by Ralph Moody
“Wasn’t counting on it,” Mr. Batchlett told him. “Wasn’t counting on having three teams out when I sat down here. Reckon I’ll ride on over to The Springs tomorrow; see what I can pick up to go along with Zeb. He can get along with most anybody, but I wouldn’t dast send a new man with Sid or Hank. Little Sid ain’t got that red hair for nothing, and Hank would like as not get a new man lost.”
“Sendin’ Zeb back down Pueblo way?”
“Aim to,” Mr. Batchlett said. “That’ll leave him where he can keep an eye on the peak, and he says there’s still some good cows to be had down that way.”
“And you?”
“Well . . . I been studyin’ on it here for a bit,” Mr. Batchlett said slowly. “Been wanting to get down the Arkansas Valley for the past three, four years. Like to take a look at that country as far down as the Purgatory. Hear there’s some right good ranches down there; ought to be some good trades to be made.”
“Mighty long swing for two weeks, ain’t it, Batch?”
“Longish, but I aim to take all young stock, push straight across country to the Purgatory, then trade back along the Arkansas. If I’m lucky enough to trade for late fall calvers they’ll travel good, and I ought to make out all right. Wish, by dang, that kid had picked a better string of trail horses!”
“Wish, by dang, you was takin’ Tom,” Mr. Bendt told him. “With three teams out there’ll be a heap of cuttin’ work to do around here, and havin’ the kid to handle Clay would leave me loose for other jobs I ought to get done.”
“Nope!” Mr. Batchlett said, and I saw his shadow against the sky as he stood up. “I promised the kid I’d take him if he done a good job, and I ain’t going back on it. Reckon I’ll turn in; it’s been a long day. Tell Hazel I’ll be rarin’ to see her do that trick of hers in the mornin’.”
I’d turned back to face the wall before Mr. Batchlett came into the bunkhouse, and was breathing slow and steady when he lit the lamp. I’m sure that when he saw me he thought I was asleep, because he half mumbled, as if he were talking to himself, “Little devil! I’d sure have bet against you ’fore you got lost, but I reckon you’re goin’ to make it.”
I wanted to sit up and thank him, but, of course, I couldn’t.
Mr. Batchlett moved around the bunkhouse quietly for a couple of minutes, then blew out the lamp, and I heard the tight horsehide squeak as he got into his bunk. In a few minutes he was breathing long and steadily, but I didn’t want to go to sleep then. It was too nice just to lie there and remember back over the things I’d heard him and Mr. Bendt say while they were sitting on the steps.
The moon had risen when I heard the other men coming toward the bunkhouse. I could hear Tom’s and Sid’s voices, but Hank was drowning them out. “By dogies,” he shouted, “I’m a-tellin’ you, it’s a-goin’ to rain cats and dogs ’fore noontime tomorra! Can’t nobody fool us oldtime cowhands on the weather! Take note how that there moon’s a-canted over to spill the water! Why, I recollect when . . .”
Boots scuffed as someone came up the steps, there was a glow from a struck match, and Tom’s voice came—low but sharp—“Shut up, Hank! The boss is sleepin’.”
The glow brightened as Tom lit the lamp, then there was the gentle scuff of boots on the steps and floor, and Sid whispered, “Well, I’ll be dogged if old Little Britches ain’t turned in, too! Reckoned he’d went off to the house to visit with Jenny Wren and the girls. Can’t make out why he turned in so danged fast! Still kind o’ puny, I reckon.”
Ned’s slow twang came from somewhere across the bunkhouse, “Beat out, I reckon! Watt’s been poppin’ the whip all week long. Rounded up, cut and booked the whole shebang. Britches, he done all the cuttin’.”
There was no more whispering, and one by one I heard the horsehides squeak as the men turned in. As I lay listening I heard the breathing grow longer, and the sound of gentle snoring came from here and there around the bunkhouse, but the lamp was still burning. I thought the last man to turn in had forgotten to blow it out, and was just going to get up and do it myself, when I heard a low drone, “She wore a yella ribbon around her neck.”
