JACK
THE YOUNG COWBOY

COWBOY STARTING FOR THE ROUND-UP CAMP.

Photo by the Morris Art Studio, Chinook, Mont.

JACK
THE YOUNG COWBOY
An Eastern Boy's Experience on a
Western Round-up
BY
GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL
WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS

NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1913, by
Frederick A. Stokes Company
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian
Ninth Printing, August 12, 1935
Printed in the United States of America

[INTRODUCTION]

Jack's cowboy life began just as a great change was sweeping over the cattle range. Cattle had first been brought into the country only a few years before—old-fashioned long-horns driven up over the trail from Texas.

In those days the people in the West were not many. Towns were small, farms almost unknown, wagon roads few. Except about the pastures of the larger ranches, there were no fences. Over most of the land the cowboy roamed alone.

His seemed a life of romance. Free as the birds, he wandered over the wide range, going when and where he pleased. But this romance was only apparent. No man worked harder than he, or for less reward. His toilful days and short broken nights; his small pay and his poor food were recorded in the songs that he sang as he rode about the cattle. This was in the early days of the cattle industry.

A little later, on the plains came a change from pioneer conditions to those approaching luxury.

The earlier cattlemen in the North—those who ranged their stock on the Platte and the various forks of the Loup River—made great profits. Yet as time went on they saw competition constantly growing sharper and ranges being overstocked. As the news of their profits drifted eastward many young men, allured by the romance of the cowboy's life, and ignorant of its actual conditions, came into the cattle country. These believed that success with cattle was to be attained by riding about and watching the cattle increase and grow, and shipping them to market when they had grown. They were glad to be interested in a business at once so agreeable and so profitable; and many a one exchanged his money for a herd, a brand and some log buildings, and rode over the range awaiting the advent of his riches. Many of the early cattlemen sold their herds to the newcomers, who, somewhat later, discovered that with the cattle they had bought also much experience.

These changes were in operation when Jack entered on his cowboy life.

[CONTENTS]

[ILLUSTRATIONS]

[JACK, THE YOUNG COWBOY]

[CHAPTER I]
THE TRAGEDY AT POWELL'S

"Well, Jack," said Mr. Sturgis, "I do not know where you'll find them, but possibly somewhere over on the Little Medicine. If I were you, I'd ride over to Powell's. They are sure to know where the outfit is, and if you can't reach camp to-night, you can stop at Powell's."

"All right, Uncle Will; I'll go over there and probably get to camp to-night."

Jack shook hands with his uncle, and stepping back to his horse threw the reins over Pawnee's head, and swung into the saddle. With a final wave of his hand, he trotted off toward where his string of horses were feeding on the meadow before the house, and riding to and fro behind the scattered bunch, gathered them together and started on down the road.

Mr. Sturgis stood in front of the corral filling his pipe, and watching his nephew grow smaller and smaller, as he moved along down the road close to the pasture fence. It seemed to him a long time since he had first brought Jack out from far New York to the Swift Water Ranch, a little slip of a lad, thin and pale. He remembered their first drive from the railroad: how he had killed a bear crossing the road, and how Jack had seen what he supposed to be an Indian dog, which, of course, was a coyote.

"My!" said Mr. Sturgis to himself, "certainly the years slip by! Then I could have lifted that little fellow and held him out with one hand; and now he is big enough to lift me!"

Jack had risen that morning soon after daylight, and had gone out to get his horses together. The night before, Joe had brought in and put in the small pasture the few saddle horses left at the ranch. That morning they had been driven into the corral, and Jack, aided by Joe's knowledge of the animals, had selected six for his string to ride on the round-up, taking along his old favorite Pawnee for a regular riding horse, but not for a cow horse. Good saddle animal as Pawnee was, Jack thought too much of him to be willing to use him in the long rough work of riding circle or branding calves, or throwing big cows, if any old mavericks should be found. For the most part Pawnee should travel in the cávaya,[A] though sometimes he might be used on night herd. Jack made up his mind that hard work Pawnee should not do. "Give him just enough exercise to make him enjoy his victuals," Joe had said that morning when they were talking the string over.

The horses had been brought into the corral, and one after another of those chosen had been cut out and sent out through the big gate, all except the one that was to carry Jack's bed. That one had been roped and taken out and tied up to the fence. Then Jack had gone up to the house and brought down his blankets and a few extra clothes, and having wrapped them up in his "tarp," the bundle had been put on the horse with the regular cowboy hitch, and the animal had been set free to feed with its fellows. Then had come breakfast, and he was ready.

It was nearly a year since Jack had crossed a horse, and it seemed very pleasant to be trotting along over the prairie, the bunch going nicely ahead of him. They were fat and frisky and every now and then one of them would lay back his ears and nip at his neighbor, and perhaps the sudden motion would start the little bunch into a gallop, from which they would almost at once come down again to the steady trot.

There had been rain enough—so they said at the ranch—during April, May and the first few days of June, but now the prairie was dry and a little cloud of dust rose from under the horses' hoofs. The bottoms and the high hills were brightly green. Moreover, they were dotted with many beautiful flowers—which of course Jack could not see, because he was moving along swiftly—and down on one of the wet meadows the purple iris, already in bloom, had colored the ground blue in spots.

It was a couple of years now since Jack had been to the ranch, and a good many things had happened; for when a boy is from seventeen to nineteen years of age, things are likely to happen to him pretty fast. He receives many new impressions, has new experiences, and certainly picks up knowledge of one sort or another at a rapid rate. Since Jack had last seen these prairies and mountains he had passed his examinations, entered college, and spent nearly two years there. He had certainly had a good time while he was in New Haven. The toughness and endurance that he had picked up during his summers on the plains and in the mountains had stood him in good stead in athletics and he had won a place on one of the football teams. During a part of his sophomore year, he had had the bad fortune to have a long and tiresome illness from which he was only now convalescing, and since he had lost much time, it had been thought best for him to go out to his uncle's ranch before the end of the college year and to spend the vacation there in getting well.

When he reached the Swift Water Ranch two days before, the round-up had already started and now was in full swing; and Mr. Sturgis, after satisfying himself that Jack was strong enough to do the work, had told him that the best thing for him would be to go out and find the round-up, and work with it. Nothing could have suited Jack better. Hugh was along as a sort of camp-keeper. Mr. Powell and Charley Powell were sure to be there, and so were half a dozen other men whom Jack knew very well, and with whom he would be glad to work. He felt that he was going to have a good time. In fact, he was having a good time now. The air was fresh and cool, the sun bright; far off on the green hills he could see here and there a little white speck which he knew was an antelope; from the fence posts along which he passed sounded the clear whistle of the western meadow lark; and everywhere the air was full of sweet songs of birds, though of them all the meadow lark's was the loudest and clearest.

Jack's outfit was that commonly used by the cow puncher. He wore a flannel shirt and woolen trousers, gloves, and shaps—heavy leather trousers without any seat, to protect the legs when riding through underbrush or thorns. About his waist was his pistol-belt filled with cartridges, while the six-shooter hung well down on his right hip.

It must not be supposed that Jack carried a gun with any purpose of using it against his fellow men, but in those old days of wild prairie and wild cattle a pistol was almost a necessity. While sometimes it was used to kill game, or perhaps against dangerous animals, it often came in play to frighten an angry cow, or to turn a bunch of stampeding cattle.

Before long Jack had left behind him the pasture fence, and when he looked back could no longer see the ranch buildings which, low themselves, and placed in a sheltered hollow, were now cut off by the points of the rounded hills. His course lay southeast across the basin. Now and then the horses, uncertain as to the direction they should take, veered to one side or the other, so that the driver had to ride out on the side toward which they turned and shout at them to head them back.

The miles passed quickly. Occasionally, on some nearby hill Jack saw a little bunch of antelopes—old males with long black horns, and yearlings, both males and females. They looked at him as he drew near, and if he approached too close, ran up to the top of some rise and watched him long after he had passed.

It was after he had crossed the valley, and was riding up through the low foothills that stretched out from the bluffs on the other side, that an old doe antelope burst suddenly from a little coulée close to the bunch of horses, and passing in front of them galloped up the hill on the other side. Almost immediately behind her was a coyote running hard. When it saw the horses it checked itself, and an instant later as it saw the rider, turned and ran. The old doe had done her best, but except for the incident of the horses' being there, she would soon have been pulled down. Her black tongue hung far out of her mouth, and she staggered as she ran.

