XII
The Round-up
The stars were still shining when Peter Hamilton looked at his watch nextmorning, but he sternly fought the temptation to lie another two minutesby remembering the day's work before him, and went in search of the horsethat he had not picketed overnight, as the beast required a full bellyafter the hard night's ride he had given him. Peter had rolled out of hisblankets with a keen anticipatory relish for the day ahead. It was well,he knew, that there was ample work of a definite nature for Peter thecow-puncher; as for Peter the man, he was singularly at sea. Had JudithRodney been his desert comrade all these cheerful years for him to get hisfirst belated insight into the real Judith only a few little hours back?Or was it, he wondered, her seeming unconsciousness of him, as she rodebrave and sorrowful through the night, to avert, if might be, herbrother's death--at all events, to comfort and inspirit the frightenedwoman and her little children--that had freshly tinged the friendship hehad so long felt for her? Many were the questions that Peter vaguely putto himself as he started out for his long day in the saddle; and none ofthem he answered. Indeed, he could not satisfactorily explain to himselfwhy he should think of Judith at all in this way--Judith, whom he had knownso long, and upon whom he counted so securely--Judith, who understoodthings, and was as good a comrade as a man. Surely it was a strange thingthat he should discover himself in a sentimental dream of Judith!
For it was in such dreams that Katherine Colebrooke had figured ever sincePeter could remember. For years, indeed--and Judith knew it!--he had stood,tame and tractable, waiting for Chloe to throw her dainty lariat. ButChloe had intimated that her graceful fingers were engaged with the inkpotand her head with schemes for further sonneting. Chloe was becomingfamous. To Peter, who was unmodern, there was little to be gained inarguing against a state of affairs so crassly absurd as career-getting forwomen. At such seasons it behooved sane men to pray for patience ratherthan the gift of tongues. When the disheartened fair should weary of thephantom pursuit, then might the man of patience have his little day. Peterwinced at the picture. To the world he knew that his long waiting on thebrink of the bog, while his ambitious lady floundered after false lights,was, in truth, no more impressive a spectacle than the anguished squawkingof a hen who watches a brood of ducklings, of her own hatching, try theirluck in the pond.
And there was Judith the great-hearted, Judith who was as inspiring as abreath of hill air, Judith with no thought of careers beyond the loyaldoing of her woman's part, Judith, trusty and loyal--and Judith with thataccursed family connection!
Peter tightened his cinch and turned his horse westward. The stars hadgrown dim in the sky. The world that the night before had seemed to floatin a silvery effulgence looked gray and old. The cabin in the valleyflaunted its wretched squalor, like a beggar seeking alms on the highway.Riding by, Peter lifted his sombrero. "Sweet dreams, gentle lady!" He dugthe rowel into his horse's side and began his day at no laggard pace. Nordid he spare his horse in the miles that lay between him and breakfast.The beast would have no more work to do that day, when once he reachedcamp, and Peter was not in his tenderest mood as he spurred through thegray of the morning. The pale, chastened world was all his own at thishour. Not a creature was stirring. The mountains, the valleys, the softlyhuddled hills slept in the deep hush that is just before the dawn. Helooked about with questioning eyes. Last night this very road had been apale silver thread winding from the mountain crests into a world ofdreams. To-day it was but a trail across the range. "Where are the snowsof yester year?" he quoted, with a certain early-morning grimness. Atheart he was half inclined to believe Judith responsible for the vanishedworld; Judith, Judith--he was riding away from her as fast as his horsecould gallop, and yet his thoughts perversely lingered about the cabin inthe valley.
After a couple of hours' hard riding he could dimly make out specks movingon that huge background of space, and presently his horse neighed and putfresh spirit into his gait, recognizing his fellows in moving dots on thevast perspective. And being a beast of some intelligence, for all hisheavy-footed failings, he reasoned that food and rest would soon be hisportion. Peter had no further use for the rowel.
