Tales from the X-bar Horse Camp: The Blue-Roan «Outlaw» and Other Stories

"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 pass 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 hoarsely, 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 God for that."

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

THE PASSING 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 shipped 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. Dick, gimme a bite of your navy," and having stowed away a huge chunk of Dick'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 Cañon 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-shiverin' 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 cañon 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 shore 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 shipped 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 butt an' bump 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 shore 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 scrape, not ef he knowed hisself. However, he did get up 'nuff spunk to tackle the ferry, an' went over safely. After we got the wagon acrost, we went back an' started the cattle down the side cañon what leads into the crossin'.

"Jackson's idee was to git the hosses ahead of the steers an' let 'em follow. You know hosses swim anywheres, an' the cattle will allers foller 'em. So he puts three men in a little boat, two to row an' one to lead a hoss knowin' the balance would foller him right across.

"The hoss-wrangler hed the 'cavvy' all ready, an' jist as the leaders of the herd come down to the water's edge the boys in the boat pulled out, a-leadin' a hoss, an' the other hosses follered right in an' was soon a-swimmin'. Then when they was all strung out an' doin' fine, we crowded the steers into the water after 'em. They was all powerful dry an' took to the water easy 'nuff, an' afore the leaders knowed it they was a-swimmin' in fine shape. Jackson wouldn't let us holler or shoot till we got 'em all inter the water, an' then we jerked our six-shooters an' began to fog 'em an' yell like a bunch of Comanches.

"You all know thar's one thing to be afeered of in swimmin' a lot of cattle, and that's when they gets to millin'. Jackson had swum cattle across the Pecos in Texas, an' the Yellowstone in Montana, an' saveyed 'xactly what to do. But this here Colorado at Lee's Ferry is a bad place to tackle, fer you're bound to get out on the other side afore you get into the box cañon, or your name's Dennis, 'cause once a feller gits into the cañon he's got to go on clean down about a hundred miles afore he can strike a level place big enuff to crawl out on.

"Soon as the cattle got well strung out, Jackson began to undress hisself. He took off all his clothes but his pants, an' then buckled his six-shooter belt around him, an' pulled the saddle off'n his hoss.

"I says, 'Bill, you ain't a-goin' to try to swim it, are you?' an' he says, 'No, not 'less I have to; but if they gets to millin' out thar we'll lose the whole herd, an' the only way to break it up is to ride out an' shoot among 'em an' skeer 'em.' He knowed it were risky, for if anything went wrong he was shore to be carried into the cañon an' drowned. But Bill Jackson wa'n't the sort of a wagon-boss to stop at anything to save the herd, an' sure 'nuff, 'bout the time the leaders got fairly into the middle of the river, 'long comes a big cottonwood tree a-driftin' an' whirlin' down stream right into 'em. That skeert 'em an' turned 'em, an' 'fore we knowed it they was doubled back on the balance an' swimmin' round an' round, for all the world like driftwood in a big eddy in a creek. This was what Jackson was afeerd of, an' he pushed his hoss into the river an' takes his six-shooter in his hand. He was ridin' a little Pinto pony they called 'Blue Jay,' one of the best all-around cow-ponies I ever see.

"Old Blue Jay he jist seemed to savey what was wanted of him, an' swam 'long without any fuss. When Jackson gits out close to the millin' steers he begin to holler an' shoot, an' he called to the fellers in the boat to come back an' try to stop 'em. Now, you all know what a risky thing it is to go near a steer a-swimmin' in the water, for he's sure to try to climb up on you. Jackson knowed this, but he swam Blue Jay right slap-dab inter the bunch an' tried to scatter 'em an' stop 'em from millin'.

"Just how it happened we couldn't tell; but first thing we seen Jackson was right in the middle of the millin' critters, an' in a minute they had crowded pore old Blue Jay under, an' all we seen of Jackson was his hands went up an' then he was lost in the whirlin' mass of horns that was goin' round and round. A man had no chance at all to swim, 'cause their hoofs kep' him under all the time, an' they was packed so close a feller couldn't come up between 'em, anyway. The boys in the boat tried to do something, but 'twan't no use, fer he never come up, an' when they got too close one big steer throwed his head over the side of the boat an' purty nigh upset 'em, so they had to keep away to save theirselves. But they kep' up a-shootin' an' a-hollerin' 'till the leaders finally struck out for shore, an' in a few minutes the whole herd was strung out for the opposite side an' sooner than I kin tell it they was all standin' on dry land, an' not a single one missin'.

