CHAPTER XIV.
A MIGRATION.
All that summer John tended the work stock, keeping them together ongood feeding ground during the short night and driving them into campsoon after daylight.
Much of this work was very pleasant; the two herders, Curran and John,met regularly and many were the long talks and interchanges ofexperiences they enjoyed.
The rainless summer nights were cool enough to be refreshing and yetwarm enough to make the time spent in the open air delightful. But whenrain came all this was changed. The horses became nervous and restlessand required constant watchfulness and continual riding, regardless oftreacherous foothold and hidden, water-filled prospect holes. The long,yellow "slicker" or oilskin coat, being cut deep in the back and hangingover the rider's legs to his spurred heels, served but poorly to keepout the driving rain, and by morning he was fairly soaked. Arriving incamp with his dripping charges, he would dismount stiffly, and after ahalf-cold breakfast crawl into a damp bed under an oozing tent.
John, however, learned to take things as they came, good or ill,gathering valuable experience from right and left. Curran was a horsemanof long standing, and gave the fast-maturing boy a great many pointsthat served him in good stead later in life. He taught him how to detectany uneasiness in the stock that might grow into fright and start astampede; how to check this by voice and by constant active presence;and, above all, by force of example he showed that only through quickthought and unhesitating exposure of himself to danger could harm to hischarges be averted. By nature courageous, almost to recklessness, Johnlearned these lessons unconsciously.
And so the summer passed--herding horses at night, sleeping and panninggold by day. By the latter operation he was able to add, on an average,fifty cents a day to his hardly princely income of seven dollars a week.
As the warm season drew to a close, the night wrangler's work becamemore of a hardship and less a pleasure; only by dint of constantexercise and a roaring fire was the life made endurable. The night'swork over, horse and rider would come in stiff with cold and notinfrequently wet as well.
"Well, kid, the outfit breaks camp this week," said cook to John onecold, wet morning in November as he slid off his patient beast. "Here'syour coffee; keep it out of the wet."
"Can't break any too soon for me," said John, sipping the steamingbeverage and clinging tightly to the tin cup with both hands for thesake of the warmth it contained.
"Must be pretty tough this time o' year," said cook sympathetically."More coffee?"
"You bet," answered the other. "I couldn't stand it if I wasn'tall-fired tough. I'll have to be tough if I go range-ridin' thiswinter."
Curran put this thought into his head, where it had been growing untilit became a resolve.
"So you're goin' range-ridin', eh, kid?"
John nodded and asked the cook where he was going.
"Well, I'll tell yer," he said, stopping to wipe his hands on the flourbag that served for an apron, "I'm goin' straight back East where myfolks live; soon's I get back to town I'm goin' to buy a railroad ticketEast and go right off."
"Good enough," said John confidently, but rather sceptical at heart, forhe knew of many men whose good resolutions melted under the direfulinfluence of the first glass of whiskey that went down their throats."Well, I'm off to bed," he concluded, making for the bed that Frank hadvacated but a little while before. He knew he needed all the rest hecould get. The following morning, as he came near the collection oftents with the horses, he heard Murphy shouting: "Rustle round now,boys; get the cook outfit loaded, the tents down, and your beds rolledup--quick. We'll be in town by noon."
The work was taken up with such a will that John barely got his share ofcoffee, bacon, beans, and bread before the cook's stores were stowedaway ready for travelling.
It was a very different crowd that now set out for the town, and yet itwas the same lot of men. Nine months' heavy, open-air work had dispelledweakness and brought strength, had replaced bad temper withcheerfulness, and had, moreover, filled pockets with Uncle Sam's goodcoin.
Frank and John, his chum, again sat on the scraper that trailed behind awagon, not now for fear of contact with ill-tempered, almost desperatemen, but for the sake of comparative quiet and to escape the practicaljokes that none in the wagon could avoid.
"Well," said Frank, "would you rather wrestle dishes in Helena orwrangle horses in the open?"
"I'd rather wrangle than wrestle," said John, taking the cue with alaugh, "weather or no; and I'd like to go out again soon."
On reaching town the men parted company, each to seek the pleasure thatmost attracted him. John at once hunted up Tom Malloy, who was stillprosperous and evidently glad to see him.
"Well, kid, how did you get along?" he said, in his old, familiar,kindly way. The boy first paid him for the saddle he had borrowed, towhich he had become accustomed and attached, and then told in detail ofhis experiences.
"Do you want to get back to pot-wrestling?" asked Molloy at length.
"No; not on your life!" and John told him of his liking for work in theopen and his distaste for town life.
"Right you are, kid," said Tom encouragingly, "the town's no place foryou, or for me, either," he added rather sadly. "I'll be done up someday"--a prophecy which proved but too true.
John and Frank took lodgings together, and for a time did nothing buttravel round the town, noting the changes that had been made since theyhad been away and taking in such cheap amusement as the place offered.It was on one of these jaunts round the streets that John met hisfriend the cook, blear-eyed, slouchy, and dirty, the bold mustache hewas usually so proud of drooping dismally.
"Why, cook, I thought you were in the East by this time," said theex-wrangler, remembering the solemn resolution confided to him a fewdays before.
