Home Ranch

by Ralph Moody

  “Can I draw more than one card this time?” I called back. “I’d like to try it off Pinto, so he’ll get used to it, but I can’t be sure it’ll work just right the first try.”

  “Dealer’s choice! You’ve got the deck!” he said, so I shifted my saddle back onto Pinto.

  All the time I was changing saddles, Hazel fussed around with Pinto like an old hen with one chicken. She kept patting him, and scratching his muzzle, and telling him not to get fidgety, and to behave himself. Then, when I climbed into the saddle, she looked up and whispered, “Don’t kick him hard in the belly. He’s as scairt as I am of what might happen, and you’ll only make him worse.”

  “You’re the one that’s making him nervous,” I told her. “If you don’t stop fiddling around you’ll make me tighten up too, and spoil everything.”

  Hazel let her arms drop loose, but her face was still excited when I turned Pinto away. His take-off was good, and when I hissed and flipped he threw his head up, but he didn’t spook. And when he saw me standing beside him at the finish, he looked at me as much as to ask how I got there.

  Hazel didn’t pay any more attention to me than if I’d been a post standing there. She ran to Pinto, patted him on the shoulder, rubbed his neck, and told him she’d known he could do it all the time.

  I took half a dozen more somersaults off Pinto. They weren’t all perfect, but there were no really bad ones, and he behaved in good shape. My worst trouble was with Hazel. She kept yapping at me for doing the trick too fast for her to see, and saying she’d never be able to learn it. At last Mr. Bendt said, “Why don’t you ride alongside of him, gal, so’s to watch it from close in? But stay off far enough to give him room! Your horse could tromp him if you get in too close.”

  With Hazel on Pinch, I knew there was no danger of my being trampled. He always stopped quicker than Pinto, and I’d land well in front of him. But I didn’t think Hazel could learn much from riding along beside me. At the very moment she ought to be watching what I did, she’d be flung against the saddle pommel, and wouldn’t be able to see a thing. At the take-off line, I stopped and told her, “If you’re going to learn anything this way, you’ve got to almost think you’re doing the stunt yourself. Try ducking your head a little when you hear me hiss, but look out you don’t get it low enough to bump the saddle horn.”

  I didn’t have any time to watch Hazel at the last moment, but, just as I landed, I heard her father call, “Careful, gal! You’ll bust your head on that horn!”

  On our second run together, he called to her again, “Watch out for that horn, gal!”

  Before we left the starting line for our third run, I told her, “Lean a bit to one side, then you’ll miss the horn when the pommel stops you and your head jerks down.”

  That could have been a bad thing for me to tell Hazel. It could have thrown her off balance and made her take a nasty spill, but it didn’t work that way. Both horses were going like sixty when I hissed and ducked my head, and as I went spinning through the air I caught a glimpse of something flying right along with me. I didn’t realize what it was until I’d landed on my feet and saw Hazel take two or three running steps, then fall forward on her face. For a split fraction of a second my heart stopped beating, and I had that taste like hot blood in my mouth. Then Mr. Bendt shouted, “Hazel!” and leaped out of his saddle.

  Hazel fell less than three yards in front of me, but before I could collect my wits and get to her, she’d scrambled to her feet. She was hardly on them before she started bouncing and jumping around like a cat on a hot stove. “I done it! I done it!” she shouted, and her braids flapped like latigo strings on the saddle of a bucking horse. “I ain’t hurt one tiny little bit, and I done it!”

  I knew she’d done the trick by mistake, just the way I had when the pheasant flew up in front of Pinch. She’d watched me enough that her muscles knew what to do without her head telling them, and she’d been just enough off center in the saddle to be thrown clear when Pinch stopped. I think her father knew it too. His face looked as proud as my father’s did when he first saw me do the stunt at the Littleton roundup, but all he said was, “Is that all the worth there is to your word, gal? Thought you promised you wasn’t goin’ to try that stunt today!”

  Hazel stopped hopping, and her face went sober. Then she peeked up at him under her eyebrows and said, “I didn’t do it a-purpose, Paw. Honest, I didn’t! It just kind of happened all by itself.”

  That time he smiled, and said, “I reckoned right from the start-off that’s the way it had to work. Maybe you’d best to let Little Bri . . . to let Ralph here show you how to keep from fallin’ over after you land.”