Jack understood very well what was happening. Evidently two or more coyotes had started this doe, and were taking turns chasing her, one relieving the other which, by cutting off the corners, could save itself, and after it had regained its wind, take up the chase again. So the race might have kept up for an hour or more, until finally, the old doe would have been overtaken, pulled down, and devoured.

To Jack all this was a matter of common knowledge, for more than once he had seen almost that very thing happen. It took him only a moment, therefore, to whirl his horse. Giving him a jab with the spurs, he was close upon the coyote almost before it had started to run. He had jerked out his six-shooter, and as two or three balls knocked up puffs of dust about the coyote, the beast put on a tremendous spurt of speed. It was impossible to take aim from the back of the galloping horse, but one ball passing over the coyote's head caused it to whirl and run broadside for a jump or two, and as it did this, it came in collision with another ball, which quickly ended its career.

"Good enough!" said Jack to himself. "That is better luck than I deserved. I didn't hope to do more than scare the beast, and now I have got it." He rode over and sat on his horse looking down at the coyote, from whose hide great patches of fur had been lost, for the animals were now just shedding their winter coats. Evidently the hide was not worth taking off, and so Jack dismounted and cut off the coyote's head, for in those days there was a bounty on these beasts, and the bounty was worth having. He tied the head to the saddle, remounted, and started down toward his horses. They had stopped and were now feeding, but before long he had them moving again.

Riding steadily and fast across the plateau, he saw to his left something moving, and watching it for a few moments saw that it was a badger digging its hole. Every now and then the badger would sit up and look about him, and then again would put its forefeet on the ground and begin to dig. When he had got as close to the badger as the trail would bring him, Jack suddenly turned Pawnee and galloped toward the creature at a good rate. The badger at once noticed the change of direction, and set to work digging harder. By the time Jack had reached the hole, the animal was already twelve or fifteen inches under ground, and was quite covered by the loosened earth of the hole. For a moment Jack was going to shoot down through the earth, which was heaving and moving from the struggles of the beast below, but then it occurred to him that there was no especial reason for doing this, since the badger could not be used in any way. Its hide would be useless, and there was no reason for killing it. Moreover, badgers kill a good many prairie dogs which eat grass, and gophers which destroy gardens, and every badger killed means an increase in the dog and gopher population. There came to him, too, the memory of what Hugh more than once had said to him—that there was no sense in killing things unless you could make some use of them. He watched the moving earth for two or three minutes. If he had had a stick he would have poked it down in the hole, to feel the badger, but he had seen too many badgers to be willing to put his hand down in this hole, even though the hand were protected by a stout glove.

Presently he was on his horse again, and the bunch was once more started on the road toward Powell's ranch. The horses, which had been going all day, were now very willing to stop, and were eager at any moment to get a bite of grass. Jack kept them to their work, however, and a little later, when he came to the edge of the plateau, he was glad to see the valley below him and Powell's ranch buildings in the distance. He rode down toward the houses, following the little sag; but as he went down the hill the Powell buildings were no longer in sight, for they were hidden by the ridges on either side the road.

At the Powell ranch it was long after noon; dinner was over; the dishes had been put away and Mrs. Powell and Bess were sewing in the living-room. All the men had gone off on the round-up, and these two were left here alone, as so often they had been left alone before. Presently Bess glanced through one of the windows which looked over the road leading from the valley.

"Here come some people—a couple of men and a pack horse," she said to her mother.

A little later the riders drew up in front of the house, and one of them dismounting came to the kitchen door and knocked. Bess went to the door and saw there a tall, spare, middle-aged man. There was nothing especially noticeable about him except that he had rather keen, fierce eyes, a hooked nose, and a black, drooping mustache. As she opened the door he nodded and said to her:

"How do you do, ma'am? We men are traveling south to go to the railroad. We've got to get to Cheyenne. We've come quite a way from the north, and we've run plumb out of grub. We haven't any money, more'n just enough for our tickets, and I was wondering if you would give us a meal. If we can get something to eat, we can go in comfortably to town and catch the east-bound passenger to-night."

"Why, certainly!" said Bess. "We'll be glad to give you something to eat. Tie up your horses and come in and sit down. It won't take long to get you some dinner."

Leaving the door open, she went back to her mother and told her what the riders wanted, and the two women went into the kitchen and began to start the fire and to prepare a meal. Meantime the men tied up their horses and seated themselves just outside the kitchen door. Mrs. Powell asked once if they would not come in, and sit in the living-room, but they said no, they were comfortable there.

Presently dinner was ready and the men, called in, ate hungrily of bacon, potatoes and bread and butter, and seemed especially to enjoy the coffee. The young man had nothing to say; but the older one, after he had satisfied his hunger, talked a little about matters up north, told of things that were happening at Buffalo, and spoke of having passed a round-up camp early that morning.

"That's where our men folks are," said Mrs. Powell. "They're all off riding the country, and won't be back until the round-up is over."

When the men had finished their meal, the older one thanked Mrs. Powell; and going outside, the two sat down by the door and lighting their pipes talked in low tones. Mrs. Powell and Bess cleared off the table, washed and put away the dishes, and returned to the living-room.

Presently the older of the two men rose to his feet and said to the younger:

"Come on, now! We may as well try it! It'll be a big help to us if we can get a little money; and we can get on the train, and be well out of the country before anybody knows anything about it."

"Aw, Bill, don't do it," said the younger man; "these people have been good to us. It'll be mighty mean to frighten 'em, or take anything from 'em."

"Hold your yawp!" growled the man called Bill. "If they've got anything, I'm going to have it; and you've got to back me up and stand half the blame!" He rested his hands on his hips, and looked fiercely at his companion, who dolefully got up on his feet and followed Bill into the house. At the door of the living-room Bill stopped.

"I told you, ma'am," he said, "that we're going to the railroad, and that we're going to Cheyenne, but we ain't got any money to pay the railroad fares, and I thought I'd ask you if you wouldn't give us what we need?"

"Is the man crazy!" cried Mrs. Powell, angrily. "I'm not a bank; and if you've been any time in this country you must know that people on ranches don't keep money. What would we spend money for here?"

"I reckon that's so, ma'am," said Bill; "but I reckon too that your man didn't go away and leave you without a cent, and whatever you've got, I'll take, and take it quick!"

He stepped into the room toward Mrs. Powell, and she saw at once that the man meant what he said and that asking for money was no longer a request but a demand.

"Honestly," she protested, "I have no money. When Mr. Powell went away he didn't expect us to leave the ranch, and he knew we didn't need any money here. You'll have to try to borrow some in town when you get to the railroad."

"Well," said the man, "if you haven't any money you've got a watch there, and I'll take that, and maybe when I get to town I can borrow two or three dollars on it."

He stepped forward and reached out to take from her belt a little watch whose ring he could see above her apron strings; but Mrs. Powell drew back.

"You shan't have that watch!" she cried. "I've had that ever since I was married, and I won't give it to you!"

The man caught her arm with his left hand and reached for the watch with his right hand; and Mrs. Powell screamed.

"Hold on!" said Bessie. "Let go my mother! I've got some money, and I'll give it to you."

"You've got some money, have you?" said Bill, releasing Mrs. Powell's arm.

"Yes; I have twenty-two dollars I was saving up to buy a saddle, and if you will clear out right off, I'll give it to you."

"All right," agreed Bill. "We'll go. Let's have it. But don't try to play any tricks, young woman."

"I'll get it for you right away," Bessie said; "it's here in my bedroom."

"All right," repeated Bill. "Be quick about it!"

Bessie ran into the bedroom and was heard to pull open a drawer, and a few seconds later a shot sounded. Bill staggered a little, felt for his pistol, and then turned around and fell to the floor; while the young man who had stood in the door ran out through the kitchen, jumped on his horse, and galloped off.

[A] Cávaya from the Spanish word caballada, the horse herd.

