“Here where?” Ned said.
The rattlesnake slithered into the open.
Thal nearly cried out. It was indeed a diamondback. Over three feet long and as thick as his wrist, the snake glided by within inches of his face.
As if it had become aware of the others, the rattler suddenly streaked toward a patch of high grass.
Just like that, Jesse Lee’s Colt was in his hand. He fired once, from the hip, and the snake’s head exploded. The body stopped cold, writhed spasmodically, and was still.
Shouts came from different quarters, cowhands demanding to know what was going on.
“Just a rattler!” Ned hollered, and smiling, he squatted and tapped Thal on the head. “Are you fixin’ to lie abed all day? Or did you wet yourself and you need a towel?”
“What I need,” Thal said, “is a new pard.”
Chapter 2
The Crescent H was one of the largest ranches in that part of Texas. Two-thirds of it was hilly, with a lot of brush. The cattle loved that brush. They’d hide in it during the day.
Thal and Ned and ten other punchers, among them Crawford and Jesse Lee, were searching for those hard-to-find critters to add them to the growing herd that would be shipped to New Orleans.
Thal had donned chaps on account of all the thorns. His were batwings. So were Ned’s. Crawford was fond of bull-hide chaps because they were thicker and offered more protection. As for Jesse Lee, he liked Angora chaps. Made from goat hair, his were as white as snow.
The four of them were working a section together. Crawford was the best tracker, and found some fresh sign.
“Made this mornin’. Over a dozen or more. And lookee here.” Bending low from his saddle, Crawford pointed at a particular set of prints. “The size of those, it’s got to be a big ol’ steer.”
“Wonderful,” Thal said. Older, wilder animals were notorious for giving cowpokes a hard time. The animals would run and have to be roped, and sometimes would fight when cornered, and their horns weren’t to be taken lightly.
“He went up thataway,” Crawford said, bobbing his chin at thick timber ahead. “Why don’t you boys split right and Jesse Lee and me will take the left side, and we’ll work our way in?”
“Sounds good to me,” Ned said.
Thal had his rope ready. Shorter than the rope he’d use in open country, it had a smaller loop. Both were essential. In heavy brush a long rope with a wide loop became entangled too easily. “Maybe he’ll let us herd him.”
“I love an optimist,” Ned said.
Jesse Lee laughed, and he and Crawford went their own way.
Clucking to his roan, Ned assumed the lead. “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you somethin’, pard.”
“I’m listenin’,” Thal said, although he’d rather they didn’t jaw. An old steer could be as quiet as an Apache when it wanted to, and might slip by if they didn’t stay alert.
“How long do you aim to keep at this?”
“At what?” Thal asked absently. “Brush poppin’?” They had been working the brush country for pretty near half a year, and he had gotten darn good at it, if he did say so himself.
“No, you knucklehead. This cowboyin’.”
The question so startled Thal that he tore his gaze from the undergrowth. “Where did this come from? I thought you liked it.”
“I do,” Ned said, nodding. “I like the outdoors. And I like to ride. So the work agrees with me.”
“Why talk of quittin’, then?”
Ned shifted to look back at him. “I didn’t mean quit all cowboyin’. I meant quit the Crescent H and find cow work somewhere else.”
Thal had never given it any thought. The wages were good, they were treated decent, and Old Pete had a knack for tasty victuals. “What in tarnation is wrong with the Crescent H?”
“Not a thing,” Ned said. “But it’s not the only cow outfit in the world. There are heaps of them, from Oklahoma to Montana.”
“Wait,” Thal said. “You’re hankerin’ to leave Texas?” He’d only come to the Lone Star state about four years ago, and had fallen in love with it. He’d never considered going anywhere else in a million years.
“Texas ain’t all of creation, you know,” Ned said. “There’s a whole wide world we haven’t seen yet.”
“Why, Ned Leslie,” Thal scolded him, only half in jest. “You’ve had me snookered all this time. I took you for a Texan through and through.” His friend had been born and bred there.