"No, I just stopped for one drink and that settled it," confessed theother. "Haven't a quarter to buy a dinner with now."
John took him to a restaurant and fed him.
This was the first of a series of encounters with ex-campmates. Thefirst feeling was one of wonder and disgust that the demon of drinkcould make such short work of a man; and then came the fear that theconstant drafts upon him would use up his small savings.
"Frank," he said one day, "I've got to get out of this or I'll be stonebroke; do you know of any fellow that will take me on a range?"
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Oh," said John, "this gang takes me for the treasurer of an inebriates'home, I guess, and will soon scoop every cent I've got."
"That's it, eh?" returned Bridges. "Well, I'll go down the Missouri withyou. I'm pretty well acquainted a hundred and fifty miles or so below,and I know where I can go range-ridin' for a big cattleman any time."
"If you think you can work me in, I'll go," exclaimed the younger. "I'llbuy that sorrel cayuse from Murphy. I can get him for fifteen, I guess,and we'll go to-morrow-that is, if you can work me in." This last wasspoken rather dubiously, but Frank assured him that he would fix itsomehow, and the compact was sealed.
The balance of the day was spent in getting their outfit ready. Frankwas already provided with horse, saddle, and bridle, and the otherappurtenances of the rider: chaps, spurs, oilskin slicker, and blankets.Some of these John possessed also, but he still lacked a horse; a fewsimple necessaries in the shape of a frying-pan, tin cups, coffee,flour, sugar, and the inevitable beans must be supplied for both. Thedicker for John's sorrel was made in short order, and by nightfall allthe outfit was complete. At daylight the following morning they werebusy making up the packs, and a hard job they found it, for nothingseemed to fit, and apparently there was enough stuff to load a wholetrain. It was made up at last into two packs and lashed securely behindthe saddles; they mounted and rode out of the fast-awakening town. Oneof the two at least was leaving it for a long time, to return undervery different circumstances. Nothing of this sort entered their minds,however, and they went out as unconsciously as if off for a half-day'strip.
/> Frank knew the country pretty thoroughly, having been over it once ortwice before, so it was plain sailing most of the time. Day after daythey travelled along at a dog trot--a gait that the Western horse cankeep up all day and one which a rider brought up to it finds perfectlycomfortable, but which would shake the teeth out of an Easterner. Thetrail was clearly marked, easily followed, and much of the way wideenough to allow the horsemen to ride side by side.
Though the two had been partners for several months they had seen butlittle of each other; during the day at the railroad camp Frank workedwhile John slept, and during the night the reverse was the case. Thiswas the first chance either had of really knowing the other, and bothwere well pleased. There was plenty of time and opportunity to talk, andthey soon found that they had plenty of acquaintances in common.
"Ever been to Miles City?" John said one day as they were trottingsteadily along. The leather of the saddles creaked and the cookingutensils made a regular accompaniment to the thudding hoof-beats.
EACH MAN TOOK HIS ROPE AND FLUNG IT OVER THE HORSE HEWANTED.
(_Page 281._)]
"Sure. Two years ago this spring."
"That was about the time Dick Bradford and Charley Lang shot each other,wasn't it?" John was referring to a "killing" that was famous thecountry round.
"Yes, and I was right there in Brown's place at the time."
"Tell me about it, Frank. Some say Bradford was to blame and some saythat Lang deserved it. I knew Charley Lang a little and thought him anice fellow."
"Well," said Frank, "it isn't a long story; it all happened the sameday, the quarrel and the killing. For some reason there was bad bloodbetween them; both had been drinking, and a little dispute was enough tomake them ready to pull their guns on each other."
"Charley was pretty quick with his gun," interpolated John, full ofinterest.
"So was Dick; but their friends took their shootin' irons away from 'em,and finally persuaded them to shake hands, and for a time there was nofurther trouble, but all the old hands feared that the business wouldnot end there. Both men came to Brown's place before supper. Maybe youknow the joint--a good many things have happened there, and Brownhimself could tell enough stories to fill a dozen dime novels."
John nodded.
"It wasn't very pleasant there then; the two were plainly looking foreach other's gore, and we all wished we could put a couple of hundredmiles between them. Well, anyway, Dick saw Charley and called him anugly name and then invited him to take a drink. He might have refused;that would have been bad enough, but he did worse, accepted, and tookthe glass in his left hand--which, as everybody knows, is a deadlyinsult, to accept a man's hospitality with your left hand, leaving yourright free to pull your gun."
"But I should think it might just happen so," suggested John.
"So it might, but Charley made his meaning clear by the look he gaveDick. Nothing occurred then--neither had a gun--but after supper theymanaged to get a six-shooter apiece and soon turned up at Brown's again.When I came in Charley was sitting on the end of the bar, talking to the'barkeep,' his hat on the back of his head, his legs swinging, the spurson his heels jingling when they touched--the most unconcerned man going.Dick was leaning against the wall the other side of the room. He wasmad clean through. A couple of fellers were with him, but they couldn'tstop him from jerking out his gun. He fired, but Charley had had his eyeon him and reached for his six-shooter. The same instant the ball hithim in the chest. He slid off the bar, but as he fell he fired twice,and both shots went through Dick's heart. Dick died right off andCharley lived only a few minutes--he died in my arms."
