Hank tried his best to cough, and said weakly, “By dogies, I don’t know if I can make it, Watt. I’m feelin’ mighty, mighty poorly. But with you a-bein’ short-handed I’ll try my best to get out and around.”
“Reckon that would be a good idee!” Mr. Bendt told him. “I’ll want you at the corrals right after dinner.”
There was a tone in Mr. Bendt’s voice that I hadn’t heard before, and he didn’t speak again until we were out at the horse corral. Then he told Ned and me, “Get your saddles on your best horses, boys. We’ll start at the north end and sweep everything this way. ‘Fore the week’s out we’re goin’ to put every critter on the home place through the corrals. Batch wants everything booked, the young stock put up to the mountains, and a hundred and twenty head o’ trade stock cut out and ready by Sunday. We’ll round up forenoons and cut after dinner.”
The sun was just rising when Mr. Bendt, Ned and I reined onto the north trail at a good sharp canter, and we didn’t slack off till we reached the north fence—seven miles from the buildings. And when he’d said we were going to “sweep” the cattle, he’d used just the right word.
On open range, where a steer can be seen for a mile, cattle can be rounded up and driven in big herds. But in brush country they have to be swept out of each canyon, draw or hollow, the way a woman sweeps out the rooms of her house. And you have to sweep around every thicket and clump of scrub oak the way she sweeps around the furniture.
We started with the canyons in the far northwest corner of the home ranch, right up against the front range of the Rockies. Mr. Bendt did the planning and bossing, but he did an awful lot of the riding, too—and he put his sorrel down canyon sides that looked too steep and rocky for a mountain goat. We worked every canyon separately, with Ned on one side, me on the other, and Mr. Bendt all over it. He was always bringing out cattle we’d missed, but he never blamed us and he never shouted. Around the corrals his voice was deep and rumbly, but in the brush he raised it just enough to make it carry. From a quarter of a mile away, it would come as clear as a bell, “Above you, boy!” “Catch that side pocket!” “Watch it, Ned; they’re turning back below you!” or “Leave any cows with calves, but mark ’em down in your head!”
As we swept each canyon clean, we drove the cattle we’d found past the mouth of the next canyon, to graze along and be joined by the next sweeping. Pinch’s shadow was so short it was hidden under his belly when Mr. Bendt called, “That’s got it, boys! We’ll head on in to the corrals!”
Outside of orders, Mr. Bendt hadn’t said anything to me all forenoon. But when we had the herd lined out and moving toward the corrals, he slowed his horse as he rode by me, and said, “’Pears like Hazel done a pretty good job o’ learnin’ you to find cattle in brush country.”
“Yes, sir, she’s a good teacher,” I said, and he rode on.
It was nearly four o’clock when we brought that first sweeping in to the corrals, but Mr. Bendt must have planned it that way. As soon as the gate was closed, he said, “Better get washed up and to the chuckhouse, boys. Grub’s on the table.” Then he looked at me and said, “Eat hearty; you still got a big day’s work ahead!”
I don’t think I looked up from my plate once during dinner. I was too busy eating and thinking about the day’s work that was ahead of me. I knew what it would be, and had trouble to keep from being afraid of it. There was every kind of cattle in the sweeping we’d brought in, and the only cutting horse on the place was in my string. I ate enough, but I didn’t stuff. A stomach-ache, to go along with my lame legs and Clay, was something I couldn’t take a chance on.
Hank hadn’t come to the table, and I hadn’t seen Hazel since the night before, but when Jenny brought in the pie, Mr. Bendt said, “Tell Hazel to fetch the herd book and a pencil out to the corral, and tell Hank I’m ready for some gate tendin’! Gettin’ his legs under him won’t do him no hurt, and might work a little of the wind out of him, so’s we can eat a meal o’ vittles in peace.” Then he looked at me and said, “Throw your saddle on Clay; I’ll be at the cuttin’ corral!”
