Tales from the X-bar Horse Camp Part 13

"Please continue, if you can," said the lawyer kindly, knowing that in her homely recital of their grief and misfortunes lay the open road to her husband's acquittal.

"Well, that mornin' Andy he come home with the grub, but 'twas too late fer the boy.

"He was sh.o.r.e all broke up over it an' sat all day long without sayin' a word 'ceptin' he guessed the Lord 'sort of had it in fer us pore folks an' only looked after the rich ones like ole man Barker an' his kind.

"'Twas fifteen miles to the nearest neighbors, an' anyhow they was all a-skeered of the fever, they havin' a lot of kids of their own, so me an' Andy we reckoned the best thing we could do was to bury him rite in our field whar we could take keer of his little grave.

"'Bout this time, the range stock began to bother us a-gittin' in the field an' a-damagin' the c.r.a.p. Andy he sent word to Barker to send some of his men down thar an' carry off the worst ones, but the foreman he said 'twan't none of his business, thar was a fence law in this here state, an' we must fence our land ef we wanted to raise a c.r.a.p.

"Then the grub what we brung down from town done give out an' the little gal she sort of seemed to be a pinin' away right afore our eyes.

"One evenin' some of the cattle broke into the field agin', an' Andy was a-drivin' 'em out, a yearlin' calf breaks back an' dodged into the little pole corral we done made fer a milk pen.

"Andy he vowed he'd put a 'yoke' onto him, he bein' the wust one of em all for breakin' through the fence; so he puts up the bars intendin' to fix him as soon as we got the rest out.

"Bimeby, we goes to the corral meanin' to fix him with a yoke an' turn him out, but when I seed that there brand of Barker's onto him, an' we ain't nothin' to eat but taters, an' Barker's stock a-ruinin' our c.r.a.p faster than it could grow; I just got that bitter I didn't much care what did happen.

"Andy he sets down the axe he done brung out to the corral to make the yoke with, an' goes into the cabin fer a piece of balin' wire to tie the yoke on with, an' while he's gone all the bad in me come to the top, an'

I drives the yearlin' into the little calf pen where we shuts up the milk calves, an' taken the axe an' hit him a lick on the haid with it as he made a sort of pa.s.s at me, which brung him to the ground.

"When Andy come back with the balin' wire, the calf was daid. He were terribly cut up about it but I ses, 'We can't be much wuss off, an' I'm that hongry fer somethin' besides taters, that I don't care what happens to us.'

"As fer the rest of it, I reckin what the detective feller said is about right. We done butchered the calf the best we could, an' buried the hide what was found, an' so I reckin you all men knows now jist who killed that thar yearling of Barker's, fer 'twere me what did it an' not Andy Morrow a-tall."

Her voice was raised as she spoke the last few words, and she threw her head back, and swept a look of defiance around the courtroom.

Directly before her sat old man Barker, his eyes staring straight into hers, his great hairy hands gripping a red bandana until the cords and veins stood out like ropes, while down his face the tears were making their way through the rough stubbly beard that covered it without any effort on his part to stay their course. Barker moved uneasily in his chair; in the tense stillness of the room its creaking smote the silence like a shot and drew every eye in the room to him. He grasped the back of the chair in front of him, struggled partly to his feet, and then sank back again. His mouth opened; he licked his parched lips like some hunted wild animal.

"The, the--gal," he gasped, never taking his eyes from the woman's face, "the little gal, wh--what come of her?" he demanded hoa.r.s.ely, a great something in his throat almost choking him, "did-did-sh-he," and his voice failed him completely.

The woman smiled scornfully. "She did not," she said, realizing the drift of his unspoken question, "we done made a pot of soup out of some of that there yearlin' an' fed her some of the meat, an' she perked up an' come through all right." Then--daughter of Eve that she was--she broke down and burst into tears.

Over the face of the old cattleman swept a look of joy and relief that words cannot portray. He mopped his flushed face and streaming eyes with the handkerchief, utterly unconscious that every eye in the courtroom was upon him, then, turning, brought his great hand down upon the back of his foreman beside him with force enough to have almost broken it.