"Meantime the boys in the boat had watched everywhere for pore Jackson's body, but they never got sight of it, though they went 'most down to the mouth of the box cañon. Thar was lots of big trees an' drift a-runnin', an' we guessed his body had been caught in the branches of a tree an' carried down with it. Pore old Blue Jay come floating past 'em, an' they tried to catch him, but the current was so swift they couldn't do it. All they wanted was to get Jackson's silver-mounted bridle off'n him, 'cause 'twas easy 'nuff to see that the pony was quite dead.

"Well, the rest of us crossed in the big ferry-boat an' rounded up the steers, which was grazin' up the cañon on the other side, an' moved 'em out a couple of miles to camp. Shorty, bein' the oldest hand in the outfit, took charge, an' sent two of us back to the ferry, to try an' see ef Jackson's body could be found, but the feller what runs the ferry said 'tain't no use lookin' fer him, 'cause the swift current would carry him miles and miles down the cañon without ever lodgin' anywhere. So we went back, an' Shorty gave it up an' decided to push the herd on next day. We was a blue ole crowd that night around the campfire, I tell you. All the boys liked Jackson, an' besides, they was a-thinkin' of his wife an' two kids what was a-waitin' for him at the headquarter ranch up in Utah.

"Shorty sent a letter from the ferry settlement to the old man, a-tellin' him what had happened, an' we come along up with the cattle, arrivin' safely at the ranch without any more misfortunes."

"An' didn't they never find Jackson's body, Colly?" queried the Kid.

"Wal," said Colly, "that's a singular thing, too. When we gets back to the ranch the old man he was orful cut up about it, an' hated to think that the body wasn't found. He'd been down in the Grand Cañon the summer afore with a lot of fellers, an' he said he believed he could find it 'bout a hundred miles below the ferry, 'cause thar were a place down thar in the cañon whar the walls widened out fer some twenty miles, an' thar was quite a valley with grassy meadows an' trees. So he takes one of the boys an' a pack outfit an' goes off down thar. They had to leave everything on top of the cañon an' climb down a-foot an' pack their stuff on their backs. The walls was six thousand feet high thar, an' they had a hard time gettin' down. Course, it was jist a scratch, but I'm blest if after four or five days' hunt they didn't find it lodged in a pile of drift along the river. 'Twas easy 'enuff to tell Jackson's body, fer he'd had two fingers of his left hand shot off in a fight once; so they takes it off to a place in the valley whar it was safe from flood, an' buries it as well as they could, an' next year, he went back an' packed the remains out of the cañon an' took them clean to the ranch an' buried 'em jist as if it was his own brother. I tell you, the boys was ready to swear by old man Saunders after that."

Colorado's story was finished, and as it was about ten-thirty the second guard-men began putting on overcoats and heavy gloves preparatory to two hours and a half of watching the herd.

The stars were shining clear and bright, the bells of the horse-herd came softly over the prairie, making a tuneful chime on the frosty night air, and as I untied the rope that bound my roll of bedding and kicked it out on the ground, I could not keep from thinking of poor Jackson's death and wondering if the morrow held a like fate in store for any of us.

THE TENDERFOOT FROM YALE

By permission American Forestry Magazine

"The trouble with this here forest service business nowadays is, that they're sendin' out, from the effete and luxurious East, a lot of half-baked kids, what never seen a mountain in all their lives, don't know whether beans is picked from trees or made in a factory at Battle Creek, an' generally ain't got savvy enough to find their way home after dark.

"Now here's this kid we've drawed in the last deal; nice enough boy, I reckon, but who's goin' to play nursey to him up in these here hills?" The speaker glared at his companion as if defying him to meet his charges against the newcomer and his kind.

"But he's got eddication, Jack," replied his listener, "an' that's what counts in these days. We got into the service in them good old days when it was a case of ability to ride a pitchin' bronc, rope a maverick, chase sheep herders off the earth, shoot the eyes out of a wildcat at forty yards an' all them things. Nowadays they picks 'em out by their brand of learnin' an' not by their high-heeled boots."

"Howsomever," he continued, "there's some of them that makes good in spite of their eddicational handicap. Over on the Sierra last fall we was all a-settin' in camp one Sunday afternoon when the phone rings like they was trying to wake the dead with it. The old man gits up to answer it. When he says, sort of startled-like, 'Fire, where?' we all pricks up our ears. 'Twas a mighty dry time an' every one was a-prayin' for rain, for we'd been fightin' fire for the last month and was all in.