I ate my pie in about six bites, then hurried to the bunkhouse and rubbed plenty of liniment on my legs. When I’d saddled Clay and ridden to the cutting corral, everybody else was there and ready to work. Hazel was sitting on a little platform by the cattle pens with a book open on her lap, Hank was leaning against one of the gates, and Mr. Bendt and Ned were mounted—ready to take away the cattle as they were cut from the herd. Mr. Bendt opened the gate for me to ride in, and told me, “With only one man on the gates, we’ll have to take ’em by kinds. Take the young stock first; pick ’em off the outside of the herd as long as you can!” Then he turned back and stood his horse beside Ned’s.
There were about sixty cattle in the corral, and they were jammed into a far corner. I’ve heard that a drowning man thinks of a million things in less than a minute. If it’s so, I was pretty close to drowning as Clay walked slowly toward that herd. From the way Mr. Bendt had spoken and acted, I knew I’d have to sink or swim without any help. And in the minute it took Clay to reach the herd, I’d thought of every thing Mr. Batchlett, Mr. Bendt, Hazel, or my father had ever taught me—and I think I prayed a little—but over it all, I kept telling myself, “Stay loose! Stay loose! Stay loose!”
I don’t know what helped the most, but I must have had help from somewhere. One after another, Clay took the animals I wanted out of the herd, and when he dodged and side-slipped I didn’t feel as if I’d be spilled at every turn. I knew the job I was doing was far from perfect, and I tightened up a good many times when I shouldn’t have, but, for the first time since I’d tried to use him, Clay didn’t act as if he thought I was a stupid fool.
As I cut each animal from the herd, Mr. Bendt rode his horse in behind Clay and took it away. As he and Ned drove it toward the gate, he’d call to Hazel, “Yearling heifer—roan—Shorthorn! Durham steer—short yearling—good grade!” or “Bull—White Face—herd grade—long yearling!”
I knew that marking down the cattle wasn’t all Hazel was doing—that she was watching every move Clay and I made. And I could almost see her keeping score of my mistakes. Each time I tightened up or made a mistake, I wanted to peek up to see if she’d noticed it, but I didn’t let myself do it until I had the last yearling cut out and turned over to her father. Then, when I did look up, she didn’t say a word. She just let her shoulders slump loose, grinned, and nodded her head. I don’t know why, but it made a lump come into my throat. If she’d shouted that I was staying loose and doing a pretty fair job, she couldn’t have told me any plainer.
My nerves were zinging when Mr. Bendt turned back from the last yearling and rode toward me. “All right,” he said: “now we’ll cut out the trade stock! I’ll call ’em to you as I want ’em! Fetch that two-year-old White Face bull that’s tryin’ to pick a fight! Watch ou . . .” Then, without finishing, he reined his horse away and stood it beside Ned’s. If he’d gone on and said, “Watch out for his horns,” it wouldn’t have hurt my feelings. But his not saying it made me pretty happy—just having him show that he didn’t think I needed to be told.
It’s easy to stay relaxed when you’re fishing or just watching a herd of cattle graze, but it’s hard to do when your nerves are humming like a telegraph wire on a cold night. I’d been keeping an eye on that White Face bull ever since Ned flushed him out of a canyon, and there was no question about his being ugly and looking for a fight. I wasn’t exactly afraid of him, but he outweighed Clay by five hundred pounds, and had wide, forward-curved horns. If that kind of a bull charges and gets his head under a horse, he can throw it as if it were a sack of meal—and the rider has about as much chance as a fat pig at a barbecue.
I was telling myself, “Keep loose! Keep loose!” as I turned Clay to face the herd. The White Face bull watched us with his head low, grumbling deep in his throat, and pawing dirt high over his back. I let Clay take a couple of steps straight at him, so he’d know which animal we were after, the
n drew him off a trifle to get behind and push the bull out. We didn’t need to get behind; when we were within two lengths of him, the bull charged.
Quicker than the shot of a pistol, Clay sidestepped the rush and was between the bull and the herd. I let the reins go loose, grabbed the horn, and from then on things happened too fast for me to remember. I do know that the bull charged us at least a dozen times, and that Clay used his own body to twist him and turn him—the way a matador uses his cape in bull fighting. And I know one other thing: that was the first time I ever really got that feeling Mr. Bendt had told me about—the one about dancing with your best girl.