Breakfast was already well under way when he reached camp. The outfit,seated on saddles in a semicircle about the chuck wagon, ate with thatpeculiar combination of haste and skill that doubtless the life of thesaddle counteracts, as digestive troubles are apparently unknown amongplainsmen. The cook, in handing Peter his tin plate, cup, spoon, andblack-handled fork, asked him if "he would take overland trout orCincinnati chicken, this morning?" The cook never omitted these jocularinquiries regarding the various camp names for bacon. He seemed to thinkthat a choice of alias was as good as a change of menu. There was littletalk at breakfast, and that bearing chiefly on the day's work. Every onewas impatient for an early start. The horse wrangler had his stringwaiting, the cook was scouring his iron pots, saddles were thrown overhorses fresh from a long night's good grazing, cinches were tightened,slickers and blankets were adjusted, and camp melted away in a troup ofhorsemen winding away through the gray of early morning.
The scene of the beef round-up was a mighty plain, affording limitlessscope for handling the cattle of a thousand hills. In the distance rosethe first undulations of the mountains, that might be likened to thesurplusage of space that rolled the length of the sweeping levels, thenheaped high to the blue. The specks in the far distance began to grow asif the screw of a field-glass were bringing them nearer, turning them intohorsemen, bunches of cattle, "chuck-wagons" of the different outfits,reserves of horses restrained by temporary rope-corrals, all the equipmentof a great round-up. Dozens of men, multitudes of horses, hordes ofcattle--the mighty plain swallowed all the little, prancing, galloping,bellowing things, and still looked mighty in its loneliness. Fling ahandful of toys from a Noah's Ark--if they make such simple toys now--in anordinary field, and the little, wooden men, horses and cows, will suggestthe round-up in relation to its background. Men darted hither and thither,yelling shrilly; cows--born apparently to be leaders--broke from the bunchesto which they had been assigned and started at a clumsy run, followed bykindred susceptible to example. Cow-punchers, waiting for just suchmanifestations of individuality, whirled after them like comets, and soonthey were again in the pawing, heaving, sweltering bunch to which theybelonged.
Peter Hamilton, whose particular skill as a cow-puncher lay in that branchof the profession known as "cutting out," found that the work of therustlers had been carried on with no unsparing hand since the early springround-up. Calves bearing the "H L" brand--that claimed by a company knownto be made up of cattle-thieves--followed mothers bearing almost everybrand that grazed herds in that part of the State. The Wetmore outfit,that used a "W" enclosed in a square, were apparently the heaviest losers.The cows and calves were herded at the right of the plain, convenient tothe branding-pen, the steers well away to the opposite side. As Peterdrove a "W-square" cow, followed by a little, white-faced calf, whosebrand had plainly been tampered with, he heard one of his associates say:
"There's nothing small about the 'H L' except their methods."
"What's 'H L' stand for, anyway?" the other cow-puncher asked.
"Why, Hell, or, How Long; depends whether you're with 'em or again 'em."
Peter wheeled from the men and headed for the bunch he was cutting out. Hefancied that the man had looked at him strangely as he offered a choice ofmeanings for the "H L"--and yet he could not have known that Peter had goneto Rodney's cabin last night. He flung himself heart and soul into hiswork, dashing full tilt at the snorting, stamping bedlam, enveloped inclouds of dust that dimmed the very daylight. Calves bleated piteously asthey were jammed in the thickening pack. Peter shouted, swung the roperight and left, thinning the bunch about him, and a second later emerged,driving before him a cow, followed by a calf. These were turned over tocow-boys waiting for them. Time after time Hamilton returned to that massof unconscious power, that with a sing
le rush could have annihilated thelittle band of horsemen that handled them with the skill of a dealershuffling, cutting, dealing a pack of cards.
To the left were the steers, pawing and tearing up the earth in a veryecstasy of impotent fury. Picture the giant propeller of an ocean linerthrashing about in the sands of the desert and you will have anapproximate knowledge of the dust raised by a thousand steers. Theirlong-drawn, shrieking bellow had a sinister note. Horns, hoofs, tails beatthe air, their bloodshot eyes looked menacingly in every direction; but ahandful of cow-boys kept them in check, circling round and round them onponies who did their work without waiting for quirt or rowel.
The noonday sun looked down upon a scene that to the eye unskilled inthese things was as confusion worse confounded. Cow-boys dashed fromnowhere in particular and did amazing things with a bit of rope, sendingit through the air with snaky undulations after flying cattle. The rope,taking on lifelike coils, would pursue the flying beast like an aerialreptile, then the noose would fall true, and the thing was done. A secondlater a couple of cow-boys would be examining the disputed brand on theprone animal.