“I’m as Texan as you or anybody,” Ned said defensively, “and I’ll thrash anyone who says different. But would it hurt to travel a little? Would it hurt to see what else is out there?”
“I know what this is,” Thal said. “You’ve come down with a case of wanderlust.” He had a cousin who’d come down with it. An itch to see what lay over the next horizon, and the one after that, and then the one after that. The last he’d heard, his cousin was up in Oregon country and could go no farther west on account of the Pacific Ocean. That was where wanderlust got you.
“I suppose I have,” Ned admitted. “Although it didn’t come on me suddenlike. I’ve been thinkin’ about seein’ more of the world for a while now, and was waitin’ for the right time to bring it up.”
“What makes this the right time?”
“That snake. It spooked you. I could tell. You reckoned you were a goner, and I don’t blame you. That rattler was proof that none of us know when our time is up. We could be bucked out tomorrow, for all we know.”
“They call that ‘life,’” Thal said.
“All the more reason for us to see some more of this world before we cash in our chips. We could hire out on a drive to Kansas, or anywhere you wanted.”
“This is your brainstorm, not mine.”
“And you’re against it,” Ned said.
“The notion is new, is all,” Thal said. “You’ve sprung it on me out of the blue. I need to ponder on it some.”
“Ponder all you need to.”
Thal tried to concentrate on the brush but couldn’t. “Do you have somewhere particular in mind or do you aim to ride from here to Canada to find a place you like?”
“I’m not lookin’ for somewhere to plant roots,” Ned said, sounding irritated. “I just want to look.”
Thal never savvied that attitude. His cousin, for instance, had always gone on and on about what was over the next horizon. The answer was simple. Another horizon. A fella could chase horizons from now until the day of doom, and what would it get him? A sore backside from all that riding, and not much else. To Thal, one prairie wasn’t much different from another, one mountain peak wasn’t any more exciting than the next. Sure, there were some wonderful sights in the world, but riding around looking for them would get boring after a while. How many sunsets did a man have to see, how many sparkling lakes and grand canyons, before he realized that when he had seen one, he’d seen them all?
A sudden snort brought Thal out of himself.
Ned drew rein and pointed at a patch of thick brush ahead and to the left. Deep in the patch, something moved.
Unlimbering his rope, Thal nodded. It must be the big steer they were after. He looked for sign of Crawford and Jesse Lee coming from the other direction. With their help it would be a lot easier.
Another snort heralded the crash of brush as the steer hurtled from cover, making to the northwest.
“Almighty!” Ned blurted.
Thal didn’t blame him. The steer was huge. The biggest he’d ever seen, two thousand pounds or better, with a horn spread of eight feet, at least. It was a monster, and it plowed through the oak brush as if the vegetation were paper.
Ned let out a whoop and took off after it, bawling, “Craw! Jesse! It’s comin’ your way!”
Thal used his spurs. The mare he was riding was one of six horses he’d picked from the remuda. Smal
l and wiry, she was a natural at brush popping. He’d picked her for just that purpose. Larger and slower horses were of no use in the brush.
The longhorn hurtled along like a steam engine, its legs pumping like pistons, leaving a swath of flattened vegetation in its wake. The animal was moving so fast they were falling behind.
Ned resorted to lashing his reins. “Get on there, horse! Get on!”
Acting on inspiration, Thal veered onto the path of destruction and followed it as if it were a road. He quickly gained to where he was only a few yards from the longhorn’s tail.
“Stick with him, pard!” Ned hollered.
Thal had every intention of doing so. A peeve of his was letting a steer escape. He’d only ever had it happen a few times, but it galled him. He took it personal, the way some men took insults. And in a way, it was an insult. A cowhand worth his place at the feed trough should never let a cow get away.
The longhorn abruptly broke sharply to the west.
