Mrs. Carter looked out of the window. The children were all milling around, making a lot of noise, and at first she could not spy her daughter. Then she saw that they were crowding around some one in the center, and that some one was Charlotte. She was fighting a boy, and the others were egging them on.
For a moment, Mrs. Carter felt faint. Was this the sort of thing that went on in school? Why could not the teachers keep order?
Then she saw an object go flying through the air, and recognized it as her husband’s oldest felt hat, the one Charlotte claimed for her own and wore when she rode pasture. No wonder she was fighting if they had taken it from her. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not get that dirty old hat away from the girl. Then Mrs. Carter saw that the figures in the center of the ring were down on the ground, in danger of being stepped on. She covered her eyes with her hand—she couldn’t look any longer.
“Go!” she gasped. “Go out and stop it, before she gets killed.”
The teacher ran.
After it was all over and Mrs. Carter had had a drink of water from the pump, she went over to the group. All the shame and disgrace that she felt showed in her face.
There stood Charlotte, dressed not in the pretty new gingham dress, but in her oldest and dirtiest overalls, which she had found in the barn. Her hair ribbons were gone and her hair was half un-braided. She was twisting her father’s old hat round and round in her dirty hands. When Mrs. Carter looked at the girl’s face, she could not believe she was looking at her own daughter. The face was dirty, swollen and mottled. One eye, nearly closed, had a deep purple circle around it.
The children, Grace arid Bones among them, stood silent and looked on. The boy who had fought this tomboy-of-a-girl looked on too. He smiled a bloody smile, showing a gap in his gums where a tooth had been knocked out. His shirt was torn into shreds and hung limply down, exposing his skinny shoulder.
“Charlotte, where is your dress?” asked Mrs. Carter faintly.
“Hanging in the barn at home,” answered Charlie.
The children giggled.
“Why did you fight him?” asked Mrs. Carter. “Did he start it?”
“No, I did,” said Charlie. “He teased me. He said I twisted their old cow’s tail…and kicked her, too.”
“Did you tell him it wasn’t true?”
“But it was true. I did!” said Charlie. “I twisted her tail, to make her run. He teased me about it, so I fought him.”
The children started to giggle, but stopped.
“Who is he?” asked Mrs. Carter. “What’s his name?”
“Duffy! Mike Duffy! That’s who he is!” Charlotte grinned at the boy, and he grinned back.
Miss Price stepped forward. “Charlotte,” she said, “yesterday I told you not to come back to school until you wear a dress and act like a lady. Are you ready to do that?”
“No’m,” grunted Charlie. “I’ll stay home first.”
“You see, Mrs. Carter, how stubborn she is,” Miss Price went on. “I have no alternative. I cannot have her in the school.”
“I am sorry for the trouble she has caused,” said Mrs. Carter unhappily. “Charlotte, get your horse and go home. I will ride in the buggy with Grace and Benoni.”
CHAPTER V
The Wild Cow
“CAN I GO, PAPA, can I go?” begged Charlie.
“It’s too dangerous, Dan,” said Mrs. Carter. “What if she fell off or broke her leg? I don’t want my daughters to rough it like this.”
“Now, Beatrice, there’s no use imagining things,” said her husband. “Charlie rides well and there has to be a first time for everything, even a roundup. You couldn’t keep her indoors today if you roped and tied her. You might as well turn her loose.”
“Grown men often get thrown and killed,” said Mrs. Carter. “There was that Bradshaw boy, only eleven, who lost his life falling from his horse.”
“Can I go, Papa?” begged the girl. “I won’t fall off.”
“I won’t have you gathering cattle, hon—that’s men’s work,” replied her father. “No roping either. Understand? If I ever catch you trying to lasso a cow or a calf, I’ll paddle you good.”
“What can I do then?” asked Charlie.
“You can help drive the cows into the pens. I’ll be there to watch.”
“Oh, shucks!” growled Charlie, slouching out the door.
It was the day of the cattle dipping, and things began to happen fast. Breakfast was over by daylight, and the extra hands from town arrived early. Among them were Homer Barton and his father. The old man was an experienced cowpuncher and trail-driver, retired now. His son, Homer, had grown up in West Texas and thought he knew all about the cattle business.
