first
come to the home ranch, and then it had meant little to me. I'd
looked forward to being a real cowpoke, like the ones who
brought the Longhorns up from Texas, but it hadn't worked

out that way. Instead, with the exception of the dust-storm
trip, I'd only been a ranch boy, doing the things that hundreds
of other ranch boys were doing--and my partner had been a
freckle-faced little girl with pigtails.

As I rode along behind the bawling calves, I tried to feel
sorry for myself, but I couldn't. After the first week, there'd
hardly been a minute all summer when I'd have traded my job
for anything in the world. I didn't care if I did have a girl for
a partner; there were few cowhands who could do a better job
with milk cows--or that I liked to work with any better. Much
as I wanted to see Mother and the children at home, I found
myself being a little bit sorry that I'd have less than three more
weeks on the home ranch.

It was mid-forenoon when we brought the yearlings into the
big cutting corral, and there was no chance for any rest before
we got the trading herds cut and ready to take the trail at dawn
next morning. Mrs Bendt and Jenny had breakfast waiting for
us, and as we ate, Mr Batchlett told us what his plans were.

"This'll be the last go-round," he said, "and I aim to strike
out for the Purgatory again. There's need for good young bulls
to improve the range stock in that country, and they'll take
yearlings if they can't get older stock. Zeb, how about you and
Ned takin' a bunch of steers along the foothills between The
Springs and Pueblo? You could figure on tradin' two for one.
Take farrow cows if you have to; there's grass enough here to
winter 'em through."

Zeb was stuffing away flapjacks, half a one at a mouthful,
but he nodded, and Mr Batchlett went on. "Reckon I'll let you
and Tom go back into the South Park country, Sid. Take heifer
stuff along, and trade out as best you can--two for one; three
for one if you have to. We're getting a late start, but I want you
back here by two weeks from tonight. It'll take a few days to
round up the Denver herd, and I aim to have it in Littleton by
Labor Day."

I'd been listening, but not paying too much attention until Mr Batchlett said Tom would be going with Sid. That left only

Hank or me to go on the trip to Purgatory. I knew how much
Hank always irritated Mr Batchlett, so I was sure he'd pick
me. Hank must have thought so, too; he seemed awfully sober
and disappointed--but not for long. When Mr Batchlett had
finished talking to Sid, he looked down the table, and asked,
"Reckon you and I could make it to the Purgatory and back in
two weeks, oldtimer?"

Hank's face lit up like a sunflower, and he shouted back,
"Reckon so, Batch! By dogies, I reckon." Then his voice
dropped low, and he went on, "Reckon we could. I rid that
there country some when I was a young fella."

28.

A Lot of Horse.

THE TRAIL herds got away from the home ranch at dawn
Tuesday. At midnight Thursday I was wakened by a horse racing
into the dooryard. I jumped to the bunkhouse doorway as
the rider slid the horse to a stop at the house. A minute later a
light came on, and the man shouted, "Telegram for Batch! His
wife's bad off. Where's he at?"

Just as ribbon unwinds from a spool, the trail Mr Batchlett
and I followed across the prairies and down the Big Horse
unwound in my head. With yearlings instead of two-year-olds,
I knew he couldn't travel quite as fast as we had, and, if he'd
found water in Black Squirrel Creek, he wouldn't have driven
on through the night. That ought to put him not far beyond
the spot where we'd spent the night in the dust storm. I forgot
to pull on my overalls, and went running toward the house,
barefooted, and shouting, "I know where to find him! I know
exactly where to find him!"

Mr Bendt hadn't thought about dressing any more than I
had, and came out on the kitchen porch in his long underwear.
He didn't ask me where I thought Mr Batchlett would be, but

called, "Get dressed and throw a saddle on! I'll be with you in
a minute."

I pulled on my overalls, buckled the chaps over them, and
kicked my feet into my boots. As I did it, I made up my mind
that I'd have my saddle on Blueboy before Mr Bendt got to
the corral and told me I couldn't take him. Seventy miles at
one stretch would kill old Pinch, and Lady would have to take
it in easy gaits.

I didn't dare run to the horse corral for fear of exciting
Blueboy, but I'd saddled him enough times in the dark that I
knew he'd stand if I took it easy. He did, and I was in the
saddle by the time Mr Bendt reached the corral. He didn't pay
any attention to what horse I had, but shook out his catch rope,
and called, "Stop by the house! Jenny'll have grub and water ready."