[CHAPTER II]
A ROBBER TURNED LOOSE

As Jack rounded a low point of hill only half a mile from the house, he saw the buildings again. The sun was getting low, and he decided that he would put the animals in Powell's pasture and ask Mrs. Powell to keep him over night at the house. He wondered if she would know him, for since she had last seen him he had grown, as it seemed to him, a foot or two. As he came in sight of the house he noticed, hitched to the fence near the door, two riding horses and a loaded pack horse. Evidently there were visitors at the house. They were travelers, not cow punchers, for the pack animal carried a sawbuck pack-saddle and a very small pack.

These thoughts had just passed through Jack's head, when to his amazement he heard a shot which seemed to come from the house, and an instant later the door flew open and a man burst out, rushed to the horses, jumped on one of them and galloped fast down the road toward him. Jack could not conceive what this meant—shooting in Powell's house. He did not know the man who was approaching. He was young, fair-haired, rode like one accustomed to the saddle, and had a good horse, though it looked as though it had gone a long way. The rider was coming directly toward him, and, as he rode, he looked back at the house two or three times, as though fearing pursuit.

Jack did not know what all this meant, and yet one thing seemed certain—he must stop this man and find out what he had been doing. Yet to stop a man on the road he knew was pretty serious business, and might very likely lead to shooting. He had traveled enough on the prairie and had associated enough with older men to be cautious about getting into trouble; but here was a case where trouble seemed to be coming toward him so straight that he could not avoid it. For the first two or three moments the rider seemed not to notice Jack, but when he did so, he checked the speed of his horse, and looked uncertainly to right and left, as though seeking some way of escape. By this time Jack had stuck his spurs into Pawnee, and was riding fast toward the approaching man. He had his hand on his six-shooter, ready to draw it at the least sign of trouble. As they drew near to each other the young man made a motion as if to put his hand on his pistol butt, but Jack called to him sharply, "Hands up!" and drew his pistol. The young fellow's hands flew up in the air, while he stopped his horse. Jack rode around and coming up behind him on the right side, still holding his pistol ready, reached over and took the young man's gun out of his holster, and then ordered him sharply to turn around and ride in front of him toward the house. He watched him closely, for it was possible that somewhere about his person the man might have another pistol, but the young fellow seemed to have no desire to do anything save what he was told. His nerve had wholly left him.

They trotted up to the door of the ranch, and Jack called out for Mr. Powell, Charley and Mrs. Powell, and a moment later a tall, handsome, brown-haired girl appeared at the door, holding a six-shooter in her hand. Jack instantly recognized her as his old friend Bessie, but Bessie grown out of all likeness to the slim-legged little girl that he had known half a dozen years before.

"Hello, Bessie!" called Jack. "You don't know me, I guess, but I am Jack Danvers, just over from Mr. Sturgis' ranch. I heard a shot and saw this man running away from the house, and stopped him. What has happened? Do you want him, or shall I let him go?"

"I don't know, Jack," Bessie answered; "we'll have to think about that. He ought to be tied up for a while anyhow, until we can tell you what has happened, and can decide what to do."

"Well," said Jack, "the first thing is to take his weapons if he has any. Here is the six-shooter he had when I stopped him. Will you hold it, and keep an eye on him while I search him? You used to be able to shoot when you were a little girl."

"I guess you will think I can yet, Jack," said Bessie. Jack now noticed that she looked very white. "That man's partner is in here, and we will have to do something with him."

Jack said nothing, but dismounted, went to the young rider, unbuckled and took off his belt and felt him all over to see whether he had another pistol. Nothing was found on him more dangerous than a pocket-knife, which Jack took. He had the young man dismount and sit down on the ground, and asked Bessie to stand guard over him. Then with a rope taken off one of the horses he tied the man's hands and feet securely, and passing the rope from his wrists, which were tied behind his back, over a bar of the fence four feet from the ground, drew up the hands so as to keep the man's body bent forward, and to give him very little freedom of motion. Then he tied the horses to the fence and went to the door where Bessie stood.

"Tell me all about it now, Bessie," he said.

"No, Jack, I can't talk now," she replied. "Go in and speak to mother, and talk it over with her."

He passed through the kitchen and into the living-room, and the first thing that caught his eye there was a man lying on the floor, on his back, with one arm stretched out. Stepping up to him, Jack saw that he was dead, and apparently he had been moved a little, for on the boards was a smear of blood, leading to the man's body, which seemed to show that an effort had been made to drag him toward the door. Mrs. Powell was not there, but when Jack called her by name she opened a bedroom door and came out. Jack began to tell her who he was, but she knew him at once, and grasping both his hands began to cry and to tell him how glad she was to see him.

"Don't cry, Mrs. Powell," said Jack. "Tell me what all this is about, for of course I don't understand it at all. I heard a shot, and met a man riding hard away from the house. I stopped him and brought him back and now he is outside tied up, with Bessie watching him."

"Oh, Jack!" moaned Mrs. Powell, "to think that anything like this could happen in this country! We have plenty of bad men here, but I never thought that any of them would be bad enough to attack a woman; and I never supposed that Bessie would have to kill one." The poor woman had great difficulty in speaking, and it was hard for Jack to understand what she was talking about; but some ideas he got. He patted her shoulder and told her that the trouble was all over now, and she need not worry about it, and that he would look after everything, if she would only tell him the whole story so that he could understand it. Then Mrs. Powell told him what had happened.

"Well, well," declared Jack, "this is certainly bad business—that anybody in this country should start in and rob women and children. However, it is mighty lucky that Bessie is so quick with her wits, and so quick with her gun. Now what shall we do with this man's partner?"

Mrs. Powell began to cry again.

"Dear me! dear me! I don't know what to say to you, Jack. If our men come back and find him here, he surely will never get off the place; they'll hang him on the gate-post; and I don't want that to happen. We've had trouble enough with this dead man here, and I don't want Charley or his father to get mixed up in any lynching."

"Well, Mrs. Powell," Jack replied, "this young fellow ought to be killed and killed quick. He surely has no business in this country. But I can understand how you feel. It wouldn't be very pleasant for you to have him hung right in your dooryard, as you might say. Let me go out and talk to Bessie, and see what she thinks. I have an idea from the way she looks and from what you tell me that she has pretty good sense; but first, it seems to me, we ought to get rid of this carcass here. I'll open the front door and drag him out."

Jack opened the door, and then going back to where the man lay, and moving the furniture out of the way, took him by the two wrists and dragged him out of the door and left the body lying on the ground.

Going back to the kitchen door, he saw Bessie leaning against the fence watching the young man who was seated on the ground, and who apparently had not changed his position since he was tied up.

"Come over here, Bessie," Jack requested, and she walked with him to a place fifteen or twenty yards from the young man, and there in a low voice they talked over the situation. Jack told her that her mother had explained what had happened, and of Mrs. Powell's fear lest some of the people now off on the round-up should come back and find the prisoner at the house, and should hang him without ceremony.

"That is what I am afraid of, Jack. I want to have this thing ended now, as quickly as possible. It seems terrible that I should have had to kill that man; but I didn't know what else I could do to protect mother, and nobody knows where he would have stopped if something had not been done."

"Well," suggested Jack, "what's the matter with giving this young man his horse, or horses, and turning him loose now without any weapons?"

"I wish with all my heart you would do that. It seems to me that is the easiest way, and the best way, and it will certainly keep out of trouble any of the boys that may turn up here in the next few days."

"All right," said Jack, "we'll do that. But first I've got to use him for a little while, and you must come along too, I am afraid, to stand guard over him."

"I'll do anything I can that you say is right," agreed Bessie.

Jack went over to the prisoner, and untying the ropes turned him loose.

"Now, young fellow," Jack said, "rub your arms and wrists and get the stiffness out of them, and then come down to the barn and help me hitch up a wagon."

They went to the barn and found there a couple of work horses, and harnessing them, hitched them to the wagon, into which they threw a pick and a couple of shovels. Driving up to the house, they stopped by the body of the man who had been shot, and lifted it into the wagon, covering it with a piece of an old tent. They then drove off up a ravine a mile or more from the house, where they stopped the wagon; and here in the side of a bank the two men dug a hole, and buried the would-be robber. Jack searched his pockets for some means of identification, but found in them nothing except a pipe, some tobacco, matches and a pocket-knife. His belt and cartridges were taken off to be carried back to the house.