Dan Carter gave the men their instructions. They started off for distant pastures to bring Dan’s cattle in first. Moe Carter and his cowboys would bring his herd over from headquarters before noon. Sam Reed, Tex McCloud and other neighbors would bring theirs later in the day.
Dan Carter had built the first dipping vat in the country. In recent years the ranch country had become infested with cattle ticks. Texas fever developed from tick bites on the animals’ bodies. Moe had lost ninety cattle from fever in two weeks in a previous summer. Now the government was cleaning up the range. All ranchers were required to dip their animals three or four times a year in a creosote mixture, which killed the ticks.
Charlie watched longingly as her father rode away. He called back to her: “Remember, a good cowboy obeys orders.”
“He won’t let you go?” There was red-faced Jake Duffy on a borrowed horse, trying to be a cow man. “Maybe you don’t ride fast enough, gal!”
Charlie stamped her foot, frowning. Jake had told on her and she hated him. After the men left, she slouched around the water lot, whistling. Not allowed to gather cows, not allowed to ride in the roundup. What was the use of having a horse of her own?
“Come on, Bones, let’s find something to do,” she said. “Let’s go over to the dirt tank and shoot cottontails. I’ll get Papa’s target. Come along, Ringo.”
“I don’t like shooting,” said Bones. “I’d rather fish.”
“All right, fish then.” Charlie went into the bunkhouse and brought out the twenty-two rifle and a fishing-pole and line. “Here’s a wasp nest that Gus knocked down—for your bait. The ground’s too dry for worms. I had to hunt for the gun shells. Papa keeps them hid, he’s so afraid we’ll waste ’em.”
The children walked over to the dirt tank. Weeds, grass and wild flowers were struggling to grow on the tank dump, because it was fenced off from the pastures. A few years before, wild flowers had also blanketed the pastures, but now they were bare. Flowers and grass grew only where water reached their roots.
“Let’s stay in the shade of the mosquito tree,” said Bones. “Then it won’t be so hot.”
“Mosquito tree don’t make enough shade for a snake to lie in,” said Charlie. She baited his hook, and he threw it into the water.
“Why do they call it a mosquito tree? Do mosquitoes grow on them?”
“Don’t know,” said Charlie. Her skimpy schooling had not taught her the difference between the words mesquite and mosquito.
“This big old mosquito tree is dead,” she went on. “No leaves at all. Everything’s going to dry up and blow away in this drouth.”
Benoni’s eyes opened wide. “The cows, the house, the windmills—everything?”
“Sure,” said Charlie. Then she added softly: “But it will rain long before that.”
Leaving Bones to his fishing, she took the twenty-two rifle and started around the tank dump, urging Ringo to hunt cottontails. But the dog lost interest and went back to the house. She saw a snake and said to herself: “Sure sign of rain, when you see a snake crawling.”
She crept close to a clump of prickly pear, where a nest of harmless coach snakes were curled up. She shot two of them in the head, then held them up. She knew she must not frighten Bones, so she called
out: “Look! They’re dead!”
But Bones had heard the shots, dropped his fishing pole and was running swiftly to the house. He would tell Mama, Charlie knew. She was not supposed to take Papa’s target unless he was with her. Quickly she returned to the water lot and put the rifle back in the bunkhouse.
She tried to think of a way to get rid of the snakes before they got her into trouble. She found some short pieces of baling wire and fastened them to the snakes’ tails. Out in the lot, she decided to hang them over the entrance gate. They would look fine up there. Two high posts at the sides were joined by a strong wire across the top. Charlie stood on the gate and hung the snakes on the wire, directly over the roadway. She wondered who would be the first person to drive under them.
She strolled around the lot again, hands in pockets, whistling. Why didn’t they bring the cattle in? Was nothing exciting ever going to happen? Gypsy was tired of waiting, too, tied to a hitching post. Charlie went over and patted the horse on her nose.
Then she saw Homer Barton come out of the barn. What was he doing there? Why wasn’t he out in the pastures helping? Homer wore shiny new cowboy boots that hurt his feet, and a fancy red shirt with embroidery on it. His Stetson hat was new and spotless. By his very dress, he set himself apart from the working cowboys.