The smell of burning flesh and hair rose from the branding-pen and mingledwith the stench of the herds in one noisome compound. The yells of thecow-punchers, each having its different bearing on the work in hand, wereall but lost in the dull, steady roar of the cattle, bellowing in a chorusof fear, rage, and pain. And still the work of sorting, branding,cutting-out, went steadily on. Though an outsider would not have perceivedit, the work was as crisp-cut and exact in its methods as the work in acounting-house. One of the cow-boys, in hot pursuit of a fractious heifer,encountered a gopher-hole, and horse and rider were down in a heap. In asecond a dozen helping hands were dragging him from under the horse. Helimped painfully, but stooped to examine his horse. The beast had broken aleg, and turned on the man eyes almost human in their pain.
"Bob, Bob!" The cow-puncher went down on his knees and put his arms aboutthe neck of his pet. "My God!" he said, "me and Bob was just likebrothers. Everybody knowed that." He uncinched the saddle with clumsytenderness; not a man thought a whit less of him because he could not seewell at the moment. He turned his head away, that he might not see thewell-aimed shot that would release his pet from pain. Then he limped awayafter another horse--it was all in the day's work.
The beef contract called for a thousand steers, four and five years old,and these having been well and duly counted, and some dozen extra headadded in case of accident, they were immediately started on the trail, asthey could accomplish some seven or eight miles before being bedded downfor the night. Hamilton, who had crossed to the beef side of the round-upto have a necessary word with the "Circle-Star" foreman, was amazed tofind Simpson making ready to start with the trail herd. Peter inquired,with a few expletives, "how long he had been a cow-man, in good andregular standing?"
"As far as the regularity is concerned, that would be a pretty hard thingto answer, but he's had an interest in the 'XXX' since--since--"
"He drove Rodney's sheep over the cliff?"
"Ain't you a little hard on the beginning of his cattle career? It usuallygoes by a more business-like name, but--" he shrugged his shoulders--"it'sup to the 'XXX.' We wouldn't have him help to pull bogged cattle out of acreek."
The beeves, hidden in a simoom of their own stamping, were gradually beingpressed forward on the trail, a huge pawn, ignorant of its own strength,manipulated by a handful of men and horses. Its bellowing, like the tuningof a thousand bass-fiddles, shook the stillness like the long, sullen roarof the sea, as out of the plain they thundered, to feed the multitude.
"Well, there goes as pretty a bunch of porterhouses as I'd want to puttooth to. If I get away from here within the next two months, as I'mexpecting, doubtless I'll meet some of you again with your personalitysomewhat obscured by reason of fried onions."
The foreman of the "Circle-Star" waved his hand after the slowly movingherd that gradually pressed forward like an army in loose marching order.Outriders galloped ahead, like darting insects, and pointing the lumberingmass that trailed its half-mile length at a snail's-pace. The great columnsteadily advanced, checked, turned, led as easily as a child trails hislittle steam-cars after him on the nursery floor, and always by the littleforce of a handful of men and a few horses.
After supper came general relaxation around the camp-fire. The men, whohad all day been strung to a keen pitch of nervous energy, lounged inloose, picturesque uncouthness, while each began to unravel his own livelymiscellany of information or invention. There was jest, laughter, spinningof yarns, singing of songs. As Peter lay in the fire-light, smoking hisbrier-wood, he noticed that the man next him spent a great deal of timeporing over a letter, holding it close to the blaze, now at arm's-length,which was hardly surprising, considering the penmanship of the more commonvariety of _billet-doux_. The man was plainly disappointed that Peterwould not notice or comment. Finally he folded it up, and with sentimentalsignificance returned it to the left side pocket of his flannel shirt, andremarked to Peter, "It's from her."
"Indeed," said Peter, who had not the faintest notion who "her" could be."Let me congratulate you."
"Yes, sir," and there was conviction in the cow-puncher's tone; "it's fromold man Kinson's girl, up to the Basin, and the parson's goin' to give usthe life sentence soon. A man gets sick o' helling it all over creation."He rolled a cigarette, lit it, took a puff or two, then turned to Peter,as one whose acquaintance with the broader side of life entitled him tospeak with a certain authority. "Is it that, or is it that we're gettingon, a little long in the tooth, logy in our movements?"