The excitement in Mr Bendt's voice set Blueboy off like a
skyrocket. He pitched and crow-hopped all the way to the
house, and was still rearing when Jenny passed me the grub
sack and canteens. In the lighted doorway behind her, I got a
glimpse of Mrs Bendt and the children, huddled in their nightgowns.
They all looked frightened, and the freckles on Hazel's
white face stood out in a spatter.

Blueboy rounded the corrals and hit the wagon road with
his head low and legs driving, as he always did on our night
rides. Mr Bendt was on his tall buckskin, the fastest and toughest
horse in his string. He spurred in behind me, shouting,
"Spare your horse! Spare your horse! Hold him in!"

I drew Blueboy in little by little, but I couldn't take a chance
on his fighting or possibly throwing me. Mr Bendt caught up
with us at the end of the straightaway, and called again, "Hold
him in! That pace would kill him in ten minutes! We got a
night's ride ahead!"

"We've got more than that," I called back, "but he'll settle
down in a mile or two; he always does."

It was all of two miles before Blueboy's head came up and
he settled into the long, swinging stride that I'd become used

to. Mr Bendt still called for me to hold him in, but when I did
he bobbed his head and side-danced. Mr Bendt watched him
a minute or two, and said, "Fool maverick! All he knows is run!
Leave him have his head and he'd kill hisself! I should'a put
you on Juno." Then, after another quarter mile, he pulled
alongside of me, and said, "Don't you reckon we'd best to go
back and trade off for Juno? That blue devil won't last out
twenty miles."

I'd seen Blueboy at the end of twenty fast miles when he
looked and sounded fresher than Mr Bendt's buckskin did
right then, so I said, "He'll settle down pretty soon, and he
breathes good on a long-run. You lead and I'll follow, but I'd
rather go on with him if you'll let me."

"Fair enough." Mr Bendt told me. "You know him better'n
I do, but I doubt me he'll last out till daylight."

There was no moon, but the stars were bright, and we could
see fairly well. After we'd passed the thickest of the scrub oaks,
I called, "This is where we left the road on the dust-storm trip!
I think we headed almost due east!"

"Reckon you remember how you went?" Mr Bendt called
back.

"I can see it in my head," I told him. "I think I can remember
most of the landmarks as we come to them."

"Lead off, then," he called back, "but leave me set the pace!
Where you reckon we'll catch up to Batch?"

As I let Blueboy come up beside the buckskin I reined off
the road, and said, "It'll depend on whether or not he found
water in Black Squirrel Creek. If he did, he'll probably follow it
down a ways, then cross to the Big Horse. If he didn't, he'll go
straight east across the divide. Either way, I think it will be
about seventy miles."

As soon as I said seventy miles, Mr Bendt pulled his buckskin
down to a jog trot. After half a mile, wre loped again. In
the starlight, I couldn't be real sure I was following the same
route we'd taken before, and there were no trails. But when we

reached the Colorado Springs-Denver highroad we heard dogs
barking at our right. They were at the ranch with two windmills.
We stopped just long enough to let the horses take a few
swallows of water, then loped on.

East of the highroad, our old route wasn't too hard to follow,
and Blueboy swung along in an easy, reaching gait. I'd pulled
my cinch tight when I saddled him, but I didn't have to be
afraid of his rearing or bucking any more, so I loosened the
knot till my fingers would slide under the ring. Before moonrise
the buckskin was blowing a little on the rises, and Mr
Bendt let him down to a walk whenever the climb was a bit
steep. I'd been keeping a sharp ear on Blueboy's breathing,
but he hadn't blown once since he'd caught his second wind,
and he was running with his head well up.

Mr Bendt guessed it to be about three o'clock when the
moon rose. It was just a saucer of yellow light, and seemed to
be resting, tilted, on a dark row of hills to the east Soon after,
we came into the round valley with the little pond and the
cottonwoods, and stopped to let the horses drink. There were
yearling tracks all around the pond, showing that Mr Batchlett
had stopped to water and graze his herd.

From the pond east, the hills flattened out, and, even with a little moonlight, it was harder to pick out landmarks that I
remembered. It had been afternoon when I'd gone that way
with Mr Batchlett, and the roll of the low hills looked different
in the moonlight. Even Mr Batchlett had missed the head of
Black Squirrel Creek, and in daylight. But he would have
reached the creek where it turned south if we'd kept on going.
If I should get too far north, we'd miss it altogether, and then
I'd be completely lost. After I'd worried about it for a few
miles, I told Mr Bendt, "I'm not too sure that we're going just
exactly the way we went before. If we are, and hold this pace,
Black Squirrel Creek ought to be about an hour ahead and a
little to the south."