  “Well, I think I can tell it to her better than I can show her,” I said. “I learned it from watching a pigeon light on our barn. Did you ever notice how they use their wings for brakes, and how they reach out to feel for a landing with their feet? That’s the way I do it, but it’s too fast to watch in the middle of a somersault, and that’s when I begin to push my arms and legs out.”

  “Betcha my life! Betcha my life!” Mr. Bendt said. “Reckon you can get the hang of it, gal?”

  Hazel began hopping again, and squealing, “Sure I can! Sure I can! Let’s do it again!”

  I knew Hazel would make plenty of bobbles until she’d practiced the trick over and over, and I didn’t want her father to stop her if she took a few spills, so I said, “You know, she can only learn it by practicing, and she’ll be sure to take some more spills. But if she doesn’t get scared and tighten up, she can’t break anything.”

  “Hmmm! Nothin’ but her neck!” he said. Then he laughed and told Hazel, “Reckon I’m loco as a range maverick to let you try it, gal. Your maw would peel the hide off me if she knowed of it. But now you done it once you’d best to go on and learn it the safest way there is.” His face set hard, and he went on, “Look here, gal! The boy’ll be away with Batch most of the time. I want your word that you won’t try this stunt alone! Is it a go?”

  Hazel swiped a quick X on the front of her blouse, and said, “Cross my heart! But it’s all right if we practice when Ralph’s on the home ranch, ain’t it, Paw?”

  Mr. Bendt nodded slowly, and I did the trick a few more times to show Hazel how I kept from falling forward. When it came time for her to try the trick alone, I could see she was nervous, so I rode to the starting line with her. We’d turned the horses, and while I was telling her to stay loose and not to be afraid, her lip began to quiver. “Ride with me, Ralph,” she almost begged; “I’m scairt.”

  I knew that the longer we waited the more afraid she’d get, so I yipped, “Let’s GO!” and kicked my heels against Pinch.

  Both horses jumped at the word, and we were racing neck and neck by the time we’d gone fifty yards—then I hissed. I had to—so Hazel would somersault again without thinking about it or having time to tighten up. It worked fine. She went all the way over, lit on her feet, staggered a couple of steps, then stopped without falling down. She didn’t remember to put her arms out till she was already on her feet, but I knew she had the trick learned—and so did her father.

  He didn’t even bother to come over to us, but called, “Two more times and we’re goin’ in! Your maw’ll be wonderin’ where we’re at.”

  18

  A Glow of Light

  THAT Saturday was a good day for me in lots of ways. I’d found that I was growing again, Mr. Bendt had said I’d done a good job cutting cattle, and I’d taught Hazel to do a hard trick-riding stunt without getting hurt. But the two things that made me the happiest came after that.

  We’d eaten supper and I was sitting on the bunkhouse steps with Hank and Ned when I heard a cow bellow from far to the east. I listened, and heard another bellow with a different tone. Mr. Bendt was at the harness shop, and I called to him, “I think one of the trail herds is coming in! I heard cows bellowing way off to the east!”

  Mr. Bendt came out and listened for a minute, then called back, “Betcha my life it’s Bat
ch! You boys want to saddle up and come along to meet him?”

  Ned and I started to get our saddles from the harness shop, but Hank beat us there. He hadn’t been on a horse since he’d been sick, and had been acting as if he were too weak to open the gates, but he yanked his saddle down and hurried off to catch up a horse.

  I hadn’t used Lady all week, so I whistled for her when I reached the corral. It didn’t surprise me much that Pinch and Clay came to the gate with her, but I could hardly believe it when I looked up and saw Blueboy follow them half way across the corral. He stuck out his muzzle and sniffed while I was saddling, then stamped a fore hoof and turned back.

  Both trail herds had met in the early afternoon, and Mr. Batchlett had thrown them together. When we were still half a mile away, I could hear Sid and Tom yipping and driving. We met them about two miles east of the corrals when twilight was just beginning to settle. There were over a hundred cattle in the combined herd—all cows that were going to have calves before long—and they were so trail-weary they were hard to keep from scattering.

  We spread out wide, so we wouldn’t turn the herd, and I went to the side where I’d heard Sid’s voice. “Hi, there, Little Britches!” he called, when he saw me coming through the brush. “How you doin’? How’s that little Jenny Wren?”