I never knew a horse could whirl, weave, twist, and bounce away as fast as Clay did with that charging bull. But my muscles stayed loose, and the saddle stayed under my bottom all the way. I was getting just a little bit dizzy when Clay yanked the bull around in a turn that was shorter than its own body. It must have made the bull even dizzier than I, because all the fight went out of him. He stood with his head and tail down as Mr. Bendt rode in to take him away. I don’t think Mr. Bendt had noticed me once during the whole fight. When he rode past, he was slipping a six-shooter back into its holster, and all he said was, “Lot o’ horse, ain’t he, boy?”
I was proud to have my voice steady when I said back, “Yes, sir, an awful lot! What animal do you want now?”
I don’t know whether Mr. Bendt picked that bull on his first call just to get him out of the herd, or if he did it to let me find out that I’d finally got the hang of Clay—and maybe of myself a little bit. Whichever way he intended it, it worked the second way. From then on I never had to tell myself to stay loose in the saddle, and I was never afraid again. It was in that fight with the bull that the first real understanding began between Clay and me.
One after another, Mr. Bendt called for the cattle he wanted, and as we brought them out he called the description to Hazel. I didn’t look up at her until the last of the trading cattle had been cut out of the herd, and then she just grinned and nodded.
The sun was nearly two hours from setting when we began cutting out the brood cows that would be turned back to pasture after the sweep was finished. Most of them were beginning to be heavy with calf, and the job of cutting them away from the herd was easy—now that Clay and I understood each other better. We were about half through the cutting when Kenny came riding to the corral gate on his donkey. He called something, and I heard Mr. Bendt call back, “Tell her to get the grub on the fire! We’ll be through a lot earlier than I reckoned on.”
I glanced up at Hazel while they were talking, and she pointed back and forth between herself and me, then at her father. I guessed that she wanted me to ask him if we could go and practice when we’d finished with the cattle. After his having told me he’d give me a bellyful of riding, I didn’t like to ask, but Hazel kept motioning. So, when I brought the last cow out of the corner, I asked, “Would it be all right for Hazel and me to practice the horses a little while after supper?”
Mr. Bendt’s face had been serious all day, but when I asked him it brightened up, and he said, “Betcha my life! Betcha my life, boy!”
He started to ride away, then turned back and said quietly, “Reckon you’d best to do it ’fore we eat. Hazel’s maw might not cotton to her goin’ out after supper. If I was you, I don’t reckon I’d say much about this trick-ridin’ business ’round the house. How’s the gal doin’?”
“Fine,” I said. “I’m sorry she got bruised up so much, but it won’t be safe for her to try the diving trick till she can stay loose in the saddle on quick stops.”
For a few seconds Mr. Bendt sat as if he were trying to make sense out of what I’d told him. Then he just said, “Betcha my life! Make her learn it good!” and rode away.
All the way to the practice meadow, Hazel was as bubbly as soapsuds. We’d hardly hit the north trail when she called back, “I got it all learnt! I learnt it this afternoon when you was riding Clay—and you done . . . did fine!”
“Maybe I’m getting the hang of him a little bit,” I called back. “But what was it you learned?”
“How to keep loose; what else is there to learn?”
“Not much,” I told her, “but I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, I do! All I got to do is to not let myself know I’m goin’ to say, ‘Tsssst!’ till I hear it. That way I won’t get scairt and tighten up.”
“It would work if you could do it,” I told her, “but I don’t see how that has anything to do with my riding Clay.”
“That’s what you was doin’—right clean up to the time you had the fight with the White Face bull—not lettin’ yourself know you was scairt. I seen it plain as daylight.”
“Well, I don’t know how you could see what I was thinking,” I called back, “but I guess you’re pretty near right.”
“I knew it!” she squealed, as if she’d just found an ostrich egg. “I knew it, and I know something else you don’t: Paw was holding a gun on that bull all the time you was fighting him. And he’d have pulled the trigger, too—with all he thinks of them . . . those purebreds.”