"I think we're just sick of helling it." Peter looked towards the starthat last night had been the beacon towards which he and Judith had scaledthe heights. "Yes, we get sick of helling it after we've turned thirty."
"Then I can't be making a mistake. If I thought it was because I wasgetting on, I'd stampede this here range. It don't seem fair to a girl toallow that you're broke, tamed, and know the way to the corral, when it'sjust that you're needin' to go to an old man's home."
"Now this is really love," said Peter to himself, with interest. "This ishumility." A sympathetic liking for the self-distrustful lover surged hotand generous into Peter's heart, and he continued to himself: "Now that'swhat Judith would appreciate in a man, some directness, some humility!"Poor Judith! Poor burden-bearer! Who was to love her as she deserved to beloved, even as old man Kinson's girl, of the Basin, was loved? Yet supposesome one did love her in such fashion and she returned it? It was apicture Peter had never conjured up before. Nonsense! he was accustomed tothink of Judith a great deal, and that was not the way to think of her."Dear Judith!" said Peter, half unconsciously to himself, and looked againat the fellow, who had gone back to his dingy letter and continued toreread it in the fire-light as if he hoped to extract some further meaningfrom the now familiar words. Nature had fitted him out with a rag-bagassortment of features--the nose of a clown, the eyes of a ferret, themouth that hangs agape like a badly hinged door, the mouth of theincessant talker. And withal, as he lounged in the fire-light, dreamilyturning his love-letter, he had a sort of superphysical beauty, reflectedof the glow that many waters cannot quench.
Costigan, who had led the merriment against Simpson at Mrs. Clark'seating-house, was playing "mumbly-peg" with Texas Tyler. They had beenworking like Trojans all day at the round-up, but they pitched theirpocket-knives with as keen a zest as school-boys, bickering over points inthe game, accusing each other of cheating, calling on the rest of thecompany to umpire some disputed point.
But presently, from the opposite side of the fire, some one began to sing,in a rich barytone, a dirgelike thing that caught the attention of firstone then another of the men, making them stop their yarning andknife-throwing to listen. The tune, in its homely power to evoke the imageof the ceremonial of death, was more or less familiar to most of them.There was a conscious funeral pageantry in the ring of its measuredphrases that recalled to many burial
s of the dead that had taken place intheir widely scattered homes. Mrs. Barbauld's hymn, "Flee as a Bird to theMountain," are the words usually sung to the air.
Costigan presently cut across the dirgelike refrain with: "Phwat th' divilis ut about that chune that Oi'm thinkin' of?"
"This," said the man with the barytone voice, "is the tune that NickSteele saved his neck to."
"Begorra, that's ut. I wasn't there mesilf, but Oi've heard th' story toldmore times than Oi've years to me credit."
"My father was in that necktie party," spoke up a young cow-puncher, "andI've heard him tell the story scores of times, and he always wondered whythe devil they let Steele off. Never could understand it after the thingwas done. He was talking of it once to a man who was a sharp on thingslike mesmerism, and the man called it hypnotic suggestion. Said thatSteele got control of the whole outfit and mesmerized 'em so they couldn'tdo a thing to him."
Several of the men asked for the story, echoes of which had come downthrough all the forty years since its happening. And the cow-puncher,lighting a cigarette, began:
"It was in the good old forty-nine days in California, when gold wassometimes more plentiful than bread, and women were so scarce that one daywhen they found a girl's shoe on the trail they fitted a gold heel to itand put it up in camp to worship. But sentiment wasn't exactly their longsuit, and any little difficulties that cropped up were straightened out bythe vigilance committee--and a rope. One day a saddle, or maybe it was agun, that didn't belong to him, was found among this man Steele's traps,and though he swore that some one had put it there for a grudge, thecommittee thought that a hemp necktie was the easiest way out of theargument. And this here Steele party finds himself, at the age oftwenty-four, with something like thirty minutes of life to his credit. Hedon't take on none, nor make a play for mercy, nor try any fancyspeech-making. He just waits round, kinder pale, but seemin' indifferent,considerin' it was his funeral that was impendin'. I've heard my fathersay that he was a tall, slim boy, with a kind of girlish prettiness, andthe committee looked some for hysterics and they didn't get none. Thenoose was made ready and they told Steele he could have five minutes topray, if he wanted to, or he could take it out in cursing, just as hechose. The boy said he felt that he hadn't quite all that was coming tohim in the way of enjoyment, and that while he was far from criticisingthe vigilance committee, he was not altogether partial to the nature ofhis demise, and if it was just the same to them, instead of praying orcursing, he'd take that five minutes for a song.