I didn’t roll over, but turned my head slowly till I could see out into the room. Zeb was sitting, slouched on the small of his back, and with his bare feet crossed on the table by the lamp. A pair of steel-rimmed glasses were perched on the end of his long nose, and he was darning a hole in the heel of a sock. With each dip of his needle, he was mumbling one syllable of, “She Wore a Yella Ribbon.”
There haven’t been many times when I’ve been happier—just lying there in my bunk and listening to Zeb drone, and thinking how glad I was that Hank had got us lost in the mountains. If he hadn’t, I might not have waked up to a lot of my own mistakes, and Mr. Batchlett would have sent me home.
Zeb must have darned socks for nearly an hour, then I heard his chair squeak, and the padding of his feet on the floor boards. I tried not to change the rhythm of my breathing as the sound stopped, almost beside my bunk. And I didn’t let a muscle quiver when I felt a hand touch my back. But when it lifted the blanket carefully and drew it up over my shoulders a lump began to swell in my throat.
I couldn’t go to sleep, and there was no sense in lying there awake. So, as soon as Zeb began to snore, I slipped out of my bunk, felt for my clothes, and tiptoed outside. After I’d pulled on my overalls, shirt and boots, I went to the harness shop for a biscuit, and wandered over to the horse corral. The moon looked like a tilted golden saucer, and there was just enough light that I could see the horses standing in groups at the far side of the corral.
I stood outside the gate and watched them for a minute or two, then gave a soft bob-white whistle—the call I’d always used for Lady. There wasn’t a stir among most of the horses, but a few heads lifted and turned toward me. When I whistled again, four dark shapes separated from the groups and came toward me. One of them was Blueboy, and he didn’t stop half way, but came right up to the gate with Lady, Clay, and old Pinch—nickering a whisper deep in his throat for a piece of biscuit. He let me scratch his forehead, the way the rest of them did, and stood quietly while I soft-talked—telling them about the trip we were going on to the Arkansas, and that they were the best string of horses in the world.
19
No Profit A-fightin’
WHEN I went to the chuckhouse the next morning everybody seemed as excited as they had been the Sunday we picked our horse strings. Sid kept calling Jenny, “Jenny Wren,” and trying to make jokes she’d laugh at—but she wouldn’t. And Hank was wound up like a new dollar watch. He’d heard that he and Sid were going out as a team, and was hardly down at the table before he shouted, “By dogies, Batch, you sure ain’t made no mistake! With this here little redhead to give me a hand, I’ll show you a job o’ tradin’ like you ain’t saw in many a year! No, sirree, by dogies, they don’t make tradin’ men no more! Why I recollect when we was a-fetchin’ trail herds up from Texas, I and old Tom . . .”
“Pass the flapjacks!” Mr. Batchlett cut in. Then he began talking to Mr. Bendt about cutting out seventy head of young stock for our trip down the Arkansas.
Hazel came into the chuckhouse three or four times, to bring coffee or help Jenny carry out dishes. Every time she tried to whisper something to me, but she did it so low and fast that I couldn’t understand what she was saying. When we were nearly through eating I noticed her just inside the kitchen doorway, ducking her head and making the motions of throwing a saddle onto a horse. Of course I knew then that she was telling me to get saddled up so she could show Mr. Batchlett the somersault trick. I nodded to let her know I understood, and within two minutes I heard dishes clicking and clattering in the kitchen faster than Hank’s false teeth did when we were lost in the mountains.
While the trading teams had been away I hadn’t noticed that Jenny paid the least bit of attention to Ned. But at breakfast that morning she kept asking him if he’d like more coffee, telling him she liked his Sunday shirt, and things like that
. Then, when Sid was telling a joke, she looked out the window, and said to Ned, “I thought I heard a little redheaded woodpecker, but I must have been mistaken.”
Everybody but Sid laughed—and he tried to—but his face and neck got as red as his hair. I thought he might blow off, but Mr. Batchlett cut in again. “How about it, boys?” he asked; “Want to pitch in and get the trail herds made up this morning? I’m aimin’ to ride over to The Springs this afternoon; any that wants can ride along. We’ll have to work right through the Fourth, and this is the only chance you’ll get for a celebration.”
The men all nodded, and the last thing I saw when I was leaving the chuckhouse was Hazel in the doorway. She had a plate in one hand and a dishtowel in the other, and was making diving motions with her head.