There wasn’t any need for Pinch and me to practice the running and stopping. With the lines draped over the horn, he’d always set his feet at the first sound of the hiss, and all I got out of it was a pounding against the pommel. But I couldn’t just sit back and let Hazel practice alone, so when we reached the meadow, I said, “Why don’t we trade horses for tonight? Then you won’t have to think about stopping Pinto, but only about staying loose in the saddle.”
“No, sir! No such of a thing!” she snapped. “When I do the trick for Paw and Batch to see, I’ll be doin’ it off Pinto, and I ain’t going to take no easy horse now! And besides, I’ll do all the hissing from now on, ’cause I’ll have to be doing it for myself when I really do the whole trick.”
I don’t think Hazel had learned a thing from watching me ride Clay, but that she’d thought so much about staying loose that she’d taught it to her muscles. However it worked, we made a dozen runs without her tightening up but once, and Pinto behaved a lot better than he ever had before. That was as much as I’d let her do, because I didn’t want her to get bruised any more than she had to—and I didn’t want her father to tell me again that he’d give me a bellyful of riding.
16
Now, Mr. Man!
EVERY day that week we swept in a corralful of cattle in the forenoon, and cut them out after dinner. Each day I learned the work a little better with Clay—and each evening Hazel and Pinto went through a dozen practice runs without a bobble. But the best part of my days came after everyone else had gone to bed.
When I was unsaddling Pinch after Monday’s practice, Lady came to the corral gate and nickered softly to me. It made me ashamed of myself. I’d been so busy with Pinch and Clay that I hadn’t paid any attention to her since I’d abused and lamed her. I was still thinking about her when we were finishing supper, and put two biscuits in my pocket, because she always liked them.
After Ned and Hank had gone to the bunkhouse, I went back to the corral gate and whistled to Lady. By that time it was full dark and the moon hadn’t come up, so I couldn’t see her, but she nickered and came to me. I broke one of the biscuits into small pieces and stood for quite a little while, scratching her forehead as I fed them to her, and telling her I was sorry I’d been so rough with her.
As my eyes grew more used to the darkness, I could see that several other horses had come over, and that Clay was among them. I would never have thought of taking him a biscuit or that he would like to be petted. But I was feeling happy about the way we’d worked together that afternoon, so I opened the gate, went in, and walked slowly toward him. He moved away just as slowly, so I stood still—just holding out a piece of biscuit and speaking quietly. Clay stopped when I did, stood for a couple of minutes, then inched toward me. He let me scratch his head and shoulders as he took pieces of biscuit from my hand.
While I was
petting Clay, there was a snort from behind me, and when I looked around I could make out the shape of Pinch’s jug head. He didn’t back away when I went toward him with a piece of biscuit held out, but kept his ears back, and snatched the pieces out of my hand as if he were letting me know that he didn’t want any petting.
I was probably with the horses for half an hour, then, when I was going to the bunkhouse I began to feel ashamed of myself again. Blueboy was my horse just as much as any of the others—except Lady—but I hadn’t even bothered to look for him. Instead of going to the bunkhouse I went back to the chuckhouse, and rapped on the kitchen door. After a minute, Mrs. Bendt opened it and said, not too pleasantly, “Yes. What is it you want?”
I hadn’t expected her to be cross, and sort of stammered, “Nothing. I was . . . I was just wondering if there was an extra biscuit left over from supper.”
Mrs. Bendt stopped scowling, and said, “Why, you poor little boy! Didn’t you get enough supper? You come right in the kitchen here while I get you a piece of pie and some milk! No wonder you’re starved after the way Watt’s worked the daylights out of you today!”
For a minute I didn’t know what to say or do. I couldn’t tell her I wanted the biscuit for Blueboy, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say that wouldn’t sound silly. Finally I stammered, “Well, it . . . it isn’t for me, and I’m not hungry, and I didn’t work very hard today. I just like to keep a biscuit on hand for . . . sometimes I used to give one to Lady—that’s my horse—when we were at home.”
“Well, for pity’s sake!” she said, as if she thought I must be half crazy. “Who ever heard of feeding biscuits to horses? But you wait a minute; I think there was four or five of ’em left over from supper—if Jenny didn’t throw ’em in the hogs’ bucket.”