The sun was close to the western horizon when they reached the house again. Jack left the young man unhitching the horses, and Bess watching him, while he returned to the house to tell Mrs. Powell what they had decided to do, and to ask her approval.

"That is the very best thing that can be done," she said. "Start him off for the railroad, and try to see that he gets there."

"I mean to ride with him for a mile or two," said Jack; "and I shall say to him that to-morrow morning I am going over to the round-up camp to tell them there what has happened, and that there is likely to be a hunt for him, and he had better quit the country as fast as he knows how."

"Good!" approved Mrs. Powell. "Ride with him over to the big hill, and from there watch him as far as you can, and then come back. We'll have supper ready by dark and we'll look for you then."

"All right," replied Jack. "Before I go, though, I'll turn my horses into the pasture, if you will let me, and take my bed off the pack horse."

It took scarcely five minutes to do this, for the hungry horses were still feeding close to the house. Then Jack went to the young man, who had returned to the place where he had been tied, and had seated himself on the ground there.

"You've got yourself into a place that will mean hanging for you, if you don't get out of the country quick," said Jack. "I am going to give you a chance for your life, and let you get to the railroad, where maybe you can strike a freight, or a passenger-train, that will take you away. If any of the people that belong in this part of the country come back and hear what you and your partner have done, they will start out and hunt you as long as they can find your tracks, and if they get hold of you, you'll swing. Who was this man that you came down here with, and where did you come from?"

"I don't know what his name was," answered the young man, "but up there we called him Bill Davis. We came down from just south of Buffalo. Davis had a little place up there with a few head of cattle and horses on it, but the stockmen thought he was branding too many calves, and they told him that he would have to get out of the country. When he saw they meant it, he came to me, for I had been living on a little place I had taken up not far from him, and said that he had to get out, and proposed to me to go somewhere and make a stake, and come back with something to put on our places. He persuaded me, and I went with him. I never knew he was going to try to rob these people here; they treated us awful white; but he said to me that if I didn't come with him to speak to the women, he and I would quarrel. I wish I had never seen him! I never got into trouble like this before. You can see for yourself that I ain't bad. Didn't I give up just as soon as you told me to?" The young man whimpered and looked as if he were going to cry.

"Well," admitted Jack, "you don't look to me like a fellow who would willingly be mixed up in robbing women and children, and I am going to let you go; but if I do, you've got to get out of the country quick, for if the men around here find you, they won't stop to talk to you, the way I have. The best thing for you to do is to ride into the railroad and get on a train and get out of reach as quickly as you can. Have you any money?"

"Yes, I have a five-dollar bill and some nickels."

"What about these horses? Who owns them?" asked Jack.

"One saddle horse and the pack horse belonged to Bill; and the horse I ride is mine, and so is the saddle."

"Well," said Jack, "you'd better get on your horse now and pull your freight for the railroad as quick as you can. I expect your horse isn't in very good shape to make the ride, and maybe I'd better lend you one of mine to go in with. Do you know anybody at the railroad that would buy your horse and saddle?"

"Nary a person," was the answer. "I have never been down here before. The only thing that I can do is to leave the horse and saddle in town at some livery stable, or else turn him loose on the range."

"I will tell you what I'll do," said Jack; "if you want to sell that saddle for twenty dollars, I will buy it from you, and give you five dollars on account. You can leave it with Brown, at Medicine Bow, and if I hear that you have done so, and you will write to me, I will send you the fifteen dollars by mail. I think I'll keep Davis' horses and saddle here until somebody calls for them, and maybe your horse. You can take one of my string to ride into the railroad, and when you get there with it, either leave it at Brown's, or turn it loose on the range. It will come back to our ranch sooner or later. Now go and change your saddle to that gray horse you see feeding out there, just inside the pasture gate. I'll ride with you a little way."

The boy went over to his horse and mounted and Jack followed on Pawnee. In a moment a rope was on the gray, the saddles were changed and the two young men rode off in the direction of the railroad.

When they reached the top of the hill a couple of miles from the ranch, Jack pointed out to the man the way he should go to strike the main road leading into the town, and told him to go ahead. The young man hesitated for a moment.

"I don't rightly know how to thank you for turning me loose in this way," he said. "I swear that I never had any idea of hurting those two women, and I hope some day I'll be able to make you believe that. Will you tell me how I may call you?"

"I am Jack Danvers; and you can always reach me by writing to the Swift Water Ranch, near Carbon. If you write me, I'll send you the fifteen dollars. What is your name?"

"I'm Sam Williams, I'm from Michigan; and I wish't I was back there now. Have you got a piece of paper? I'd like to have your address written down, so that I'll remember it."

Jack tore a scrap from an old envelope in his pocket, and writing the address, handed it over to the young man.

"Good-by, and thank you again," the latter said; and turning his horse's head rode to the south.

The sun had set, and it would soon be too dark to see far, but Jack drew back from the crest of the hill and, riding around a short distance, dismounted. Walking up, he peered over the ridge and watched the horseman, riding fast, until dusk had fairly settled down over the valley. Then turning, he mounted Pawnee, and in a short time was at the Powell's barn, where he unsaddled and turned his horse into the hay corral.

[CHAPTER III]
TO THE ROUND-UP CAMP

Supper smelled good to Jack as he entered the house on his return, for he had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and the ride had sharpened his appetite. Mrs. Powell and Bess were putting the food on the table, and Jack was sent to Charley's room to wash his hands. He noticed as he passed through the sitting-room that all was in order, and that here and there the floor was damp, showing that it had been scrubbed after he left.

When they sat down to the table, Jack's first words were:

"Well, he got off all right, and I watched him for a mile or two. He was going fast toward town, and I reckon we won't see him again in this part of the country. What did you do with the other horses, Bess?"

"I took the saddles off, and turned them into the pasture with your string. The two saddle horses are good ones, but I don't know what we ought to do with them."

During the evening much of the talk was about the exciting events of the day, though several times the women tried to get away from the subject by asking Jack about his life in the East and his studies, or by discussing the daily happenings of ranch life.

It was getting late, and Jack was thinking about excusing himself and going to bed, when he noticed that Bessie was holding her head to one side and apparently listening; and in a few seconds Jack heard the faint tramp of a galloping horse, which presently stopped at the barn.

"I'll just go out and see who that is," said Jack.

"You needn't bother, Jack; I know that gallop," Bessie replied. "That's old Kate; and probably father riding her."

"Good!" exclaimed Jack. "All the same I'll just go out and make sure."

He stepped out of the front door and walking around the unlighted side of the house stopped near the kitchen door and looked toward the barn. In a moment he heard footsteps and the clinking of spurs, with the sound of shaps rasping as a man walked, and a moment later recognized Mr. Powell, and stepped forward to speak to him.

"I don't suppose you know me, Mr. Powell, but I'm Jack Danvers from over at Mr. Sturgis' place and I want to say a word to you before you go to the house."

"Why sure I know you, Jack! That is, I know your voice; but I don't believe I'd know your body. Maybe when I get a chance to see your face, I'll recognize that. Are you out here for the summer?"

"Yes, Mr. Powell," was the reply; "but I want to speak to you now before you go in. There has been trouble here at the house; bad business, but no great harm done. It's all over now. Mrs. Powell will tell you the whole story."

The two shook hands and went into the house. Powell kissed his wife and hugged his daughter in a way that showed how glad he was to see them again. Then he sat down and looked about, as if expecting something. Mrs. Powell spoke at once.

"I don't know if Jack told you about what happened here, Henry; but I was badly scared, and I guess Bess was, too, only she didn't show it."

"Well," said Powell, "tell me the story. There's no use in beating about the bush."

Mrs. Powell told him what had happened, and as her story went on, Powell's face took on a stern, hard look that promised badly for the criminals, if one of them should fall into his hands. When the narrative was ended, he turned to his daughter.

"Well, Bess," he said, "you certainly did the right thing: and I feel proud that you were so ready and so plucky. You did well, too," he said to Jack; "but, as I understand it, the thing was all over when you stopped the man who was running away. What's become of him?"

Then Jack took up the story, and told the decision that had been reached and how it had been carried out.