His face was wreathed in smiles. "Glory be," he almost shouted, "glory be--thank G.o.d for that."

Five minutes later Stutterin' Andy walked out of the courtroom a free man.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE Pa.s.sING OF BILL JACKSON

By permission _The Argonaut_, San Francisco, Cal.

"I tell you fellows, 'tain't no fun to swim a bunch of steers when the water is as cold as it is now." The speaker was a short, thick-set cowboy, whose fiery red hair had gained for him the sobriquet of "Colorado," the Mexican name for red, which was frequently shortened to "Colly" among the "punchers."

Colorado, who was carefully rolling a cigarette, glanced around the circle of listeners, as if challenging some one to contradict him. The balance of the boys evidently agreed with him, for no one said a word except the "Kid," and he, after taking his pipe from his lips and carefully knocking out the ashes on the heel of his boot, said:

"'Jever have any 'sperience at it, Colly?"

Colorado by this time had finished rolling his cigarette and was waiting for the cook's pot-hook, which he had thrust into the campfire, to get red-hot, to light it. Having done this and taken a few preliminary puffs, he answered:

"Yes, I hev, and a mighty tough one it was, too."

"Tell us about it, Colorado," said the cook. "Whar was it, an' how did it happen?"

"Yes, Colly, le's hear the story," chimed in the Kid.

It was just the time for a story. We had come down to the railroad with a bunch of steers, and found the Little Colorado River, which ran between us and the railroad, swollen to a mighty torrent by the rains in the mountains.

We had waited four days for it to go down, but it seemed rather to rise a little each day. As the feed was poor and we had lots of work to do, the boss was in a hurry to get them s.h.i.+pped and off his hands, and so had just announced, that at daylight the next morning he meant to try to swim the herd across. It was late in October and the weather was snappy cold. Overcoats and heavy clothes were an absolute necessity in the night on guard around the herd, and the idea of going into that cold water was not a pleasant one. But the cow-puncher is much like the sailor, in that he never stops to think of getting wet, or cold, or going into any danger as long as the boss himself will lead the way; so we were all prepared to get a soaking the next day.

It was that pleasant time in the evening between sunset and dark. The herd was bedded down near camp, and the first guard were making their rounds, with never a steer to turn back. The balance of us were lying about the campfire, smoking and talking "hoss," a subject which is never worn threadbare in a cow-camp. Colorado, who had been idly marking out brands in the sand in front of him with the end of his fingers, said:

"Well, boys, 'taint much of a story, but ef you want to hear it, I'll tell you how it was. d.i.c.k, gimme a bite of your navy," and having stowed away a huge chunk of d.i.c.k's "navy," Colly settled back on the ground and began:

"I was workin' fer the Diamond outfit up in Utah, 'bout three years ago, an' the old man he come off down here into Arizona an' bought a bunch of steers to take up thar. He done written his wagon-boss to come down with an outfit big enough to handle two thousand head, an' we struck the Little Colorado River 'bout the mouth of the Canon Diablo wash, where we was to receive the herd 'long in June. We didn' have no partickler hap'nin's comin' down, and we got the herd turned over all right, an'

built a 'squeeze chute' an' branded 'em all before we started back; so as, if any got lost, the outfit could claim 'em on the brand: an' about the last of June we pushed 'em off the bed-ground one mornin', before daylight, an' pulled our freight for the home ranch.