  “Fine!” I told him. “Everybody’s fine, even Hank. He rode out with us. Did you have a good trip?”

  Instead of answering me, Sid started to say something about Hank being a lucky old buzzard to get sick and have Jenny take care of him. But some cows pushed out of his side of the herd and he had to ride after them. I rode a little farther on and began pushing back stragglers. In a few minutes I heard Hank doing the same thing still farther toward the back of the herd. From the way he was shouting, anyone might have thought he was trying to handle the whole herd alone.

  As twilight deepened the tired cows tried to leave the herd and find places to bed down. If I’d used my head I’d have known how they’d act, and would have ridden Pinch. But I didn’t think about it when I’d saddled, and Lady wasn’t much good in scrub oak. A dozen cows had slipped past us—and things were about as bad as they could be—when I heard Mr. Batchlett’s voice from back where Hank was, “Take it easy, Hank! They’ll scatter if you rough ’em!”

  I hadn’t seen Hank since we met the herd, and in that tall scrub oak he couldn’t have seen me, but he shouted back to Mr. Batchlett, “Don’t you fret none about me, Batch! I got ’em fenced in tighter’n hog wire, but that there kid’s in plenty trouble up yonder.”

  In a minute or two Mr. Batchlett rode into sight and began rounding up my stragglers. I helped as much as I could, but it was a poor job, and he had to double back for cows that I’d let slip past me. He didn’t say a word when he rode up, and all he said when he left was, “Keep ’em in close as you can!” Then he rode on toward where Sid was working.

  I didn’t see anybody else till we had the cows out of the brush and headed across the valley to the corrals, and I didn’t want to. All week I’d been proud of the job I was doing, and had been anxious for Mr. Batchlett to get back, so he could see how much I’d learned. Then, when he’d come, he’d found me doing a terrible job, and Hank had made it sound as if I never did any better. After that, I was sure Mr. Batchlett wouldn’t take me on a trading trip with him, and I thought he might pay me off and send me home.

  All the others stood around after the herd was in the corrals, but I unsaddled and went right to the bunkhouse. I didn’t light the lamp, but undressed and crawled into my bunk. It wasn’t that I was tired; I wasn’t. I just didn’t want to see anybody, and particularly Mr. Batchlett.

  I must have lain there fifteen or twenty minutes when I heard Mr. Bendt’s and Mr. Batchlett’s voices coming toward the bunkhouse. I was sure Mr. Batchlett was going to turn in early, and I didn’t want him to see me awake when he lit the lamp—and to have him tell me I was no good and that he was going to pay me off. So I turned over to face the wall and tried to snore quietly, as if I were sound asleep.

  We always left the bunkhouse door open on summer evenings, and I heard the voices come nearer and nearer till they stopped there, outside the doorway. Mr. Batchlett was telling Mr. Bendt something about his trip, but I didn’t pay any attention until I heard him ask, “Where’d Little Britches go to? Ain’t seen him since we come in.”

  “Betcha my life him and Hazel’s up to somethin’,” Mr. Bendt sort of chuckled. “Them kids is as full o’ beans as poorhouse chili.”

  Mr. Batchlett’s voice hadn’t sounded as if he were peeved at me, so I turned back from the wall. Just then there was a glow of light from the doorway, and against it I saw the dark shadows of two pairs of wide shoulders and two hats nearly as wide. The men were sitting on the bunkhouse steps, and Mr. Batchlett was lighting a cigarette. When he’d snapped out the match, he asked, “How’s the kid doing? Still raring into things like he was killin’ snakes?”

  “Never seen the beat! Must’a been that stay abed, or Hazel, or . . .”

  “What’s he been up to now?” Mr. Batchlett asked, with a little edge to his voice.

  “Ever see him do that trick where he dives off a horse and lands on his feet?”

  “Yep, half a dozen times,” Mr. Batchlett said. “Quite a stunt, ain’t it?”

  “Betcha my life! He’s been learnin’ it to Hazel.”

  “Break their necks, the both of ’em!” Mr. Batchlett said. “Ought to had better sense than to fetch him out here. Been gettin’ too much attention around town—ruins a kid that age. Had some hopes for him when I left here, but . . .”

  A big lump came into my throat, and I was turning back toward the wall again when Mr. Bendt said, “Trade you Tom for him.”

  “What’s that?” Mr. Batchlett snapped.