"Well," said Powell, "I believe on the whole you did the right thing. I don't quite think it's what I'd have done, if I'd been here; but if I'd been here I should have been mad clear through and would probably have killed the young fellow offhand."

"That would have been the natural thing to do," Jack replied; "but of course it wouldn't have been the pleasantest thing for Mrs. Powell and Bessie, and I felt that they had both had a pretty hard time, and that what they said ought to go."

"Yes," declared Powell, slowly, as if considering the thing, "you did the right thing. I can see that now, and I'll feel a good deal surer in the morning. I'm glad that neither Charley nor any of those young fellows came on with me from the round-up camp. If they had, I know they would have caught up fresh horses and followed that fellow to the railroad, and very likely caught him before he got on the train.

"Well," he went on, "you've all had a pretty exciting day, and I expect you women had better go to bed. I'll sit up here and smoke a pipe or two, and talk with Jack, and then we'll go to bed too. I'm going back to the camp in the morning, and I expect you'll want to go along too, won't you, Jack? I judge that you're headed for the round-up camp."

"That's where I want to go," agreed Jack. "I came here because I had an idea the camp would be somewhere in this neighborhood, and I thought I could get directions to find it."

After the two women had gone to bed, Powell filled his pipe and then drawing his chair close to Jack they talked together for a little while in a low tone. Jack told his host all that he had learned about the man who had been killed, and when he mentioned his name, Powell exclaimed:

"Why, that might have been the Bill Davis that was mixed up in that train robbing business nearly ten years ago, the one the miners hung Big-Nose George for in Rawlins. If that's the man, he surely was bad, and deserved all he got."

"Well," said Jack, "I went through his clothes but couldn't find any papers. The young fellow gave him the name of Davis. He was a man, I should think, between forty and fifty, just beginning to get gray, a hooked-nosed man, with black hair and mustache."

"I never saw Davis," said Henry Powell; "only heard of him."

"The young fellow," Jack went on, "didn't seem to be bad. He seemed to be worthless, and no account. He had no great amount of sand, and was always looking around to find some way to get out of the difficulty."

"I've an idea, then, that he was not mixed up in the thing any farther than being in bad company."

"That's just what I thought," said Jack, "and I believe I'm right. Why, when he talked to me when I turned him loose, he came pretty near crying. I don't think he's a fellow of any force at all, and I don't believe that he will ever get back into this part of the country again."

"Could he get off on the railroad?" asked Powell. "Did he have any money?"

"Yes, he had five dollars of his own, and I gave him five more for his saddle, which he said he would leave at Brown's, and then if he lets me know his address, I will send him fifteen more by mail. Besides that, he left his horse here, and it's a better one than the gray I gave him to ride on. If he gets off on the railroad he's to leave the horse at Brown's, or turn it loose on the range. Of course, ten dollars will carry him some distance, but will leave him afoot wherever he stops. Still, that's a whole lot better than being hanged."

"Well," decided Powell, "I guess you did just right; and I'm glad it all happened as it did. It's a mighty lucky thing for the women and me that you rode up here just as you did. I shouldn't have been afraid of anything more happening to them, but it would have been pretty bad for them to have to get rid of that carcass. Well, let's go to bed."

He stretched out his hand and gave Jack a grip that made the boy wince, and they went to their rooms.

Early the next morning Jack and Powell looked over the horses left there by the strangers the day before. The men had been well mounted, and the saddle and bridle belonging to Davis were new, good and strong. The pack horse was also a good animal, and looked as if it might have speed and endurance.

"Nice horses, aren't they, Mr. Powell?" said Jack. "But I don't know who owns them now."

"Yes," answered Powell; "they are nice horses. You'll find, if you live long enough in this country—maybe you've found it out already—that these rustlers and bad men always do have good horses. They've always got to be ready to skip off when any one gets after them, and they always try to be fixed so as to ride a little faster and a little farther than the man who is chasing them. So they always have good horses and good saddles. As to who owns these horses now, you and I can't say, but I guess nobody has a better title to them than we two, so we'll just hold them until somebody comes along and claims them and proves property. I don't know the brands of any of them. That one on the brown horse might be old Missouri John's "beer mug," blotted. If it is, he'll be along some day and likely know the horse. Now I've got to get Bessie to write some letters for me this morning, and then I want to get some grub and put it on a horse, and after dinner we can start back to the round-up camp and get there before dark. Will that suit you?"

"Yes," replied Jack, "that will suit me to a T; and I am certainly glad to wait for you, to have company on the road over."

"Well," said Powell, "that will be good; then we can turn my pack horse loose and drive him with your remuda, and we can get along pretty fast."

As he said this, a call from the house told them that breakfast was ready, and they started back.

"By the way," asked Powell, as they were approaching the house, "what about those guns that you took away from the men yesterday?"

"Why," Jack answered, "you may as well keep them here. I have my own and don't need any more. I think the pair that Davis wore ought to belong to Bess."

Powell smiled.

"Well, maybe they ought to. I guess we'll keep those here, but the one you took from the young man you might as well keep."

"All right," said Jack, "I will; but of course I don't want to pack it around with me now. This one I am carrying came from a horse thief. Do you remember that time four or five years ago when we ran into a bunch of stolen stock on the Sweet Water, and Hugh killed black Bob Dowling? Hugh gave me his pistols, and ever since then I have worn one of them whenever I was in a place where I carried a pistol."

The house this morning looked more cheerful than it had the afternoon before. Mrs. Powell and Bess were bright and smiling, and the breakfast was very good. Soon after the meal was over, Powell began the work of writing his letters by his daughter's hand. Jack went out and strolled about the barns and corrals, and killed time for several hours, and then coming back to the house, interrupted the letter writing by asking Powell if he could not get out the grub that was to be taken to the camp.

"I wish you would," said Powell, "if you haven't anything to do. Mrs. Powell will show you where the stuff is, and all I want to take is a couple of sacks of flour and two slabs of bacon. You will find pack-saddles and riggings hanging up in the storeroom where the grub is, and if you feel like doing it, you might catch up that sorrel horse that you'll find in the pasture, the one with two white feet, and either tie him in the barn, or put him in the small corral, so that we can get him quick when we are ready to pack."

"All right," answered Jack, "I'll do that. First I'll get out the grub and then I'll fix the saddle, and along just before dinner time I'll go down and get the horses and bring them up and put them in the corral. I don't know what horse you're going to ride."

"I'll ride old Kate back again. You know her. She is the brown, with a bald face and one white hind foot. Bring them all up to the corral just before dinner, and then they'll be handy."

It took Jack but a little time to get together the load for the pack horse and set it outside the storehouse; then he went to the barn, saddled up Pawnee and rode into Powell's small pasture where he got together the required horses, and drove them up to the corral.

Dinner was not so cheerful a meal as breakfast had been. It seemed to Jack that the women felt a little nervous about losing their men folk, and before the meal was over this was so obvious that Powell spoke about it.

"You women," he said, "don't want to get scared over nothing. It's my belief that you might rake this country over with a fine-tooth comb and not find another man that would act as mean as that Davis did. You've both of you got good pluck, and have shown it, and I want you to keep on showing it now. All the same, if I were you I wouldn't let any strangers come into the house. People that you know, of course, are all right, but strangers you had best keep off. If they ask what's the matter, tell them you were badly treated once by some strangers, and that you won't risk it again. You, Bess, had better wear your six-shooter all the time, unless you see somebody coming that you know; then I expect you would want to shed it. Somebody will be coming in from the round-up every two or three days; and in the course of a day or two, when this scare you've had wears off, things will go on just as they've always gone on, and you'll have a real good time. Now," he added, as he pushed back his chair, "Jack and me'll go down and pack them animals, and then we'll roll."

The saddling and packing of the horses took but a short time, and after the animals had been turned out, and were feeding on the flat in front of the house, the men went up to say good-bye. The women clung to Powell, and seemed loath to let him go, and they shook hands with Jack in an earnest, cordial fashion that greatly pleased him.

"I don't know what we'd have done, Jack Danvers, if it hadn't been for you," Mrs. Powell said. "We folks will never forget how you helped us out."

Powell waved his hand, and Jack lifted his hat, and they rode off.