"The cattle were all good to handle, an' didn't give us no trouble to hold nights, barrin' one or two little stampedes, an' we drifted on down toward Lee's Ferry without any mishaps, 'ceptin' one night it were a-rainin' like all possessed, an' I wakes up a feller named Peck to go on guard. Peck got up an' put on his slicker, walked over to where his pony was tied, an' mounted. We was camped on the banks of a wash called Cottonwood Creek, an' along there the wash had cut down into the 'dobe flat, some ten or fifteen feet deep. Peck he's 'bout half asleep, an'

gets off wrong for the herd, an' rides straight up to the edge of the creek, thinkin' all the time he's a-goin' out on the prairie to the herd. His pony sort of balked on him an' give a snort, but Peck bein' a cross-grained sort of cuss, an' only half awake, just bathed him with his quirt, an' jabbed his spurs into him. The pony give a jump an'

landed in the middle of the creek, with six or eight feet of muddy water runnin' in it. Lord, didn't Peck wake up suddenlike, an' squall for help? We all turned out in a hurry, but he swam across, an' the opposite side bein' sort of slopin'like, the pony scrambled out. Then Peck was afeered to cross back in the dark, an' stayed over thar all night, a-s.h.i.+verin' an' a-shakin' an' a-cursin' like a crazy man. When we got up for breakfast that mornin' at four o'clock it was clear, an' cold, an'

dark. The cook he goes down to the creek an' hollers to Peck sort of sarcastic-like, 'Come to breakfast, Peck!' an' Peck he gets mad an'

swears at the _cocinero_ pretty plenty, an' said ef he didn't go back he'd turn loose on him with his six-shooter, an' the cook, bein' pretty rollicky hisself, he goes back to the wagon an' pulls his Winchester an'

starts fer the creek agin, but Jackson stops him an' turns him back.

When it comes daylight Peck went down the creek a mile and finds a place to cross whar it wa'n't so deep, an' so gits back to camp jist as we was pullin' out.

"The Big Colorado were a powerful stream when we reached it, bein' all swollen by heavy rains up in the mountains an' we all kinder hated to tackle it. Before he left, the old man told the wagon-boss to ferry the outfit an' horses over in the boat, but to swim the steers.

"You know how Lee's Ferry is; the river comes out of a box canon above, an' the sides break away a little, an' then a mile below it goes into the box agin, where the walls is three thousand feet high an' the current runs like a mill-race.

"It was sh.o.r.e a nasty place to swim a bunch of steers, an' Jackson, he knowed we had a big job on hand when we got there. Jackson was the best wagon-boss I ever see or worked under. He was a tall, slim chap, could outwork any two men in the outfit, wasn't afeerd of nothin', an' though he couldn't read or write, I tell you, boys, he savvyed cows a heap.

What he didn't know 'bout cows wa'n't worth knowin'. He didn't let the steers water the day before, so's they'd be powerful dry an' take to the river easier.

"We fust got the wagon over on the ferry boat, which was a big concern, long enuff to drive a four-hoss team onto, an' which was rowed by four men. The cook he was mighty skerry 'bout goin' onto this here boat, 'cause he said 'bout a year afore that he'd been a-punching cows in southern Arizony, an' a feller there s.h.i.+pped a lot of cattle up inter Californey to put on an island in the ocean near Los Angeles. They loaded 'em onto flat scows with a high railin' round 'em, an' put 'bout fifty head on each scow an' a puncher on it to look out fer 'em. Goin'

over to the island the tug what was a-towin' 'em by the horn of the saddle, so to speak, busted the string, an' thar bein' quite a wind blowin', an' big ole waves a-floppin' round, the four scows began to b.u.t.t an' b.u.mp up agin' one another like a lot of muley bulls a-fightin', an' the cattle got to runnin' back an' forth an' a-bellerin' an'

a-bawlin', an' them punchers, they sh.o.r.e thought their very last day had come. The cook he never expected to see dry land agin', an' he jist vowed if he ever got back to the prairie that he'd punch no more cows on boats.

"Well, bimeby, the tug got a new lariat onto 'em agin' an' corraled 'em all safe enuff at the wharf, but the cook 'lowed he war a dry-land terrapin an' wouldn't ever agin get into no such sc.r.a.pe, not ef he knowed hisself. However, he did get up 'nuff s.p.u.n.k to tackle the ferry, an' went over safely. After we got the wagon acrost, we went back an'

started the cattle down the side canon what leads into the crossin'.