"I ain't so worried about the Black Squirrel as I am about

the pace," he told me. "That danged blue mav'rick's got a gait
that throws a man off pace I Fools him into over-runnin' his
horsel Listen to the way Buck's blowinT

"Do you want to trade off?" I asked him. "I'm a lot lighter
than you are; my weight would make it easier for him."

"Nope. Nope." he said, almost sharply. "A man's horse is his
horse! I ain't never took another man's horse, and I ain't goin'
to now!" Then we jogged on without talking until the buckskin
stopped blowing.

With me, hills are a lot like people: when I'm waiting to
meet someone I've only seen once or twice, it's hard to remember
just what he'll look like. But when he comes along, I
couldn't mistake him. It was that way with the hill that Blue
boy had run up when the jack rabbit spooked him. The moment
I saw it, I knew that the cottonwoods along Black Squirrel
Creek stood just beyond it.

There was water in the Black Squirrel, but yearling tracks
showed that Mr Batchlett had only followed it a little way
before he turned east. It was gray dawn when we turned east
with the yearling tracks and put our horses up the divide toward
the Big Horse. It had been almost black night when I'd
gone over the route before, and I'd been too sleepy to remember
landmarks if I could have seen them. But that didn't worry me;
I knew the Big Horse ran toward the southeast, and that Mr
Batchlett would be at least twenty-five miles down it. There
was no longer any reason for our following the old route; I
reined to my right, to cut across the angle and save every mile
we could.

The prairies stretched out in front of us like a great table
with a brown velvet cover dropped over it in careless wrinkles.
Beyond, the sky arched up in a deep, cloudless blue. And between,
the sun rose naked--as if a giant hand were pushing a
giant orange slowly above the edge of the table. Not a breath of
air moved, and the sun threw out its heat before it was hardly
above the horizon.

B an hour after sunup, Buck was dripping sweat, and blowing
hard at every rise of ground. Mr Bendt eased him, leaned
low in the saddle to put a hand on his chest, and came up with
his face set and worried. We jogged a half-mile, then, after
we'd reached a flat tableland and were loping again, the buckskin
began to weave in his stride, but Blueboy was running as
steadily and quietly as ever.

Mr Bendt drew the staggering buckskin to a stand, and as
I brought Blueboy around, he called out, "Go on. Go on, boy.
Don't scare Batch no more'n you need to, but tell him he's
got to make the one o'clock train out of The Springs." Then
he waved, and I turned Blueboy back toward the southeast.
I didn't try to hold him in, but let him take his long, reaching,
half-wild-horse, half-thoroughbred gait.

Among those low rolling hills, and with the sun moving
steadily to the south, it would have been easy to ride in a
curve, but I couldn't afford to waste a minute of Mr Batchlett's time, or Blueboy's strength. Setting a course that I was sure
was due southeast, I kept three check points picked out ahead,
and never let my sight wander from them. I knew that would
keep me in the same direction as the upper Big Horse, but that
I should reach it soon after it turned south, not far below our
dust-storm camp.

Of course, I couldn't tell Blueboy that we still had twenty or
twenty-five miles to go--so he might gage his own strength. I
could only keep a sharp ear to his breathing, feel for any
tremble in his shoulder muscles, and let him know that I wasn't
pushing him.

I kept low on Blueboy's neck, holding my weight forward
on his withers, and talking the soft-talk I'd learned from Hi.
It didn't make any difference what it was--poems, psalms,
Mother Goose; anything to let him know I was trying to help
him. I don't remember much about it, except that I said the
Twenty-third Psalm over at least a dozen times. I wasn't a bit
afraid, but for some reason I couldn't get the Psalm out of my
head. And it seemed to have just the right rhythm to keep
Blueboy's hoof beats steady and even.

Blueboy's stride began to shorten on the rises, now and then
a nerve twitched in his shoulder, and his breathing whistled a
bit in his nostrils. I was worried for fear I'd let him run himself
out, or that I'd broken his wind, when, above the brown of the
prairie, a dark line of green showed ahead and to my left.
Columbus couldn't have felt happier when he sighted the
shores of America than I did when I sighted that row of cottonwoods
along Big Horse Creek. Before I knew I was even
thinking it, I was chanting, "We made it! We made it! We
made it!" in time with the beat of Blueboy's hoofs. Ten minutes
later we topped a rise, and Big Horse Valley lay below
us--with a herd of yearlings strung out along the creek.