[CHAPTER IV]
OLD FRIENDS

It was almost sunset when Powell and Jack rode over the hill and saw the round-up camp in the valley, far below them. There was a big bunch of cattle still scattered out and feeding, but about them were the four or five riders who were keeping them together, and who a little later, and before dark, would bring them up into a close bunch, to bed them down. Off to one side was the cávaya, or horse bunch, which contained the strings of the different riders, six or seven or eight horses to a man, and the work horses that were used on the chuck and bed wagons. Lounging around the camp were the men, apparently waiting for supper, which the cook announced just before Powell and Jack reached the camp. The men hurried up to the tent; each one supplied himself with plate, cup, knife, fork and spoon, and went over to the cook-stove and helped himself to food. When Powell and Jack stopped close to the camp, it was a boisterous crowd of full-mouthed men who shouted and waved their hats to them. Every one knew Powell, and half a dozen recognized Jack, who as a little fellow had been known to most of them. Jack was glad to see them all, but his eye roved about, looking especially for Hugh, who, after the first outbreak, rose from the ground, where he had been sitting filling his pipe, and walked over to Jack and gave him a cordial hand-clasp.

"Well, son," drawled Hugh, "I'm sure glad to see you again. It's a long time since we've met, and I reckon we'll have lots to say to each other, now that we've got together again."

"You bet we will, Hugh," cried Jack; "and we can't begin too soon, according to my notion."

A moment later their talk was interrupted by Charley Powell, who, slapping Jack vigorously on the back, told him to take off his saddle and turn his horse loose, for he was going to take the horses over and turn them into the cávaya. Jack unsaddled and let his horse go, and then Hugh said to him:

"Go get your supper now, and after you've eaten, or while you're eating, come out here and set down. I want to see you and talk to you, even if your mouth is full and you can't talk to me."

Jack hurried to the cook's tent and presently returned with a plate heaped high with food, and a cup of coffee brimming over, so that the steaming fluid dripped from it at every step. He sat down and began to eat, while Hugh, whose pipe was now going well, began to talk.

"Well, son, you've surely growed a heap since we saw each other last. You're taller now, I reckon, than I am; but you ain't nigh so thick; the fact is, it looks as if it was about time for you to stop growing long, and begin to grow broad, but then I reckon there's time enough for that, maybe. Do you remember that last trip we made, when we went up over the ice in those high mountains in the main range? Do you remember the time Tony Beaulieu and his partners shot holes in the tent? And do you remember that Indian that stopped us over by the crossing of St. Mary's River and wanted whisky?"

"You bet I remember it all, Hugh," said Jack; "but I think what I remember best of all is the way you held Tony Beaulieu and how he burst out crying when he couldn't get away; and the way old Calf Robe quirted those Indians that had stopped us."

"Yes, that sure was a good trip," replied Hugh; "but, then, I don't know as it was better than a whole lot of other trips we made. That first time, when we went up to the Piegan country, when you counted a coup, and you and Joe found that sack of gold; that must have been a dandy trip for you, because you were so much younger, and because everything that you saw was new and strange and exciting.

"Now this summer you're going to have a mighty quiet time, I reckon, with plenty of hard work; nothing to see, except ride circle, getting in at night feeling as if your feet belonged a yard apart; then maybe going out on night herd, and serenading these cattle, if a storm comes up and they get anyways uneasy. No, you can't expect to have much happen in a cow camp."

"Oh, I don't know, Hugh," laughed Jack; "there are lots of things that can happen out in this country yet. Of course, there's not much except hard work and grief that happens in a cow camp, and yet there's some excitement in riding and roping, and there's always a chance that we may run across a bear and have some fun with him."

"Well," Hugh replied, "the country is getting pretty quiet now. Maybe it's because I'm getting old, and maybe it's because I've seen a good many things happen, but I certainly don't get excited the way I used to."

By this time Jack had finished eating. Putting his things together, he carried them back to the cook's tent, and then returned to Hugh, and sat down close beside him.

"Well, Hugh," he said, "there was something happened yesterday that I want to tell you about; though I shouldn't say anything about it to anybody else, unless it gets to be talked about. You speak about the country being in a bad way and no good any more, and sometimes I think you're right. Now something happened yesterday over at Powell's that I wouldn't have believed could have taken place in a country where there are men, and American men at that! It isn't a thing I want to talk about, but I do want to tell you about it, and to ask you whether you think what I did was right. I am not doubtful about it myself, but I'd like to have your opinion, too."

With that Jack opened his heart and told Hugh all the events of the day before.

The story finished, Hugh sat for some time without speaking, looking at his pipe which had gone out while he listened. At last he raised his eyes.

"Well, son, I think that what you did was the wisest possible thing to have done. Of course you didn't have much choice in the matter. You were bound to do whatever Mrs. Powell and little Bess said that they wanted done, but as it happens what they wanted done was the best thing that could have been done. It surely would have been mighty uncomfortable for those two women—as nice women as I ever saw—to have a man lynched on their account, as you might say, right close to the house. It was up to you to help them out of that scrape, and you did it sensibly and well. I'm not a mite surprised at Bessie's killing that man. She's a mighty smart little girl; thinks quick and acts quick. I expect if she hadn't shot as she did, there's no telling what amount of deviltry those two men might have been up to."

"You're right, Hugh, she's plucky and a good shot, and she must have been mighty quick to think what to do; but, I tell you, it made her feel mighty bad to be obliged to do it, and for a while after she had shot she looked as white as a ghost."

"Davis?" reflected Hugh. "I am trying to see if I can't recollect that name. What sort of looking fellow was the one that got killed?"

"He looked like 'most anybody else, except that he had a more or less hooked nose, and a black mustache. Mrs. Powell said that his eyes looked sharp and snappy, and sort of cruel; but of course I didn't see his eyes."

"I was wondering," said Hugh. "Years ago, down in old Nebraska, I used to know a cow puncher named Bill Davis, and he might have been this man. The description fits him well enough, but I don't know as it makes much difference, seeing he's dead. You say you didn't find any letters or papers on him."

"Nothing; nothing except a pipe and tobacco and matches, and a little small change."

"Of course, you don't know anything of what become of the other fellow?"

"Nothing more than what I have told you," said Jack. "He started for the railroad, and that's the last I saw of him."

"I don't believe you ever will see him; unless he writes you for the fifteen dollars you owe him. He may do that; but, somehow, I think likely he'll be too scared even to do that."

"I don't know," replied Jack; "he seemed mightily afraid of the business end of the six-shooter, but he didn't seem very much afraid of me; he seemed kind of sorry rather than afraid. Well, it's Powell's business, and not mine, and I am not going to say anything about it. If he wants to speak of it, all right."

"I've heard of mighty few people getting into trouble by keeping their mouths shut," said Hugh, "but of a whole lot that have come to grief from talking too much. You'll be all right, I think, to keep quiet."

Jack stood up.

"I guess I'll go over and speak to Mr. McIntyre, and get my work laid out for the next two or three days," he said. "He may want me to go on night herd to-night. I suppose there are plenty of fellows who will be mighty glad to get off."

Jack's guess was a good one. The round-up foreman was glad to see him, of course—glad to get a new hand, and a fresh hand. He told Jack that the best thing he could do now would be to go out and catch up a horse and take his turn at night herd until 10 o'clock. Then he could come in and get five or six hours' sleep before they started to ride in the morning. The cávaya had just been brought in; and Jack, taking his rope, went out and caught one of his string and brought it in and saddled it. Pawnee would have been the horse chosen, but Pawnee had already carried him from Powell's to the round-up, and Jack thought the horse entitled to a little rest.

The night was calm and pleasant, and there seemed no reason to suppose that anything would disturb the cattle, so only two boys were sent out to ride around them at present, relieving the four or five who had had charge of them during the latter part of the day, who had now brought them together and waited until they had finally lain down and were peacefully chewing the cud under the stars, just then coming out.

