Dan Burgess wasn’t one for busting horses. He didn’t believe in rough riding, quirting, lashing, or using spurs to tame a horse. Over the past two days, the ponies had been introduced to the hackamore and the saddle and walked riderless around the corral. None had yet been introduced to the bit.
Like all horses, they’d bucked the empty saddle both days before accepting it. Today, the horses were being mounted, and Dan had high hopes there would be very little bucking. He wanted no spoiled ponies. Only a few had jumped with an arched back and stiff legs when mounted before slowly settling down, trembling under the weight of the rider.
After each horse had been ridden around the corral for a while, it was unsaddled and returned to the fenced pasture. The next horse to be ridden was a three-year-old buckskin, fifteen hands high, with a white stripe from his forehead to his muzzle. It had proved to be the most ornery pony in the bunch, high rolling and pitching his rider off three times, and had yet to be successfully ridden.
Dan wanted it ridden before the end of the day. Why not give it to the raggedy young cowboy to try? He went into the fenced pasture, brought the buckskin into the corral, and looked at the lad.
“What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“Patrick Kerney.”
The boys lining the corral turned and stared at Patrick.
“Think you can ride this thrifty pony?”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick said.
“He’s all yours,” Dan said.
The cowboy ducked under a railing, took the reins, and walked the horse to the far side of the corral, away from the hands, who had congregated by the gates.
Dan hitched himself up on a top railing and watched. Instead of reaching for the saddle blanket right away, the lad spent time talking to the buckskin, rubbing its back, withers, neck, and girth, keeping his hand away from its head. The buckskin snorted, shivered, and pranced a bit before settling down. Only then did the lad approach the pony’s head, rubbing it as he attached a long line to the hackamore. He stepped back to the middle of the corral and tugged slightly on the rope, and the buckskin began to move in a slow, circular trot. After giving it a few turns around the corral, he stubbed the pony to the stubbing post, rubbed his forehead, and gently placed a saddle blanket on its back. The buckskin flared its nostrils and looked at the cowboy, who inched closer to its head. He stroked the pony’s mane, talked to it low and slow, and rubbed the saddle blanket back toward the haunches. The pony twitched an ear and stood still.
He picked up the saddle next to the stubbing post, showed it to the buckskin, and gently hoisted it on its back. The pony arched its back, stiffened its legs, dropped his head, and bucked once. The lad pulled off the saddle and waited for the pony to calm down before trying again. It took three more tries before the buckskin accepted the saddle without complaint.
He cinched the saddle and used the long rope to canter the buckskin around the corral, keeping him close to the railing. After four turns, he stopped the horse and made him back up. He did it several more times, until the pony pawed the ground and stood still.
Dan waited for the lad to ride. After a long minute stroking the buckskin’s forehead, he swung into the saddle. The pony froze, pitched, twisted sideways, came down on all four legs, and shook hard. The lad rode it out. Dan waited for the buckskin to go after his rider again, but it stood pat. The cowboy trotted the buckskin around the corral a few times, remounted the pony twice again, and then slid out of the saddle in front of Dan.
“He’ll be a good one,” Patrick said, handing over the reins.
“That he will,” Dan Burgess said. “Welcome to the outfit. Pick a range pony for yourself out of the remuda. Jack Thorpe here will show you where to bunk.”
The cowboy smiled. “I’m obliged.”
* * *
Sam Wilcox sat in his office, which looked out on the veranda and the neat picket fence, working on numbers. Cattle had come back to a fair price, and this year looked slightly better. He planned to send Dan Burgess out with the hands to gather in three groups, each under a top hand. He was hoping to gather at least three to four thousand head. In two days, riders from other outfits would be at the ranch to join the roundup. They would cut out their stock to be thrown over to their home ranges after each gathering.
He heard the floor squeak and looked up to see Dan Burgess standing in the open door.
“That’s some cowboy you sent to me,” Dan said with a big smile and a shake of his head. He had deep-set eyes and chubby cheeks, which gave him a jovial air, but he was as hard as nails.
“Is he about useless?”
“I’d say he’s a top hand with horses. I took him on and told him to pick out a pony. Did he come with anything but that sorry saddle?”