I didn’t know just what Mr. Bendt might want me to do about helping to make up the trail herds, so I walked up beside him on the way to the horse corral, and asked, “Which horse should I put my saddle on this morning?”
He looked down at me, closed one eye, and said in a low voice, “If you don’t want to get et up alive, you’ll put it on Pinch while I’m puttin’ Hazel’s on Pinto. If she don’t get to show off that trick stunt to Batch ’fore Sunday School time, she’ll bust a hame string.”
Mr. Batchlett and all the men—even the dairyhands—must have known Hazel was going to do the somersault trick before we worked the cattle. When Mr. Bendt and I brought the saddles, they were standing around behind the horse corral, and Hank was telling in a loud voice about riding tricks he used to do when he was a boy.
We hardly had the saddles on when Hazel came running from the house. She was holding the herd book in one hand—sort of waving it around so it would show from behind—but with the other hand she was hugging a new ten-gallon hat against her chest. As she ran up to the corral gate, her father called, “Hazel, what you doin’ with that new Stetson I bought you for the roundup?”
“Well . . .” she panted. “Well . . . the Fourth o’ July is only two days off, and I’ll need . . . I’ll need . . .”
In less than a second I knew what she’d need, and Mr. Bendt did too. Before she could go on, he said quietly, “Betcha my life! Betcha my life, gal! Now don’t go to gettin’ all het up or you won’t do too good. The boys is waitin’.”
Until then, I’d thought, of course, that we’d be going to the little meadow for Hazel to do the trick, so I said, “If she’s going to do the trick here at the corrals, I won’t have any need for Pinch.”
“Yes, you will too!” Hazel snapped at me. “If you don’t ride with me and do the hissin’ I’ll get scairt, and then I’ll tighten up, and then I’ll make a mess of it.”
I still thought it would be better if Hazel did the trick alone. If I lit on my feet and she bobbled it, she might be ashamed. So I said, “I’ll make a few practice runs with you here in the corral—the kind where we don’t leave the saddle—then, if you’re loose enough, you can do better alone.”
“Nope!” Mr. Bendt told me. “You go on and take your practice runs, but it’s your trick, you learnt it to her, and you’ll do it together—she’ll feel more to home.” Then he tossed Hazel up onto her saddle and left the corral.
The practice worked fine, and Hazel stayed as loose as a rag doll in the saddle. After Mr. Bendt opened the gate and we rode out, I didn’t say a word about the trick, but kept soft-talking about anything else—the way I’d have talked to a nervous horse. When we were fifty yards beyond the men I turned the horses. Then, before Hazel had time to get scared, I snapped, “Let’s GO!”
I kept Pinch well clear of Pinto, and the little crowd of men seemed to rush toward us as we raced. When we were almost on them I hissed and ducked my head. The next moment we were standing in a row, with Pinto’s head between Hazel and me, and Pinch’s at my right. As I looked along the line, Hazel swept off her new Stetson and bowed—the way I’d told her I did it at the Littleton roundup.
The men whistled and shouted for us to do the trick again, but I told Hazel I didn’t think we’d better. With the little bit of practice she’d had, there wasn’t one chance in fifty of our doing it that well again—and there wasn’t one chance in fifty million that any other girl could have done it that once.
I never saw another cutting horse work with the sureness and speed Clay showed that Sunday. Long before noon we had three trading herds cut out and ready to take the trail Monday morning. Mr. Batchlett bossed the making up of the herds and told me which animal to bring out each time, and when we’d finished, he nodded, and said, “Good job, Little Britches!”
Before I could tell him that it was Clay who had done the good job, he wheeled his horse away and called to the men, “I aim to ride in to The Springs in half an hour. Get your glad rags on if you want to come along—we’ll eat in town.” Then he rode away toward the house with Mr. Bendt.
I didn’t want to go to Colorado Springs, but I did want to talk to Mr. Batchlett before he went. With Clay having to stay on the home ranch, and with me going on a long trip, I’d need Blueboy in shape to use. From the day I’d picked him I hadn’t ridden him an hour, and he’d fought me every minute. I hoped that during the past week he’d settled down enough that I could handle him—but I thought I should ask Mr. Batchlett before I tried it.