As he hobbled across the lot, he saw Charlie and called out: “Hi, kiddo!” He came close and looked at her horse. “Where you a-goin’ on that one-eyed, hobblefooted, swaybacked nag? Out to a mud puddle to make mud pies?”
It goes without saying that every cowboy is loyal to his horse. Charlie was no exception. She loved Gypsy more than anything in the world. She glared at the young man. This was not her first encounter with him, so her wits were already sharpened.
“No, I’m roundin’ up cattle today,” she said calmly. “What you doin’, drugstore cowboy? Holdin’ down a fence rail?”
“Where can I get a cold drink, kiddo?” asked Homer. His face looked wan and white.
“I’ll get you one, sweetheart,” said Charlie. “How about a lemonade with ice in it?”
In a minute she was up on the porch. In another minute she was back, but she held a wash basin, not a pitcher, in her hands. Before Homer could look up, she had dashed its soapy contents into his face. Then she fled around the side of the house.
“You…you…!” sputtered Homer. A volley of angry words shot into the air, but the girl was gone. Homer went in the house and got a cup of coffee, then made his way slowly across the lot and out the rear gate.
Charlie crept back and sat down under the north kitchen window. It was shady there and she could watch Little Pasture and see when the cows came in. She leaned against the building and sighed. She was mad at everybody today. She was not having any fun at all.
She heard voices coming out of the open window. Grace and Mama were working and talking. Grace was making biscuits and Mama was setting the table in the dining room. It never occurred to Charlie that she ought to be in there helping.
“We call it a dining room,” said Grace, “but Aunt Eleanor says it’s a cattleman’s museum. City people don’t have bleached cow skulls and cow horns eight feet wide hanging on the walls to gather dust.”
Charlie could not hear her mother’s reply. Then Grace went on: “Why should Charlotte have a horse? I’d like to ride in the roundup too.”
“I need you here, daughter,” said Mrs. Carter. “With twenty-five or thirty people to feed, a lone woman in a ranchhouse…”
“The cowboys always help,” said Grace.
“They wash and dry their own plates,” said Mrs. Carter. “I’ll say that much for the cowboy—when he gets his dinner cooked for him, he feels he owes something to the cook. They are big-hearted fellows as a rule. Our cowboys have always shown me proper respect.”
“Uncle Moe ought to use his chuckwagon,” said Grace, “and let his cowboy cook do the work.”
“He uses it only on long drives, when they ship cattle,” said Mrs. Carter. “He expects me to feed everybody when they come here.”
“Maybe Mrs. Duffy will come and help you, Mama,” said Grace, “and then I could ride Clabber. The Duffys never miss a roundup, even if they aren’t cattle people.”
“I want you to help keep Mrs. Duffy out of my kitchen,” said her mother. “I can’t spare you today, daughter. I’m glad we have the fence around the yard, to protect my two pecan trees—cows will be everywhere. I never thought I could live without a garden. And now—the very thought of a flower garden is mutiny against the ranch. I’ve forgotten what a rose or a lily looks like. When we get running water in the house, it will be easier to water my little trees. All these years I’ve wanted a tree—a tree with shade for my children to play under.”
“There’s plenty of mesquites, Mama.” Grace laughed. “Do you think you can keep us cooped up inside the yard fence? Why, even Bones is running loose today. You’re keeping me fenced in, Mama. I’m the only one—and I’m the oldest.”
“I need your help, daughter.”
It was an unanswerable argument. The steady chant of gobbling turkeys, roosting on the fence, throbbed into the open kitchen windows.
“Those old turkeys go gobble, gobble, gobble all day long,” complained Grace. “They’re driving me crazy. Why can’t they roost out in that mesquite tree in the water lot?”
“Where the possums will get them?” answered Mama. “We want roast turkey for Christmas dinner.”
“Aunt Eleanor doesn’t see how we stand such things…”
“Put this bread on the window sill to cool,” said Mama. She bent over to take four large loaves out of the oven. She had baked sixteen in all for the roundup dinner. Grace set the loaves on the sill just over Charlie’s head. Their fragrant smell made Charlie hungry. She wished for a slice of fresh bread spread thickly with plum jam.
