So Far from Spring. Peggy Simson Curry
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when Kelsey left the bunkhouse with Jake. He felt happy in the worn yellow angora chaps and the run-over boots. There was excitement in him as they walked past the Big C chuck wagon, where the air smelled of smoke and bacon and a few punchers lingered over an extra cup of coffee.
At the corral men were already flipping the wide loops of their lariats over the heads of milling horses. Beyond the tossing heads and the clouds of dust a faint streak of red lay in the eastern sky.
“Cowpokes take off in pairs to gather cattle,” Jake said. “That way a man can ride a green colt by snubbin’ him to the saddle horn of the other fella, who’s ridin’ a settled-down horse. If a horse gets used to goin’ along beside another horse, he soon quiets. Each rider’s got a string of six or seven saddle horses, and he’s got to break out two or three colts every year to keep his string in top shape.”
As Jake said this Kelsey saw two punchers mounting horses outside the corral. The horses went wild, rearing up to paw the air and then come down hard, ducking their heads between their front legs and humping their backs.
“No snubbin’ for them,” Jake said, chuckling. “They’re gonna do it the hard way. You always see a few fellas ridin’ their damnedest come roundup time.”
As they rode onto the flats the sunrise met them, drenching the white-tipped west peaks in red. And the stillness held, with no wind rising up from the floor of the Park to nag at them in their riding. Cowboys from neighboring ranches came across the gray land, some already pushing a few cattle before them.
“Gatherin’ goin’ on all over the flats this mornin’,” Jake said. “East cattlemen are working the east side; south-end ranchers are ridin’ the south flats of the Park. We work the north and northwest.”
All morning he rode with Jake, giving the cowpony its head, letting it move around the straying cows and calves they found in the ravines and on ridges of Independence Mountain. By early afternoon a milling, bawling herd of cattle was bunched against an old fence on the flats, and ranchers cut out their own and hazed them toward their home places. Dust and the smell of crushed sagebrush filled the air.
“They don’t need to look too close for brands,” Jake said, sitting easily in the saddle at the edge of the herd. “If you notice, Kelsey, you’ll see the big outfits got other marks to go by. Some of ’em got ear marks and some got wattles. Wattle’s a small piece of hide that’s been cut and let hang loose on the animal. You can see ’em danglin’ on jaws or necks or briskets. Monte don’t use no wattles. She’s got an ear mark besides her brand. Swallow-fork ear mark is what Monte uses—a V on the end of each ear. We ear-mark ’em when we brand. All big outfits like to use ear marks. Makes it easier to cut out their cattle when the hair’s long and brands get hard to see.”
Monte, who had ridden up, rolled a cigarette and said, “I don’t need any mark to tell my cattle from the rest of ’em. Maybe all cattle look alike to a greenhorn like you, Kelsey, but those of us who breed cattle try to get a certain type. We’ve all got our own ideas about the kind of bulls we want, and the kind of calves. After you been in the business for years, your cattle stand out from the other fella’s cattle. Hell, I can look at that stuff they got bunched and tell you every cow that’s mine without giving a thought to brand or ear mark. And Jake’s just as good.”
Jake was pleased but tried to look modest and said, “I ain’t quite that good, Monte.”
“Well, damn near it.” She shifted in the saddle, looked at Kelsey, her eyes narrowed to cool blue slits in the cigarette smoke, and added, “We figure to ship while the bloom’s still on. Mostly we start the drive to Laramie around the first of October.”
“There’s a steer from the Davis outfit in the south end,” Jake said, pointing. “He sure enough drifted from his home range. Musta come fifty miles.”
“Well, we’ll work the flats today, and when we have the field roundup tomorrow we’ll kick anything that don’t belong to us toward Walden, have the jackpot for unclaimed stuff there, as usual, and turn those mavericks over to the brand inspector for him to sell.”
“If nobody gets a chance to claim them mavericks and slip ’em into his herd,” Jake said, grinning.
“Nobody’ll get the chance,” Monte said. “We got too many sharp cowmen from different outfits. Nobody’s gonna lay claim to an unmarked calf and get away with it.”
In the early dusk Kelsey and Monte and Jake rode toward the Red Hill Ranch. Before them and behind them riders from the Big C slumped in their saddles, quiet coming over them now that the day’s work was over and the long night was ahead. For Kelsey the free, wonderful day of gathering cattle had ended too soon. He wished that he might be beginning all over again, with the horse under him, the sunrise in his eyes, and the wide gray plains ahead.
Weariness settled on him at the supper table, but after eating he went to the bunkhouse, where the punchers had gathered; some were playing poker, and others rehearsing in detail this roundup and other roundups.
“It was easier gatherin’ than last year.”
“Maybe. I sure hope I make the drive to Laramie this time. I ain’t been there since last year. Wonder what’s new at Corinthia’s place.”
“It won’t be new; it’ll just seem that way to you.”
“Say.” Jake stirred from his customary place in front of the stove. “Remember the time old Frank Blutcher was with us when we shipped that trainload of steers to Omaha? We were all in the caboose, waitin’ for the train to start, and this girl comes in sellin’ The War Cry. We all gave her a buck. She hit us just right. Then old Frank, he follows her out of the caboose. A little later he comes back with his face all scratched to hell.”
The men burst into laughter. “He oughta known better than try to make a Salvation Army girl.”
“Well,” Jake said softly, “you never can tell about a woman until you try. Wonder what happened to old Frank?”
“He went to Texas. Said he couldn’t take cold country no longer.”
A momentary silence fell over the men. From the poker table came the clink-clank of silver and chips. “Don’t any son-of-a-bitch check a cinch into me. What you so proud of, son?”
“Whores over fours. Can you beat ’em?”
“Shucks, I only got treys over deuces. Shake out something, Hank. I want to peek at a good hole card.”
A Big C puncher raised up from the tarpaulin-covered bunk where he had been half asleep. “Say, that little buckskin I was ridin’ threw me higher than a kite up in Ruby Gulch on Independence Mountain today.”
“How come?”
“Slim and I run onto a black bear in the strip of willows at the spring below the aspen patch. We tried to rope him. Every time I got ready to spill a loop on him, my horse would jump sideways. He finally spun away, and I was usin’ the spurs on him when he flipped his tail over the rope. Jesus! I didn’t have a chance. He tossed me halfway to heaven. Then he bucked all the way to the willows, with me tearin’ along right behind him. A fella can run like hell when he’s on foot and thinkin’ a bear is about to snort in his flank with every jump.”
“I’d like to ’a seen it. Your horse was lucky he didn’t bust a leg among all them prairie-dog holes.”
“Most of our punchers was wearin’ their forty-fives. I could have shot him. Y’know, Jake, you oughta carry a gun when you’re ridin’ rough country. If a good horse breaks his leg, only kind thing a man can do is shoot him.”
Jake nodded. “I know, but I just don’t take to packin’ pistols. A man should, for if he gets throwed and hung in the stirrup, havin’ a gun to kill a horse might be the thing would save his life. But I guess I’ll go on takin’ my chances with myself and my horses. I figure the only men who oughta pack guns are the men who really know how to handle ’em. Y’know, when the West opened up and wagons was crossin’