"We had a fire lookout station up on top of a high peak an' a man, with the best glasses money could buy, a-sittin' there who could see all over the range for fifty miles.

"Say, people got so they was afraid to make a campfire anywheres in them hills, an' the rangers swore they had to go behind a tree to light their pipes, lest he'd see the smoke an' send in a fire call.

"'Shut-eye,' said the old man, meaning the lookout, 'Shut-eye says there's a big smoke a-comin' out of the cañon below Gold Gulch to the left of Greyback Peak, an' I reckon we'd better be a-movin' that way.'

"It didn't take us long to saddle up, slap a pack onto a couple of mules, an' hit the trail. 'Twas a good ten-mile over a rough country, an' it was mighty nigh dark afore we gets to where we could see smoke a-boiling out of the cañon over a ridge ahead of us.

"We was all old-timers at the work, 'ceptin' a young feller fresh from the Yale Forestry School, what had come out for a sort of post-graduate course in forestry, an' some of them boys was seein' to it he got it all right.

"He had all the fixin's them fellers bring along with them, fancy ridin' panties, a muley saddle, a wind bed an' a automatic six-pistol, one of them things what, after she once gits to shootin', you jist got to throw her into the creek to stop her goin'.

"'Bout two miles from the ridge where we reckoned we'd git our first view of the fire we meets up with Hank Strong an' his wife. You know, Hank's woman is just about as crazy to go to a fire as a boy to the circus, an' she always comes in mighty handy to start a camp, take care of the boys' horses an' the packs while we're a-workin'.

"Generally she'd make up a big pot of coffee and fetch it out to the line. Once she comes a-ridin' along carryin' a pot full an' a bear skeered her hoss – but that's nothin' to do with this yarn.

"Hank says that there's also a big smoke comin' up from the vicinity of Granite Basin, an' the old man he says some one better go over there an' see what's goin' on. Thar's a chap named Brown a-livin' in the Basin, an' the Super, he's afraid, mebbe so he'd get caught in the fire an' be singed some, the Basin bein' in the allfiredest lot of chapparal brush you ever see.

"This feller Brown, he's a sort of pet of them boys over that a-way, him bein' a lunger an' not able to do much but draw funny pictures for the Sunday supplements. Seems he broke down back East an' comes West to try an' git over it.

"There he sets a-drawin' pictures for them funny papers an' sendin' 'em in regular, while he ses he's jist a-walkin' around to beat the undertaker.

"Nobody else is a-livin' in the basin, there bein' nothin' but a little old cabin, what a bee-man put up once, an' a few hives of bees Brown bought along with the cabin. 'Them bees is jist to teach me habits of industry,' ses Brown, when some of the boys asked him if he calculated to git rich on the output of them hives.

"The old man he reckons he can't spare any of us old hands to go over there, an' so he says to the young tenderfoot: 'Son,' he says, 'do you reckon you can make it over there in the dark and find out what's doin' in Granite Basin an' come back an' let us know?'

"The boy he ses he reckoned he could, only he didn't know the trail all the way. Then Hank's wife she speaks up an' says she can go along as far as the top of the mountain, an' show him the trail down into the basin.

"It sort of hacked the kid to have a woman show him the trail, but the old man said it were the very idee, an' so she an' the boy struck off, leavin' us to take care of the fire ahead.

"There wa'n't but one way into the basin an' that was down a graded trail about two miles long from top to bottom that the bee man had made to git in and out on.

"The lower part of this basin was one great mass of brush, an' as thick as the hair on a dog's back, so you couldn't git through it only where the brush had been cut out.

"When they gits to the top an' could see over the basin there wa'n't any doubt but there was a fire all right an' it was mighty plain that if Brown wa'n't already out of there it was time he was startin'.

"Hank's wife were a-dyin' to go down with him, but the kid he ses, 'This here's my job, please,' and bluffed her out.

"'You look out you don't get cut off on the trail,' she warns him, 'the way that fire's a-eatin' along the side of the basin, it's a-goin' to reach the trail inside of an hour, an' there ain't no other way out 'ceptin' a foot path what goes up the side of the basin back of the cabin, but it's more like a ladder than a trail an' you can't take your hoss there a-tall.'