“Nary a thing,” Wilcox replied. “Give him a decent saddle and some tack and have Fats put a bedroll together for him. That old boy has gear stowed away he’ll never use again. If he gets ornery, tell him I’ll pay him for it.”
“I’ve got an old pair of chaps hanging on a peg at the cabin gathering dust,” Dan said.
“That’ll do. Get him some gloves too. He’ll need them in the brush.” Wilcox waited for Burgess to skedaddle, but he stayed put. “What is it?”
“I’m thinking the lad has been in Yuma.”
“If so, he’s not the only cowboy around here who forgot to be law-abiding one time or another,” Wilcox replied as he picked up his pen. “Keep your eye on him for a spell. Let me know if he’s not a square shooter.”
30
The Wilcox ranch, known by its brand, the Flying W, covered nearly a half million acres on two separate ranges. Once the stray men from the other ranches joined up, more than fifty cowboys worked the gathering. On the southern grasslands and the flats it went smoothly, but the brush in the foothills of the rugged Galiuro Mountains was a different matter. Popping the cows out of the thickets took ingenuity. The boys divided up, half to one end of each big swath of dense undergrowth, half to the other end. Farther along, in the direction the cattle were hazed, more men waited on either side of the brush to turn the cows into the open. In places where the terrain was too steep for the cattle to get any higher, they chased the critters out of the wetlands and pastures in the lower canyons.
After all the cows were hunted out of the brush and gathered, the stray men from the other outfits trimmed the herd and threw their stock over to their home range as the Flying W boys pushed the beef along to the railhead in Benson.
Patrick didn’t think he had a chance to be kept on as a steady hand over the fall and winter months. He figured to be paid and let go to ride the chuck line looking for work. Most ranchers wouldn’t be hiring, but maybe he could find a job looking after stock at a remote winter line camp or driving a wagon. The dismal prospects disheartened him.
He hadn’t spent a lick of the wages he’d already drawn. He needed every penny to buy a horse and a good saddle before moving on. He hoped Mr. Wilcox would sell him the spirited black pony he’d favored during the roundup.
With the cattle in the corrals at the rail yard, he lined up with the other boys and waited his turn for his wages. When it came, as Dan Burgess counted the greenbacks into his outstretched hand, he asked about buying the pony. Dan told him to see Mr. Wilcox over at the hotel.
In the hotel bar he found another cowboy, Richard Jacobi—called Jake by all who knew him—waiting to see Wilcox. Along with Jack Thorpe, Jake was one of the top riders in the outfit. Originally from Chicago, he’d enlisted in the navy when he was sixteen and served for five years before heading west to cowboy. He’d been on ships that took him to Asia and Brazil, and in the evenings at the cow camps and in the bunkhouse he told stories of his travels that had everyone wanting to hear more.
“Let me buy you a drink,” Jake said, spinning a coin on the counter.
“No, thanks,” Patrick replied.
Jake shrugged and ordered another beer for himself. “You hoping Wilcox will keep you on?”
“I�
��m hoping to buy that black I’ve been forking.”
Jake nodded. “That’s a fine pony.”
“It is.”
“What you gonna call it?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know,” Patrick replied. “I’ve never cared to give my ponies names.”
“Not ever?” Jake asked, thinking that was mighty strange. On the range, a man’s pony was often his only companion and best friend.
“Nope,” Patrick said with a shake of his head, “but maybe I will this time. Where are you drifting next?” Riding the chuck line with a partner would be a lot more agreeable than doing it alone.
“I’m hoping to stay put for a spell,” Jake said with a grin. “Wilcox is fixing to gather more broncs to train and sell for cow ponies. He’s gonna need more than Jack Thorpe to fork them. It wouldn’t sit right not to ask him to be kept on, seeing that he wants to talk to me anyhow.”
“I wish you luck with it,” Patrick said, feeling a stab of envy. A tough waddie with a broken nose from fist fighting for sport in the navy, Jake had worked four gatherings at the Flying W. He was a top hand and stood first if Wilcox planned to take on another steady man.
“I guess you’ll be riding the chuck line,” Jake said.