"What a way to die!" was the only comment John made.
"Those were the very last words Charley spoke," said Frank, more tohimself than to his listener.
"I guess Miles City was the toughest place going then," said the boy."Why, I was driving through the town with my father one day (that waswhen we were opening a big coal mine down the Yellowstone) and we wentunder a half-finished railroad bridge and there, hanging from the ties,were the bodies of three men. Lynched. Ugh!" John shuddered at theremembrance of it.
"Was that the case where there was some talk of the men being killedfirst and hung afterwards?" inquired Frank.
"Yes. There had been a row in Brown's place, and these three had beenput in jail, but during the night they were taken out and in themorning were found as we saw them. The regular vigilance committee hadnot done it, and the doctor said death first, hanged afterwards."
Both of these characteristic stories were common talk whenever a crowdgot together, but neither Frank nor John had heard the facts told by aneye-witness before.
It must not be thought all the conversation of these two was of thisblood-and-thunder variety. Frank had lived in the East, and marvellouswere the tales he told about the buildings, the people, and theirdoings. The two were so interested in each other, and what each hadseen, that the time passed very quickly, and so John was surprised whenFrank said late one afternoon: "See that blue range of hills aboutthirty miles ahead?"
John looked and nodded an assent.
"Well, Baker's ranch is right at the foot of them, and Sun River runsthrough it. That's where we're goin'."
The following morning they rode towards the ranch house, past the minorbuildings, the barns and sheds, past the hay stack, now bulging with itswinter store, past the inevitable horse corral, just then containingseveral horses which were circling round trying to avoid a cow-puncher's"rope." As they reached the ranch house proper--a low, single-storiedhouse built of logs and roofed with split logs covered with turf--achunky, white-haired man in overalls stepped out of the door.
"Hello, Mr. Baker," said Frank. "You see you can't lose me."
"Well, Frank, it's you, is it? I'm terrible glad to see you. How areyou?" Mr. Baker's greeting was cordial. "Who's your friend? What's hisname?" he added, noticing John for the first time.
He was introduced, and the warm grasp of the hand that John got from theold ranchman won him at once.
"Mrs. Baker will bubble over when she sees you, Frank. Tie your horsesand come in."
A long hitching rail ran along the front of the shack, and to this Frankand John made their horses fast.
Mrs. Baker's greeting was even more cordial than her husband's, and theyoungster looked on at the display of affection rather wistfully. Norwas he ignored in the general greetings.
"You're just the fellow I want to see, Frank," said the cheerful,kindly, buxom, albeit gray-haired ranchman's wife. "Mr. B.'s gettingkinder old to be chasing round the ranch looking after cattle and therange-riders, and I want you to see to all that so I can keep Mr. Bakerat home. Will you do it?" She looked from her husband to Frank and backagain.
"I'm looking for a job, and so's my friend Worth here. If you'll take usboth I'll be glad to stay," and Frank began to enlarge on John'svirtues, and told how they had shared the same bed. He characterized himas a "plumb good feller."
"Of course he can get to work," said the couple together.
"Got a saddle?" asked the old man.
"Yes, I've got a good outfit," answered the boy.
"Well, you can go range-ridin'." The ranchman spoke in a tone that wasnot to be gainsaid--it amounted to a command. John understood vaguelythat range-riding was something like horse-wrangling, only the job hewas now about to undertake would last during the day and night too.
The following day the boy was sent forth to his new work. It was cold,and the gray November sky had a look of snow in it; the air, too, feltsnowy. In the ranch house all was warm and comfortable: a great fire ofcottonwood logs was blazing in the open fireplace, a few pictures andexamples of needle-work--the evidences of a woman's hand--wereinterspersed with mannish things: rifles in rough wooden racks, antlersof deer and prong-horns, bridles decorated with silver hung here andthere on nails, and a long wooden peg, driven into the whitewashed logs,supported a richly carved saddle, Mr. Baker's own.
From this cheer and comfort John w
ent into exile, to last severalmonths--the cold, bitter, winter months of the Northwest.
With the instructions of Mr. Baker and the warnings of Frank ringing inhis ears, he started off for the shack he was to share with an old,experienced cow-puncher throughout the winter. The eight miles were sooncovered, and he drew up before the little log shack which was to be hiswinter home. A little box of a cabin it was, perhaps twelve by fifteenfeet, built solidly of logs and backed up against a low bank for theshelter it afforded. He dismounted and entered; a single small windowlightened the gloom somewhat and enabled him to see the familiar roughbunks on either side, one for each occupant; a rough deal tablesupported on one side by the wall and on the other by two legs; afrying-pan, a coffee pot, and a few tin cups--none over-clean--hung nearthe fireplace; these completed the decorations and furniture of therange-riders' shack. It was one of several placed at varying distancesfrom the home ranch.
After tying his horse and bringing in the few belongings he possessed,he sat down on the empty bunk and waited for Barney Madden, his mate,whom he had never seen. He wondered what kind of a fellow he was.
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