I ya-hooed as loud as I could yell, and watched Mr Batch
lett whirl his chestnut away from the herd and come racing
toward us. When he slid it to a stop beside us, his face was set,
and there was a gray tinge under his tan that I had never seen
before, but his voice was low and steady when he asked,
"What's the news?"

"You had a telegram; it came at midnight," I told him.
"You've got to catch the one o'clock train from The Springs."

"Good boy! Good horse! I can make it! Sixty miles; six hours!"
was all Mr Batchlett said before he spurred away.

As I jogged Blueboy down the slope, I watched Mr Batchlett
race his chestnut toward the horse string that was grazing
along the front of the herd. His catch rope was swinging before
he reached it, and in less than a minute, he'd switched his
saddle onto Starlight. The rest of the horses spooked away, but
he had his iron-gray snubbed to the saddle horn.

We met where Hank was sitting as motionless in the saddle
as if he'd been stunned. If Mr Batchlett was frightened or
nervous, he didn't let it show in his voice or actions. As he tied
his catch rope into a lead halter and slipped it over the gray's
head, he said, "Little Britches, you know the trail we followed
before--hittin' the Arkansas Valley below Nero Hill, and vvorkin' up towards Rocky Ford. Take what's left of my horse
string, and show Hank the same trail!"

Then he looked over at Hank, and said, "Trade where and
how you can. I trust your judgment. If I ain't in Rocky Ford
by the time you get there, trade on up to the Black Squirrel.
Little Britches, here, knows the trail back to the home ranch."
Then he swung into the saddle, but before he set spurs, he
turned to me, and said, "Cool Blueboy out good! He's too much
horse to let founder!"

With a glance at the sun, Mr Batchlett set Starlight's head a
little to the north of west, and took off at a brisk canter, quartering
up the slope beyond the creek valley. I knew that every
ten miles he'd be changing horses, that somewhere in front of
him there'd be three check points picked out, and that Colorado
Springs would be sixty miles straight down that line of
check points.

29.

Lucky on Every Pick.

AFTER Mr Batchlett had ridden out of sight, Hank still
sat motionless on his horse, and asked in a dull voice, "Is she
dead?"

"I don't know about now," I told him, "but when the rider
brought the telegram he said she was bad off."

Hank sat looking at his saddle horn a minute or two without
saying a word, then he mumbled, "Poor child... poor child... she wa'n't never stout enough to a-born him them four
little young'uns."

I'd never guess that Hank knew anything about Mr Batch
lett's wife, or his family--or that he was anything more than a
worn-out, windy old cowhand who couldn't get any better job
than working with milk cows.

I had been afraid, just as I could see Hank was, that Mr
Batchlett would be too late, but I didn't want Hank to worry
any more than I could help, so I said, "Dr. Crysler is an awful
good doctor, and my mother is the best nurse in Littleton, and
we live right close to the Batchletts, so I know she's going to
be all right."

Hank still sat, staring at his saddle horn and mumbling as if

he were talking to himself. "Don't seem no ways right...
The Lord a-takin' away them as is needed... and a-leavin'
them of us as ain't no need to nobody."

The only thing I could think of to say was what Mother had
said when Father died, "Maybe He needs them in Heaven,"
Then I added, "And we needed you last Sunday about as much
as anybody was ever needed."

"Wa'n't nothin' nobody else couldn't a-done," Hank said
quietly, then turned his horse back toward the herd.

I found myself sitting and staring at my own saddle horn.
I couldn't make out what had come over Hank since the cloudburst.
Ever since I'd known him, he'd bragged his head off
about things that everybody knew he'd never done. And now,
when he'd really done something worth bragging about, he
didn't even want to take credit for it.

Whatever had happened to Hank seemed to have happened for keeps. All the way down the Big Horse, and along the
Arkansas Valley to Rocky Ford, he was as good a partner as I
could have asked for. He didn't boss me, he didn't yell at me
when I made mistakes, and he didn't once "recollect" about
when he was my age.

I didn't think that some of Hank's trades were as good as Mr Batchlett would have made, but I kept my mouth shut
about those. I did tell him, though, when I thought he'd made
a real good trade.