Tulare Joe was Jack's companion: a new acquaintance, but a nice looking fellow, whose name suggested that he came from somewhere in California. He was a man eight or ten years older than Jack, quiet, pleasant, soft-voiced, and apparently a rider. As the two approached the cattle they separated and began to ride around them; and one by one the other riders, as they met them, exchanged a word or two and turned their horses in the direction of the camp. Presently from the other side of the herd, Jack caught the sound of Joe's voice droning out a song, the words of which he could not hear; but later, when they were relieved by other boys, and were riding back to camp, he asked Joe to teach him the song. Joe said that he knew only one verse, which ran like this:

"Oh! the cowboy's life is a dreary one,
He works from dawn till the setting of the sun,
And then his work is left undone,
For his night herding then comes on.

"Sing, who-o, who-o, whoop; cows away;
He works all night and he works all day.
Whoop-i-wo; whoop-i-way;
For very poor chuck and darned poor pay;
Sing, whoop-i-whoa who-ay."

After a few days Jack caught the air of this, and thereafter often sang it when on night herd.

"I don't know why it keeps the cattle quiet," said Joe, "it certainly ain't the sentiment; and I don't believe it's the tune. I suppose like as not it gives them something to think about and keeps them from looking around, hunting for things to get scared at. Maybe, too, it gives them confidence when they think that the men and the horses are right close to 'em all the time. Anyhow, I've always heard about singing to the cattle ever since I first forked a horse, and I've seen sometimes, when cattle were mighty nervous and uneasy, when the singing seemed to keep them from breaking away."

Jack slept soundly that night and the call to grub came all too soon the next morning.

[CHAPTER V]
CUTTING AND BRANDING

The sun was just getting ready to look over the hills the next morning and the men were hastily bolting their breakfast, when the horse wrangler brought up the cávaya to the camp. Before this, some of the men had driven into the ground five stakes, four of them marking the four corners of a square of considerable size, with one stake between two of the corners, or on one side of this square. A sixth stake was driven out on the prairie a few yards from one end of the three stakes in line, and at right-angles to that line, thus

To the tops of these stakes, which were only three feet high, were tied ropes which when pulled tight would make a rope enclosure, complete on three and one-half of its sides, but with an opening between one of the corner stakes and the one standing between the two corners. From one of the corner stakes to the one standing alone on the prairie, ran another rope, making a sort of wing which would stop animals tending to walk by the corner, and would turn them into the opening.

Down on the plains in old times rope corrals were often made by tying ropes to the front and hind wheels of a wagon, and stretching them out at right angles to the length of the wagon. The horses were driven into this corral and then caught there. The Texas ponies of those earlier days were cunning little rascals and many of them had learned to put the nose down close to the ground and get the head under the rope and then raising the head to push out. Of course when one had got out and rushed away, the others would follow, pushing down the rope and getting free. Often the man who was holding the end of the rope, seeing a horse about to push under, would slacken the rope until it was under the pony's nose, and then, giving the rope a quick jerk, it would spring up and hit the horse, making him throw up his head. In the mountains such corrals were sometimes used, but as often those made with the stakes.

The cávaya was driven very slowly toward this rope corral and some of the boys ran out to it, one handling the rope which was to act as a wing and the others the ropes which ran from corner to corner of the corral. The horse wrangler drove his animals along at a walk and turned them into the opening of the corral, the men at the ropes raising them as the horses entered. The horses stopped and made no attempt to push against the ropes. After the whole bunch had entered the corral, the man at the wing rope walked around and stood by the middle one of the three stakes in line, thus completely closing the corral. Ducking under the ropes, the boys now went slowly and quietly into the enclosure, and caught the gentle horses, which, one by one, they led out and tied. Over the heads of any horses that were not willing to be caught, ropes were quietly tossed, and the horses led out.

Jack, who was taking part in all this work, was interested, as he had been so many times before, in seeing the remarkable change of demeanor in a horse, just as soon as it feels a rope on it. The animal may be wild and frisky—apparently untamable—in the corral, but let the rope drop over its head, and it is at once transformed into the meekest and most commonplace of animals.

Of course, this is not true of young colts that have not been broken, but the horse that has had a few falls, and has learned the power of the rope, always fears it.

When all the men had caught up their horses, and the ropes had been taken from the corral, the rest of the bunch were allowed to wander off, while the horse wrangler went to the cook tent to get his breakfast.

Now followed a scene more or less amusing and exciting, or irritating and tiresome, as one happened to look at it. Many cow horses, even though well broken, always object to being saddled, while some object both to being saddled and to being mounted. Now and then was found a horse that had to be blinded before he could be saddled; and occasionally one that refused to be bridled. The younger men shouted and made much fun of their fellows who had horses that were disposed to be nervous, or to object to the saddle.

The older men, when after some trouble they had succeeded in getting the saddles on their horses, and the cinches drawn, were likely to lead the animals up and down by a rope, and let them buck with the empty saddle.

The horse selected this morning by Tulare Joe was young, skittish and rather disposed to make trouble. When Joe approached him, carrying the blanket in his hand, he reared and sometimes came forward on his hind legs striking with his forefeet. The young man was cool and quick, and showed no impatience whatever, but after a few minutes' fruitless work of this sort he called to Jack, who was standing looking on, having saddled his own quiet horse, and asked him to bring his rope. As Jack approached, Joe called to him:

"The next time this horse goes up in the air catch him and throw him for me."

The opportunity came a moment or two later. Jack threw the rope, from a little behind the horse, caught it and gave a sidewise tug while the horse was on its hind legs. The animal fell heavily. Joe jumped on its head, while Jack quickly looped the lariat around its hind legs and tied the horse fast. Without the slightest sign of impatience, Joe lifted the horse's head, and bridled him, while Jack brought the saddle; and a moment later, having had the rope loosed which bound its feet, the half dazed animal stood up and in a few seconds was saddled.

"Much obliged, Jack," said Joe. "You saved me a little time, and have cut those fellows out of a whole lot of the joshing they would have given me while I was fooling with this horse alone. Then, too, you had added some to McIntyre's peace of mind. He thinks the horses brought on a round-up ought to be gentled before the round-up starts, and hates to see time wasted with a horse that is hard to handle."

"Well, Joe," was the response, "I like the way you handle your horse. Most of us lose our patience and kick and swear and pound a horse with a quirt; and that is something that does no good. I know years ago, when I was a little fellow, and was first out here, Hugh used to tell me that the main reason why a man was better than a horse was that he had sense, and if he didn't use his sense, why he wasn't of much account."

Joe laughed.

"You take it from me," he said, "that old man knows a heap, and if you've been traveling around with him for some years, like you say you have, I reckon that you know that a heap sight better than I can tell you."

By this time most of the men had already started out toward the large bunch of cattle now scattered over the prairie, feeding. McIntyre, the foreman, had given orders to the men as to where the various bunches were to be held, and the representatives of the different brands were talking with each other about this. In this bunch of cattle there were four principal brands, which must now be separated and divided into four herds, each one of which would be driven off by the representatives of the brand. Besides the cattle bearing these four brands, there were, of course, in the large bunch a number of strays—cattle that perhaps had wandered on to the range from a distance, or that had been dropped by some one driving a herd through the country, or that were owned by small people, the size of whose bunch did not justify them in sending a representative with the round-up. Of these strays many would be recognized by the cow men present. Those would be turned into the bunch of cut cattle that would pass nearest to the ranch of the owner, while others bearing brands unknown to any of the cow punchers would be kept with the biggest herd, turned out on the home range of that bunch, and perhaps watched for a while in the hope that an owner would turn up. If none was found, the stock association would be notified and the animal turned over to it.

As Jack and Joe drew near the big bunch, half a dozen men were circling around it, bringing it together in a close, compact mass, while two or three other riders were urging their horses among the cattle, scrutinizing the brand which each bore. Most of the cattle had completely shed their winter coats and were short-haired and smooth, so that the brands showed up well and could be read at a considerable distance.