"They was agreeable, and he up and steps on the scaffold, what they wasmighty proud of, it bein' about the only substantial structure the towncould boast. He began to sing that thing you've all been listening to, andhe had a voice like water falling light and fine in a pool below. Theycrowded up close about the scaffold and listened. The words he put to itwere his own story, just like those old minstrels that you read about, andat the end of each verse came the chorus, slow and solemn as the momentafter something great has happened. There wasn't a hangin'-face in thecrowd after he was started. At some time or other every man had heardsomebody he thought a heap of, buried to that tune, and his voice got toworkin' on their imaginations and turned their hearts to water. I don'tremember anything but the chorus--that went like this:
"'Who'll weep for me, on the gallows tree, As I sway in the wind and swing? Is there never a tear to be shed for me, As I swing by a hempen string? Who'll weep, who'll keep Watch, as I'm rocked to sleep, Rocked by a hempen string?'"
There was a long silence, broken only by the crackle of the logs in thecamp-fire and the night sounds of the lonely plain. The leaping flamesshowed a group of thoughtful faces. Finally, Costigan broke the silencewith:
"Begorra, 'tis some av thim 'ud be doin' well to be lukin' to theirmusic-lessons about here, Oi'm thinkin', afther th' day's wurruk."
The Irishman, with his instinctive loquacity, had expressed what none ofthe rest would have considered politic to hint. It was like the giving wayof the pebble that starts the avalanche. Soon they were deep in tales oflynchings. Peter knew only too well the trend of their talk, the "XXX" menwere feeling the public pulse, as it were. Now, according to the unwrittencode of the plains, lynching was "meet, right, just, and available" forthe cattle-thief. And Peter felt himself false to his creed, false to hisemployer, false to himself, in seeking to evade the question. And yet thatpitiful cabin, the white-faced woman running to the door so often that sheknew not what she did, and the little rosy boy, who had put out his armsso trustfully! Peter broke into their grewsome yarning. "Lord, but you'relike a lot of old women just come from a funeral!"
"Whin the carpse died hard, and th' wake was a success." Costigan turnedover. "Werra, werra, but we'll be seein' fairies the night!"
A "XXX" man turned his head with a deliberate slowness and regarded Peterwith narrowing eyes: "If the subject of cattle-thieves and theirpunishment is unpleasant to the gentleman from New York, perhaps he willfavor us with something more cheerful." It was the same man who had giventhe two definitions of the "H L" brand that morning at the round-up.
"Delighted," said Peter, affecting not to notice the significance of theman's remark. "Did you ever hear of the time that Tony Neville was burnedwith snow?"
The "XXX" man yawned long and audibly. No one seemed especially interestedin Tony Neville's having been burned with snow, but Peter struck outmanfully, just in time to head off a man who said that he had seen JimRodney or some one who looked like him, following the trail-herd.
"Once on a time, when it paid to be a cattle-man," began Peter, "there wasan outfit near Laramie that hailed from the United Kingdom, every mother'sson of them. A fine, manly lot of fellows, but wedded to calamity along oftheir cooks--not the revered range article," and Peter waved his handtowards the "W-square" cook, who was one of the party, "but the pamperedranch article that boasts a real stove, planted in a real kitchen, thespoiled darling that never has to light a fire out of wet wood in therain.