“Oh Mama! Mrs. Duffy’s coming,” Grace called out.
Charlie looked up. There was the Duffy horse and wagon coming across Little Pasture.
“Take her in the front room and try to keep her there,” said Mama.
“Something’s the matter!” cried Grace excitedly. “Her horse is shying and won’t come in the gate. There! Gus is helping her. She’s turned around and they are all getting out of the wagon. Ringo’s barking at her.”
Mrs. Carter looked out of the window too. Charlie crouched close to the house, so they would not see her. She smiled to herself. This was fun. This was better than she had hoped for. Mrs. Duffy’s old horse had shied at the hanging snakes and refused to walk under them. Charlie giggled. Then she saw that Gus had removed the dead snakes, and was bringing the horse and wagon into the horse trap, to be safe from the cattle.
“Snakes, by ginger!” cried Mrs. Duffy, rushing in the house afoot, with three little Duffy girls behind her. Grace and Mrs. Carter met her at the door. “Now whoever heard of puttin’ snakes up on a wire? You folks tryin’ to keep your neighbors from comin’ in? Well, you can’t stop me.”
Suddenly the air was filled with a muffled roaring, a sound like distant thunder, coming closer and closer.
“Grace, I hear the cattle coming,” said Mrs. Carter. “Run quickly and shut all the windows. We must try to keep the dust out of the house.”
The window above Charlie’s head closed with a bang, and she heard no more. She crept over to the fence on all fours, jumped it, scattering turkeys right and left, and mounted Gypsy. At last the excitement had begun. Charlie was not going to miss any part of it.
She rode out into the lot and passed the cement dipping vat and the pens. Cattle were streaming from all directions into the rock corral. The pasture swarmed with moving, bawling cattle. The men on horseback passed back and forth among them in a great cloud of dust.
Dan Carter saw the girl on her horse.
“Go stand under that live-oak tree and wait,” he shouted.
“Can’t I ride? Can’t I do something?” she yelled, but he did not answer. There was nothing for her to do but watch. A good cowboy
does what he is told. She knew that.
The cattle were stronger now, after a month of feeding on brush. Her father went over to the pens, and she lost sight of him among the animals. Twenty-five or thirty head were run into the crowd pen, and the gate was closed behind to keep them from backing out. They did not like to jump off into the vat. Getting them through the chute into the vat was a difficult job. Cowboys lined both sides with prod poles to keep them moving.
Bud Whitaker stood at the top of the exit steps to keep the cattle from turning backwards. As soon as one batch was run through, another was let in. The dipped cows went into two drain pens to dry off, before being returned to their home pastures. The excess dip ran off the rock floor through drain pipes back to the vat. The dip had to be saved, because it was expensive.
After Dan Carter’s cattle were run through, there was a short lull. He came over to talk to Charlie and rest awhile. Then Moe Carter’s herd appeared, milling and bawling. One of the cows was unmanageable, always going in the wrong direction.
“Take after her, boy!” called Uncle Moe. He did not know that the “boy” was Charlie. “Don’t let her run off in the thickets again.”
The girl looked toward her father, who nodded. “Take after her, hon! See what you can do.”
The next minute Charlie was after the stray cow. Gypsy seemed to know just where to go. They dashed ahead of the cow and turned her back to the pens. Suddenly Charlie saw Homer Barton chasing the cow too. With a whoop and a flourish, Homer on his big, strong black horse, was getting his rope ready. Charlie wished her father would let her have a rope to throw.
“She’s my cow!” yelled Charlie. “You let her alone.”
But Homer did not hear. He roped the cow and dragged her into the pen. Disgusted, Charlie rode up to the fence and watched. Dan Carter had gone back to the dipping vat.
The cow, an outlaw, got up and started to fight. Homer could not get the rope off of her. Homer’s new, spotless Stetson went flying through the air and landed in the dust, trampled by many hoofs. Other men came, roped the cow again and threw her to the ground. When she fell, the men got on her and held her, while Homer took the rope off. Then they turned her loose quickly and ran for the fence. Soon she was prodded into the vat. When she came out dripping, she was completely tamed.