Reining after him, Thal saw the reason why. Crawford was barreling in from the northwest. Almost instantly the older puncher reined to cut the longhorn off, but the monster flew by before Crawford could throw a loop.
Thal bent over his saddle horn to avoid a tree limb. The noise they made was tremendous. Between the pounding of hooves and the crashing of brush, he could barely hear himself think.
Two wide white stripes appeared and grew into Angora chaps as Jesse Lee, yipping like a Comanche, bore down from the west.
Again the longhorn changed direction, to the southwest this time. Jesse Lee tried a toss, but it fell short.
Thal could have told him that would happen. The youngster had misjudged. It took experience to know when to let fly. And if there was anything in the world Thal was good at, it was roping. He practiced all the time, and why not? Roping was one of the main skills of his trade. A man who couldn’t rope was worthless as a brush thumper and at riding herd.
The longhorn was going all out. The wily critter knew from experience that if it could stay ahead of them long enough, their horses would tire and they’d have to give up.
Not this time, Thal thought. The steer had met its match in the mare, who had more stamina than most three horses put together. That might be bragging, but it was close to the truth.
They swept down one slope and up another, the longhorn a living engine of destruction, the mare a credit to her kind. The chase might have gone on for a while, if not for the unforeseen.
The steer was racing down yet another hill. Thal, still glued to its tail, eagerly watched for a chance to throw. Without warning the mare squealed and pitched into a roll. Kicking free of the stirrups at the last moment, Thal pushed clear. He struck hard on his shoulder. His hat went flying and he lost his hold on his rope.
The next he knew, Thal was flat on his back. His shoulder and the back of his neck throbbed with pain. Grimacing, he raised his head and turned it from side to side. Nothing appeared to be broken.
Her nostrils flaring, the mare was back up. Her eyes were wide and she was quaking.
A bellow explained why.
Thal’s blood went cold at the sight of the longhorn not twenty feet away. Its legs planted wide, it snorted, pawed at the ground, and tossed its head from side to side. He recognized the signs. It was about to charge.
Springing to his feet, Thal dashed to the mare. He reached her just as the steer exploded into motion. In a bound he was in the saddle and reined around to get out of there. He realized he wasn’t going to make it and braced for the impact of a ton of sinew and bone.
Out of nowhere, Ned Leslie galloped up. His loop was in the air even as he broke clear of the brush, and it settled as neatly as could be—but only over one horn. That was enough to slow the steer but not stop it. The next instant, though, Jesse Lee was there, whooping as he tossed his own rope. It flew over the other horn and down over the critter’s head, but not quite far enough. The steer snorted and pulled back.
“Hold him!” Ned bawled.
There wasn’t much either man could do other than dally his rope and hope for the best.
Thal had drawn rein. Thinking to help, he swung down and ran to his rope, which lay on the ground not six feet from the struggling longhorn.
“What do you think you’re doin’?” Ned yelled.
Scooping his rope up, Thal coiled it for a throw. He wasn’t watching the steer, and looked up when Jesse Lee shouted a warning.
A shorn tip sheared at Thal’s face. Ducking, he dropped to his hands and knees and scrambled out of there before he was gored or kicked. The steer tried to reach him but was hindered by the ropes.
With a great rending of brush, Crawford finally arrived. He didn’t waste time with a head toss. He threw just as the longhorn reared back with its front hooves off the ground. His loop passed under and up, and with a swift dally and a jerk on his reins, he brought the monster crashing down on its side.
Darting around, Thal threw his own loop over the rear legs, and the job was done. Only then did it hit him how close he had come to not seeing the sun set.
“That was plumb fun,” Jesse Lee declared. “Let’s add him to the herd and go find another.”
“Kids,” Crawford said.
“Are you all right, pard?” Ned asked Thal. “You look a little shaken.”
“First the snake and now this,” Thal said. “I’m havin’ a wonderful day.”
“Look at the bright side,” Ned said. “You’re still breathin’.”