As soon as I’d unsaddled Clay I went to the bunkhouse, but Mr. Batchlett wasn’t there. Tom and Ned were trying to shave in front of a little mirror a foot square, and Hank was hollering for his turn. Sid was nowhere in sight, but Zeb was sitting on the steps, patching a pair of overalls, so I sat down beside him.
I knew a half hour must be up before Mr. Batchlett and Mr. Bendt came from the house. They’d both shaved, and kept right on talking while Mr. Batchlett changed his shirt and boots. I got up and stood around, waiting for a hole in their talking. Then I asked, “Would it be all right for me to ride Blueboy this afternoon? I’ll need to get him . . .”
“Dasn’t risk it,” Mr. Batchlett told me. “He’s too dangerous for you to be messing around with by yourself.”
Zeb looked up from his patching, and said, “Me and Sid’ll be hereabouts. We could lend a hand if needs be.”
Mr. Batchlett stopped for half a minute and stood looking at the steps. “Bad streak in that outlaw,” he said, as if he were talking to himself; “can’t tell when it’ll bust loose.” Then he looked at me, and asked, “Why’d you pick him?”
“Because I . . . because . . .” I was going to say, “had to have him,” but I knew it would sound silly, so I stopped.
Mr. Batchlett must have read what was in my mind. He gave me a quick slap on the shoulder, and said, “All right, Little Britches, I ought to know without asking, and I do. Go ahead, but be danged careful!” He started on, then turned back, and said, “Don’t saddle him without two men around, and don’t get on him without a man mounted and alongside!”
I stood in the bunkhouse doorway and watched the riders out of sight. Then I went inside to write a letter to Mother, but I couldn’t think of much to say, so I just wrote:
“I am going on a trip to Pergatory with Mr. Batchlett. I have a blue horse in my string that is the most butiful horse I ever saw. I think he is begining to like me. I have gained 2 pounds. Your loving son Ralph.”
When I’d finished my letter, I thought I’d better rig a double cinch on my saddle before I tried Blueboy, so I went to the harness shop to do it. Sid was there, and working over something at the bench. When I went in, he sang, “Hi-ya, Little Britches! Come look what I done made for that little old Jenny Wren! Been workin’ on it odd minutes o’ night herdin’. Pounded out the dee-zign on the saddle horn with a boot heel. Batch, he let me ride on into Pu-ay-blo to get the buckle offn a harness store.”
Sid held up as pretty a horsehide belt as I’d ever seen. It was seal-brown, almost as soft as velvet, and polished till it glowed—with a vine pattern hammered into it. The buckle was dull silver, with a bright gold horsehead set in the middle. I never would have put all that work into a
nything for a girl who treated me the way Jenny treated Sid, but, of course I couldn’t say so. He was still polishing the little belt and talking about Jenny when she and the girls drove into the yard from church.
While I was waiting for the dinner bell to ring, I finished rigging my saddle, then went to the bunkhouse to put on a clean shirt. Zeb had finished his patching, and was washing the overalls in a bucket of water beside the steps. He didn’t say anything as I went in, and he didn’t look up when I came out, but said, “Better fetch me that shirt, son. Ain’t no sense in the both of us gettin’ into the suds, and might happen you’ll need a change whilst you’re on the trail.”
It wasn’t until I took the dirty shirt back to Zeb that I noticed my spare pair of overalls, all washed and hanging on the fence. When I tried to thank him, he only shook his head and went right on washing—and crooning, “Yella Ribbon.”
All the dairyhands had driven into town as soon as the milking was done, so there were only the three of us at the table that Sunday noon. Zeb didn’t look up from his plate till he was finished, then cut himself a big chew of tobacco and went outside. I couldn’t saddle Blueboy till Sid was with me, but he dawdled over his pie so long that I went out and left him at the table.
Zeb was waiting for me when I came out. He rifled a thin squirt of tobacco juice, got up from the steps, and walked along with me toward the horse corral. “Been studyin’ ’bout that blue hoss,” he said when we were halfway to the corral. “Awful full o’ fight, ain’t he?”
“Yes, he is,” I said, “but he’s been letting me feed him some pieces of biscuit this past week.”
“No profit a-fightin’ a man as ain’t lookin’ for a fight,” Zeb said, then he spit again and we went on.