“If I can buy that black, I will,” Patrick replied, straight-faced.
Jake laughed and finished his beer just as Sam Wilcox entered the bar and called the two men over to an empty table.
“Good, you’re both here,” he said as he motioned to the barkeep for a bottle and glasses, “so I won’t have to work my jawbone twice. Now that the beef roundup is done, I can turn my mind to the ponies. You boys know I’ve got twenty-some cow ponies started back at the ranch. I want to triple that number and have most of them ready to sell before spring works. The best I’ll keep for the Flying W.”
He paused as the barkeep brought the glasses and whiskey bottle. “First we’ll need to gather the wild broncs from the southern range and cut out the choice ones. My steady hands can do that, but Dan and Jack Thorpe will need a lot of help finishing those ponies. I’d like you two boys to stay on at top-hand wages to get the job done.”
Patrick was stunned. Top-hand pay was ten dollars more than hired-hand wages. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Jake Jacobi hooted and slapped Patrick on the back. “We’re your boys, all right, Mr. Wilcox,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.
Patrick nodded in agreement.
“Good,” Wilcox said, raising his glass.
“I’d like to buy that black I’ve been riding, Mr. Wilcox,” Patrick said, reaching for his money.
“Done, for twenty dollars. Tell Dan to take it out of your wages.”
“That black is worth twice that,” Patrick said.
Wilcox smiled as he finished his shot, put some coins down, and stood. “You’re a man who knows good horseflesh. Tell Dan I said twenty-five dollars firm. I’ll see you boys back at the ranch.”
“Whoo-ee, what an ease to my mind,” Jake said after Wilcox left. “Now I won’t have to bed down in some empty line camp until spring works. Let’s celebrate.”
“Maybe later,” Patrick replied as he tugged at the frayed shirt he’d put needle and thread to at least a dozen times. “I need to buy a saddle, new boots, and some gear.”
Jake slapped his glass down on the table, picked up the whiskey bottle Wilcox had paid for, and tucked it under his arm. “Since I’m feeling flush, with a raise to come, I’ll go with you. But I’ll shy away if you’re planning to do any more horse-trading with the boss. That’s the first time I’ve seen a cowboy open his mouth to pay more for a pony.”
“Maybe I’ll call him Blackie,” Patrick said as they walked out of the hotel.
“Plumb clever,” Jake replied laconically.
Patrick laughed. “Not the best I can do, I reckon. How about Cuidado?”
“What’s that mean?” Jake Jacobi asked.
“Watch out,” Patrick replied.
“Cuidado,” Jake said. “Now, that’s a good one.”
“Then Cuidado it is,” Patrick said.
* * *
Throughout the fall, Patrick and Jake worked side by side with Jack Thorpe at the horse corral with the wild broncos gathered from the open range. They culled the top forty ponies, turned the rest back on the range, and got to it. By the week before Christmas, the horses were so well started and the ranch in such good shape for winter that Sam Wilcox gave all the boys Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off.
Except for Patrick and Fats, who’d stayed to do his daily ranch chores, all the hands were in town for a little fun and some shopping. They’d be back for the traditional Christmas dinner at the big house with the boss. This year, Wilcox’s widowed daughter, Sallie, who had recently come from Texas with her three girls to live on the ranch, would be there. The oldest girl, Lucinda, was sixteen and a looker. From the talk around the bunkhouse, Patrick knew some of the boys were going to return with new duds so they would be rigged out decent on Christmas Day in hopes Lucinda would find them pleasing to the eye.
Alone in the bunkhouse, Patrick washed his only good pair of pants and a shirt, dried them near the woodstove, stitched up a rip on a sleeve, and pressed everything with an iron he’d borrowed from María, Wilcox’s Mexican housekeeper. He knew the boys thought he was too stingy to spend his money, and some had even said outright that his duds were a disgrace to the outfit. He couldn’t fault them for that, but he never said a word about why he was tightfisted with his money.