  “Trade you Tom for him,” Mr. Bendt said again. “Him and Hazel’s the best team of calf hunters ever I seen, and you’d ought to lay eyes on him and that old Clay horse cuttin’ cattle—smoother’n cat hair. Old horse gets around mighty spry with a light kid on him—cut and handled every critter on the place in less’n six half days.”

  “Well, I’ll be go to . . .! Reckon maybe the kid was right. Reckon maybe that losin’ up in the mountains didn’t do him no hurt,” Mr. Batchlett said, and I knew he was remembering what I’d said to him when he’d left for his trading trip. Then he asked, “Usin’ his head, you say?”

  “Ought to seen him learnin’ Hazel that trick stunt; learnt it to her like a schoolma’am—wouldn’t let her make no move till she’d learnt the one before it dead right. Fetched her through without a scratch. ‘Course she ain’t no ways good as him at it yet, but she’s honin’ to show it off to you.” Then he chuckled, and said, “Won a poker hand off’n me, the kid did! Come up with a full house on a one-card draw.”

  “Don’t reckon his maw would . . .”

  “Oh, ’twasn’t no card game, Batch! It was on learnin’ Hazel that stunt. I reckoned ’twas too dangerous for her, and was about to freeze him out o’ the game, but he called my hand. Wasn’t ornery. Just called for a one-card draw and laid his hand down.”

  I didn’t feel right about lying there and listening when they were talking about me, and I couldn’t get out of the bunkhouse, so I coughed.

  “Reckon Hank turned in early,” Mr. Batchlett said quietly. Then he asked, “The kid gained any of his weight back?”

  From then on they kept their voices low, but it was so still that I couldn’t help hearing, and I couldn’t just sit up and say, “I’m not Hank, and I can’t help hearing you.”

  “All back, and a couple to spare,” Mr. Bendt said. “Says he reckons he’s started to grow again—first weight he’s gained since his paw passed on.”

  “Reckon I’ll be takin’ him along next week,” Mr. Batchlett said. “Told him I would if he gained back and done a good job while I was away. Dang shame he ain’t got a better string of horses for trail work! Couldn’t keep his hands off that blue devil, and his own mare ain�
��t worth a dime in the brush. Pinch is too old for hard trail work, and Clay’s needed here. What you reckon ailed the kid to pick that kind of a string?”

  “He didn’t pick none but Blueboy—and you’re the man ought to know why he done that,” Mr. Bendt said slowly. “Hazel picked him the rest of ’em.” Then he chuckled again. “And I’m getting a sneakin’ idee why she done it.”

  I wanted to know what Mr. Bendt’s idea was, but Mr. Batchlett didn’t ask him. Instead, he asked quickly, “That little devil been on Blueboy? I told him to stay off.”

  “Nope! Nope! Ain’t had a strap, a rope, or a leg on him since you been gone. But he’s workin’ on him. Been out there in the horse corral till late in the nights—soft-talkin’ him and feeding him biscuits that he tells Helen he wants for his mare. And dag-goned if the ornery maverick ain’t cottonin’ up to it like a spring foal. What routes you figure on workin’ this next trip out?”

  I couldn’t guess how Mr. Bendt knew about my working with Blueboy, and I couldn’t ask. I didn’t cough again, but lay with my eyes and ears wide open.

  Mr. Batchlett lit another cigarette, and didn’t answer for two or three minutes. Then he said, “Figured I was licked on putting out more than two teams this next trip, but with the kid . . . and this little Sid turned out to be a right smart trader—joshes a man into a pretty good deal and makes him like it. Might send him back into the South Park country. Lots of good milkers over there that’s due for fall calves, and the ranchers don’t want to winter ’em through. They’ll trade even-up for a dry cow that’ll drop a spring calf.”

  “Who you aim to send along for driver?” Mr. Bendt asked.

  Mr. Batchlett dropped his voice even lower than it had been, and asked, “You reckon old Hank’s in shape to go?”

  “Betcha my life!” Mr. Bendt whispered back. “Old bluff’s been belly-achin’ ’round here all week account of I put him to swingin’ a gate, but he sure perked up when he heard you was comin’. Do him good to wear out a little saddle leather.” Then his voice boomed up again, and he asked, “Who you figure to send out with Zeb? You ain’t countin’ on taking the kid and Tom both away from the home ranch, are you, Batch? I got to have . . .”