"These unhappy Britons had every species of ill luck that could befall anoutfit, in the way of cooks; they were of every nationality, age, and sex,and they stole, drank, quarrelled, till the outfit determined to sweep thehouse clear of them and do its own cooking. Every man was to have a turnat it for a week. There was a Scotchman, who gave them something called'pease bannocks,' three times a day; followed by an Irishman, whobreakfasted them on potatoes and whiskey. There was an Englishman, who hada beef slaughtered every time he fancied a tenderloin. There was aWelshman, who sang as he cooked. There were as many different kinds ofindigestion as there were men in the outfit. They would beg to donight-herding, anything to get them away from that ranch. Finally, whentheir little tummies got so bad that their overcoats thickened, or worethrough, or whatever happens to stomachs' overcoats that are treatedunkindly, some one's maiden aunt sent him a tract saying that rice was thesalvation of the human race, as witness the Chinese. Whosever turn it wasto cook that week determined to try the old lady's prescription. Rice wasprocured, about a peck, I think; and the man who was cooking, pro tem, putthe entire quantity on to boil in a huge ham-boiler, over a slow fire, asper the directions of the maiden aunt. The rice seemed to be doing nicely,when some one came in and said that a bunch of antelope was over on thehills and there was a good chance to get a couple. Every man got his gun,all but the cook, and he looked at the rice, that hadn't done a thing overthe slow fire, in a way that would melt your heart. 'Just my luck that itshould be my week to pot-wrestle when there's good hunting right at one'sfront door.'
"'Oh, come on,' some one said. 'Didn't Kellett's aunt say the rice oughtto be cooked over a slow fire? Kellett, get your aunt's letter and readthe directions for cooking that rice again.'
"The cook didn't need a second invitation, and they got into theirsaddles, cook and all, and went for the antelope.
"Now antelope are not like stationary wash-tubs; they move about. And whenthat particular outfit arrived at the spot where those antelope were lastseen,
they had moved, but the boys found traces of them, and continued ontheir trail. They went in the foot-hills and they searched for thoseantelope all day. They caught up with old man Hall's outfit at dinner-timeand were invited to take a bite. Coming home by way of the 'Circle-Star'ranch, Colonel Semmes asked them in to have a mint-julep; the colonel wasa South Carolinian, and he had just succeeded in raising some mint. Theyhad several--I fear more than several--drinks before leaving for home, withnever a trace of antelope nor a thought of the rice cooking over the slowfire. The colonel remembered some hard cider that he had, and topping offon that, they set out. The weather was pretty warm, and on their way homethey experienced some remorse over the hard cider. Now hard cider is anaccumulative drink; it piles up interest like debt or unpaid taxes. And bythe time those Englishmen had turned the little lane leading into theirhome corral, they saw a sight that made their sombreros rise. As I havesaid before, it was hot, being somewhere in the month of August.Gentlemen, I hardly expect you to believe me when I say it was snowing ontheir house, and not on another God blessed thing in the landscape.
"The blame thing about it was, that every man took the phenomenon to behis own private view of snakes, or their bibulous equivalent, manifestedin another and more terrifying form. Here was the August sun pouring downon the plain where their ranch-house was situated; everything in sight hotand dry as a lime-kiln, grasshoppers chirping in a hot-wave prophecy, andsnow covering the house and the ground, about to what seemed a depth offour inches. Every one of them felt sensitive about mentioning what he sawto the others. You see, gentlemen, being unfamiliar with American drinks,and especially old Massachusetts cider, they merely looked to keep theirsaddles and no questions asked.
"But when they got a bit closer the horror increased. Flying right out oftheir windows were perfect drifts of snow, banks of it, gentlemen, and thethermometer up past a hundred. One of the men looked about him and noticedthe pallor on the faces of the rest:
"'Do you notice anything strange, old chap? These cursed American drinks!'
"'Strange!'--the boy he had spoken to was about eighteen, a nice,red-cheeked English lad out with his uncle learning the cattle business.'Good God!' the boy said. 'I've always tried to lead a good life, and hereI am a paretic before I've come of age.'
"They halted their horses and held a consultation. The boss came to theconclusion that since they had all seen it, there was nothing to do butcontinue the investigation and send the details to the 'Society forPsychical Research,' when he got down from his horse and walked towardsthe door of the house. At his approach, as if to rebuke his wantoncuriosity, a great blast of snow blew out of the window and got him fullin the face. He howled--the snow was scalding hot.
"Then they remembered the rice."
"Is that all?" demanded the man who had wanted to talk about rustling.
"Isn't it enough?" said Peter, who could afford to be magnanimous, nowthat he had accomplished his point.
"When I first heard that story, 'bout ten years ago, it ended with theBritishers riding like hell over to the Wolcott ranch to borrow umbrellasto keep off the hot rice while they got into the house," said the man,still sulky.
"That's the way they tell it to tenderfeet," and Peter turned on his heel.The story-telling for the evening was over, the boys got their blanketsand set about making their beds for the night.
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