He’d spent most of his wages from the fall works on outfitting himself with a saddle, tarpaulin bedroll, yellow slicker, new chaps, rawhide gloves, a Colt .45 and a holster, boots, a hat, and the two sets of duds he’d bought. He was still toting the Winchester Mr. Wilcox had originally loaned him, buying it outright with money from his first pay as a top hand. Come next payday, Dan Burgess would give him a bill of sale for Cuidado, so he’d own his pony free and clear and have a hundred dollars set aside toward the money he owed Cal. Still, it would take a lot more time to save the rest.
He aimed to not be embarrassed at Christmas supper sitting with the gussied-up girls and fancy-dressed cowboys, but when the time came he was uncomfortable and self-conscious. The only time he’d felt worse was as a ragamuffin begging for food in the mining camps when Ida got too drunk and forgot to feed him.
They all sat at a long table loaded with platters of roasted beef, fried chicken, potatoes, and homemade pies. Sam Wilcox sat at the far end, his daughter and her girls surrounding him. Lucinda, her mother, and her sisters were in their holiday best, with ruffles at their collars and bows in their hair. The cowboys wore spanking-new shirts and flashy bandannas around their necks. Even Fats had spruced up in a white shirt and pair of red suspenders.
Lucinda’s mother had placed Patrick as far away from the family as she could, at the other end of the table with Fats and a young, freckle-nose waddie who was riding the chuck line and had showed up for supper. After the food was passed around, Patrick concentrated on his supper and said little. Fats wasn’t much of a talker to begin with, and the freckle-nose drifter was too busy packing away the victuals to have much to say. Patrick chewed his beef and felt like there wasn’t one waddie in the room he’d call a true friend, not even Jake.
During the meal, Sam Wilcox kept eyeing him. He finally leaned over and said something to Dan Burgess. When the plates had been cleared, the last toast had been made, and the men were making their good nights and filing out, Dan told Patrick to wait for Mr. Wilcox in his office. A good ten minutes passed before Wilcox arrived, looking less than friendly.
“I asked Dan Burgess why one of my top hands would come to my table on Christmas looking like he doesn’t have three cents to his name. He said you’ve been drawing your wages right along. I want to know what you’ve been doing with it. And I warn you, I was a good, plausible liar in my youth, so you better tell me the truth.”
“I’ve been saving it, Mr. Wilcox.”
�
��All of it?”
“Yes, sir, except for the money I still owe you for the pony you sold me.”
“Saving it for what?”
“I’ve got my reasons, sir, and I don’t mean to reflect badly on you or the brand.”
“You need to do better than that, son.” Wilcox lit a cigar.
“I need a stake to buy back a spread I let go on the Tularosa. It was plain dumb of me, and I mean to get it back.”
“I hear the drought hit hard there.”
Patrick nodded. “It did, and a lot of nesters have moved on. But the grass is coming back in the high country.”
Wilcox nodded approvingly. “If you can get back your land, more power to you. Someday a lot of these boys at the Flying W will be busted-up old waddies with nothing to show for a life’s work except stories nobody wants to hear.”
“There’s truth to that, sir,” Patrick said.
“I wish you the best, but while you’re working for me I expect you to dress like you’re proud of the brand. Fats is going to town for supplies in the morning and you’re going with him. Buy some new duds with a few of those greenbacks I’ve been paying you. It won’t set you back that much.”
Patrick stood, hat in hand. “Yes, sir. I’d be obliged if you’d keep my plans to yourself. I don’t need a bunch of old boys joshing me about turning into a stockman.”
Wilcox nodded. “I won’t say a word.”
“Thank you.”
After Patrick left, Sam Wilcox sat and thought over what he’d been told. The cowboy seemed sincere enough and he’d spun a believable story, but Wilcox flat-out figured there was more to it than that. He shucked off thinking about the young cowboy and finished his cigar.
31
Patrick and Jake Jacobi stayed on at the Flying W for a short time after spring works to finish the cow ponies and put them through their paces for a rancher out of California who had a spread along the central coast. The rancher picked out thirty of the best ponies and even tried to buy Cuidado out from under Patrick at a hefty price. Patrick turned him down, so instead the rancher proposed to hire both cowboys to take the horses to his ranch by rail, promising steady work once there. Patrick turned him down again, but Jake jumped at the chance. Working on a ranch in sight of the ocean sounded like pure heaven to him.
Hard Country Page 24