It was interesting to Jack, as it is to every one who witnesses it, to see the trained cow horse follow an animal. There, for example, was a blue roan cow pushing her way through the thick mass of the herd, just ahead of the horse ridden by Rube. The horse was going at a trot and was close to the heels of the cow, which seemed to push always toward the place where the cattle were crowded thickest. Presently Rube got her out from the center of the herd and over toward the edge, and every time that she turned to go back toward the center the little horse, with ears pricked forward, dodged more quickly and got in her way. So, little by little, she was edged out to the border of the bunch; and then it was seen that, running close by her side and almost under her belly, was a strong and sturdy calf that must have been born in March or early April. As soon as the cow had reached the edge of the herd the little pony galloped forward, driving straight toward her except when she tried to break back, and then always getting in her way. Rube now swung his quirt over his head and presently the cow, giving up the struggle to return, started straight off over the prairie to a little bunch of the Sturgis' cattle that had already been brought together and that Hugh and another man were keeping by themselves. Just as the cow reached the edge of this little bunch, a cow puncher threw his rope and caught the calf's hind legs; the horse wheeled instantly and started on a quick gallop, dragging the calf over the prairie to a fire in which the branding irons were heating. Here two of the boys jumped down and held the calf; another snatched a hot iron from the fire and swiftly put the Sturgis brand on it. Then, it was turned loose, and hurried back to the little bunch from which its anxious mother trotted out with threatening calls, and after nosing it all over walked back into the crowd.

"THE COW STARTED STRAIGHT OFF OVER THE PRAIRIE."

—[Page 48]

Photo by Harry Mintz, Binghamton, N. Y.

McIntyre had detailed Jack to act through the day as one of the calf branders, and all day long he was busy roping calves, dragging them up to the fire and helping to hold them down, while some one clapped on the iron. It was not pleasant work—the smoke of singed hair rose from the animal's side, and the poor creature bawled piteously; but, after all, a great many painful and disagreeable things have to be done, and this was one of them.

As the day went by, and Jack got hotter and more thirsty and more dusty and more tired, he derived a little amusement from wondering what some of those eastern pilgrims, who had talked to him of the romance of the cowboy's life would think of that life if for one day they had to do the work that the cowboy has to do every day. No one can imagine the weary monotony of doing this work over and over again; the strength that it may take to hold the calf; the heat from the fires; the cloud of dust, grime and ashes among which one works; the constant trifling annoyances of being burned by a hot iron, being kicked by a frisky calf, or having one's hands hurt by the rope. All these things, combined with the physical force that is constantly called into play, make the work laborious and tiresome. The romance of the cowboy's life exists only in the imagination. Of course the boys are cheerful and merry, laughing and joking all the time, making fun of their own mishaps, or of those of their neighbors, and this constant flow of good spirits makes the work far lighter than it otherwise would be.

Now and then during the day, a little variety was offered by some cow that, pestered beyond endurance, at last refused to run any longer and turned to fight. Such a cow becomes at once a dangerous animal; and to get her calf away from her, unless it can be frightened into leaving its mother for a short distance, is sometimes difficult.

Jack met with such a cow, which, after wasting a little energy in charging him, contented herself with standing still and threatening with her horns, while the calf stuck close to her side. Two or three times Jack rode swiftly by her and threw his rope at the calf, but the little beast stood so close under its mother's side that in no case did the rope catch it. Jack tried to ride near enough to the calf to lash it with his rope, in the hope that this would start it out from its position of safety, but the attempt was a failure, and the second time he did this the cow charged him viciously. He wheeled his horse and got away, but the long horns swept so close that it gave him a moment's uneasiness lest his horse should be harmed. He whirled quickly to get back to the cow, thinking that possibly the calf might have been left behind, but this had not happened: it was still close to its mother.

About this time, Joe swept by him dragging a calf at the end of his rope, and a few moments later, after the calf had been turned loose, Joe returned.

"Why, here's my chance to pay you off for what you did for me this morning," he said to Jack. "Rope the old cow's horns and I'll take her hind feet and we'll stretch her."

No sooner said than done. In a moment Jack's rope settled over the cow's horns, and as she at first pulled back and then started forward, Joe very cleverly picked up both her hind feet and turned his horse the other way; instantly the cow was stretched out helpless on the prairie. Jack made his rope fast to the horn of his saddle, and left his horse to hold the cow while he ran back to her. Joe in the meantime rode forward toward the cow's head, thus bringing her hind feet up under her breast; and in a moment she was securely tied. The calf had run off a few yards, and stood there bewildered.

"There's your calf," said Joe, as he swung into the saddle again. "Go and brand him."

Jack freed his rope from the cow's head, rode over and caught the calf, and when it was branded, dragged it back to its mother. Then he untied the cow and, hopping into the saddle before she regained her feet, was soon off after another calf.

So the day went on: a long day filled with fun, jollity, laughter, provoking incidents and irritating happenings; so that at night when the men returned to camp they were all weary and enormously hungry. The representatives of each one of the four different brands drove off their cattle to some distance from the main herd, and watched them while they fed and drank, filling their bellies for the night.

A little later these representatives would be relieved by the night herders who now, with several herds to watch instead of one as the night before, would ride about and keep apart the different bunches.

Hungry and tired as they were, a number of the punchers, instead of going directly to camp, rode down in the stream-bed well below the camp and there stripping off their upper clothing whipped the dirt out of it as best they could, and scrubbed their white healthy bodies free from the dust that had sifted through their shirts. The effort to get the grime and sand from their hair was hopeless, except for those men who had been thoughtful enough before starting out on the round-up to have their hair clipped short, and of these there were only two or three.

By the time they reached camp, supper was ready, and it was a ravenous lot of cow punchers who scrambled for plates, cups, and knives and forks, and enjoyed the hearty, wholesome food that simmered on the fire.

At length, stuffed to repletion, Jack threw himself on the ground near Hugh.

"I feel like a boa-constrictor that has eaten an ox," he laughed.

"Well," replied Hugh, "I guess you're stuffed pretty full. It's hard work branding calves, and it's work that you ain't used to right now. It won't be so hard on you a week or two from this, when you've got more into the run of things."

"Of course you're right," said Jack. "I have not done any work just like this for a good while, and it does seem hard and tiresome now, but it's like 'most everything else: we'll get used to it after a while."

"I reckon you didn't see Vicente get chucked to-day, did you?" asked Hugh. "No," he went on, "I'm sure you didn't, because you were over there by the fire when it happened. He tried to throw a cow, and when he stopped his horse the saddle cinch broke and he went a-flyin'. It didn't hurt him none, but he was pretty mad."

"Why, how did it come to break?" asked Jack.

"That was the funny part of it. You know he only came in day before yesterday, and coming down through the mountains the night before he got here, they camped, and along in the night Vicente was waked up by hearing a porcupine walking around camp. Of course, he thought of his saddle at once, and got up out of his blankets. It was bright moonlight and in a minute he saw the porcupine close to his saddle. He grabbed up a stick of firewood—he had got in late and cooked his supper with just a few odds and ends of brush and limbs that he had picked up around camp—and with one of these sticks he went for the porcupine. The stick was no good and broke the first time he hit the animal, and it ran off into the brush.

"Vicente knew it would come back, and he got a stout club so as to kill it if it bothered him. Then he took his saddle to bed with him and tried to stay awake; but he didn't stay awake. Presently he heard the porcupine whimpering about his bed, and he jumped up and mighty soon pounded the life out of the beast. He looked at his saddle the next morning, and it seemed to him to be all right, and he rode down the hill with it and didn't have occasion to use it hard until to-day.

"When he looked at it, after he got chucked, he found that that blasted porcupine had just taken a nip or two at the string that tied the latigo to the ring of the saddle. Maybe there was a little salt in that string from the horse sweat, or maybe it was just an accident. Anyhow, the string was cut enough so that when a pull came the saddle flew, and Vicente with it."

"Well, I am glad that he killed the porcupine," said Jack. "They are pretty useless beasts, according to my way of thinking."

"I don't think much more of them than you do; but up in some parts of the North the Indians think they are about the finest eating there is, and I reckon the Indians' clothing in old times wouldn't have been half as fancy as it used to be if it hadn't been for porcupine quills. You know in old times, before the Indians got glass beads by trading with the white folks, they used to use quills and feathers and hair, and sometimes black roots, to ornament their clothes, and their lodges. Of course, they dyed the quills or feathers, and the roots too, all sorts of colors, and made their moccasins and leggings and shirts and robes real pretty."

"Yes," said Jack; "I have seen buffalo robes that were handsomely worked with quills; and up there in the Piegan country pretty nearly half the shirts, and a good part of the pipe stems, were ornamented with quills."

"That's so," said Hugh. "The Piegans are great fellows to use quills, and so are the Cheyennes."