Hank had traded out about half of our yearlings, and we had
some pretty good cows when we came into sight of Rocky
Ford. We were still a good ways out from the edge of town
when I saw a rider coming toward us. At a quarter mile, I knew
it was Mr Batchlett, from the way he sat his horse. We pushed
the herd off to the side of the road, and when Mr Batchlett
rode up there was a broad grin on his face. "It's a boy!" he
called out. "Had us all scared stiff for a while there, but they're
both doin' right fine now."

Mr Batchlett fished in his shirt pocket, gave Hank a cigar,
and started to pass me one, but he put it back, and said, "Made

the one o'clock train with five minutes to spare. Watt's back
to the home ranch. Ruined the buckskin; had to put him under
grass. You done all right when you risked your pick on Blue
boy! Know how many miles you two covered in seven hours?
Seventy-eight, as near as I can reckon it."

Then he looked around the herd, and told Hank, "You done
fine, Mister! Couldn't have done better myself!"

Mr Batchlett had hired the horse he was riding from a livery
in Rocky Ford. When he'd shifted the saddle to his chestnut, he
flipped me a five-dollar-gold-piece, and said, "Want to run this
cayuse back to town and pay the man? Big stable near the
depot; ought to be about two dollars--I had him since yesterday."

I didn't like to draw anything ahead on my pay, but I didn't
like to go past Rocky Ford without buying another present for
Hazel, either. It must be that my face is awfully easy to read.
While I was sitting there, trying to make up my mind whether
or not to ask Mr Batchlett for an advance of a dollar, he said,
"Ain't no rush now; why don't you look around for some trinkets
to take on back to the Bendt kids? There'll be change
enough left over from the horse hire; that's your cigar."

The belt I got for Hazel wasn't quite as fancy as the one Sid
made for Jenny, but it was a real pretty one. And I got something
for Kenny and Martha and the littler girls--but I liked
the belt best of all.

It was twilight on the Monday before Labor Day when we
brought our trail herd in to the home ranch. Of course, it was
too late then for Hazel and me to ride out to our secret spring,
but we did walk around the corrals, and looked at the new
cows, and named some of them; and I gave her the belt.

While we were feeding pieces of biscuit to Blueboy, Hazel
got tears in her eyes, and when I asked her what the trouble
was, she said, "I got to take back what I said to you at the
horse-pickin'. It was a lie! I said you'd be sorry all the rest of
your life if you ever picked Blueboy, but not you, nor nobody... nor anybody else could be sorry now."

"I guess I was just lucky," I said. "I guess I was lucky when
I picked every single one of my string. Did you ever think of
it: if I hadn't picked Clay and Pinch I'd have been out on
trading trips all summer?"

Hazel didn't really lean against me, but we were standing
sort of close together, and we touched when she turned her
face up to look at me, and asked, "Why do you think I told
you which ones to pick, Ralph?"

That was the first time I ever wanted to kiss a girl, but I
didn't. Hazel whirled away and raced for the house. With my
high-heeled boots and chaps on, I couldn't run fast enough to
catch her.

About the Author

ralph Owen moody was born December 16, 1898, in Rochester,
N. H. His father was a farmer whose illness forced the
family to move to Colorado when Ralph was eight years old.
The family's life in the new surroundings is told from the point
of view of the boy himself in Little Britches.

The farm failed and the family moved into Littleton, Colorado,
when Ralph was about eleven. Soon after, the elder
Moody died of pneumonia, leaving Ralph as the oldest boy,
the man of the family. After a year or so--described in Man
of the Family and The Home Ranch--Mrs Moody brought
her three sons and three daughters back to Medford, Mass.,
where Ralph completed his formal education through the
eighth grade of grammar school. This is the period of Mary
Emma & Company. Later, Ralph joined his maternal grandfather
on his farm in Maine--the period covered in The Fields
of Home.

A new series of books, about Ralph's experiences as a young
man, starts with Shaking The Nickel Bush,

In spite of his farming experience, Ralph Moody was not
destined to be a farmer. He abandoned the land because his
wife was determined to raise her family (they have three
children) in the city.

"When I was twenty-one," he writes, "I got a diary as a
birthday present and I wrote in it that I was going to work
as hard as I could, save fifty thousand dollars by the time I
was fifty, and then start writing." True to his word, he did
start writing on the night of his fiftieth birthday.

-Adapted from the Wilson Library Bulletin