Chapter 3
Cowboys liked to eat. After a long, hard day, they loved to stuff themselves and relax around the fire. If the food was bad, it affected their outlook, and their work. The last thing a rancher wanted was a bunch of unhappy punchers. Which was why it was often said that the most important person in any outfit was the cook.
Most, like Old Pete, were older men. Most, again like Old Pete, wouldn’t qualify to hire on as a culinary wizard with a fancy restaurant. They didn’t make dishes that dazzled the brain. But they did take pains to make the best food they could. Their meals were always hot, and ready on time, and varied enough that their fare wasn’t always the same old thing.
An outfit’s cook was the lord of the collective outfit’s stomach, and as such, he enjoyed a sort of power no one but the rancher rivaled. When a cook said he needed help with this or that task, he got that help, no questions asked. Tote water? No problem. Help to clean the pots and pans? You bet. His wishes were the cowpokes’ commands.
The Crescent H punchers adored Old Pete, even if he was as cantankerous as could be. Most cooks were. It was sort of a tradition. But Pete worked hard to fill their bellies with food they liked, and that counted more for them than anything.
On this particular evening, Old Pete had prepared stew and sourdough biscuits.
Thal and his friends were the last to reach camp. The sun had already set. They weren’t worried about there not being any food left. Old Pete always made plenty. He’d never let a puncher go hungry.
As Thal came up to the pot with his plate in hand, Old Pete cocked a crinkled eye at him.
“About time. I thought maybe I’d have to keep this food warm till midnight.”
“I’m so hungry I could eat the wagon,” Thal said.
“You do, and you’ll be pickin’ splinters out of your teeth from now until forever.” Old Pete ladled a heaping portion and added two biscuits. “If you need more, just say so.”
“I could hug you.”
“You do, and I’ll wallop you with this ladle.” Old Pete shook it at him, then motioned for Thal to move on so Ned could take his turn.
His stomach growling, Thal sat cross-legged facing the fire and dug in. He was famished.
Ned, Crawford, and Jesse Lee joined him. Not much was said until they had cleaned their plates and were sipping coffee from their tin cups.
“T
hat was more than all right,” Crawford remarked. “If Old Pete ever leaves this outfit for another, I reckon I’ll go hire on with them just so I can go on eatin’ his food.”
Thal chuckled. Some punchers did that. They’d follow a good cook wherever he went. “You old men and your bellies.”
“I can still whip my weight in wildcats,” Crawford said.
“He’s not that old.” Jesse Lee came to his pard’s defense. “It’ll be a year or two yet before we can call him Methuselah.”
Thal laughed.
“Speakin’ of leavin’,” Thal said, “Ned told me today he’s hankerin’ to leave the Crescent H.”
“Whatever for?” Crawford said in surprise. “This here is a good outfit.”
“You got another in mind?” Jesse Lee asked.
“He does not,” Thal answered before Ned could. “He wants to wander around seein’ the world.”
“For real?” Jesse Lee said.
Thal nodded. “I was plumb flabbergasted myself. We do have it good here. I’d as soon stay on until I’m as old as Craw.”
“Keep it up,” Crawford said.
“Mind if I speak for myself?” Ned said. “I agree the Crescent H is top-notch. But there’s a big old world out there I haven’t seen much of, and lately I’ve been hankerin’ to have a gander at some of it before I’m too old to sit a saddle.”
“Stop talkin’ about old,” Crawford said.
“Where he goes, I go,” Thal said, “even if I’d just as soon not.”
“Thanks,” Ned said drily.
“I don’t know,” Jesse Lee said.
“No one is askin’ you or Craw to tag along,” Ned said. “I haven’t even made up my mind yet. It’s just a hankerin’.”
“Some hankerin’s should be nipped in the bud,” Crawford said. “Like goin’ barefoot to take a leak in the middle of the night. You never know but when a rattler might mistake your toe for a mouse.”
Ralph Compton Brother's Keeper Page 2
