by Doug Bowman
Zack trotted his horse to meet the herd. Then, after it became obvious that his help was not needed, he simply watched as the bulls were driven into the pen and the gate closed. A beaming Jolly Ross dismounted quickly. “What do you think, Zack? Ain’t they pretty?”
Zack did not answer right away, just sat watching the beautiful Herefords jostling each other for position at the water troughs. He was thinking of bygone days and trying to imagine how many times he had dreamed of what he was now witnessing. There before his eyes was his ticket to financial security, he believed. Though it would not happen overnight, or even within the next few years, the bulls would eventually breed every single drop of longhorn blood out of the herd that should be arriving from East Texas any day now. The very thought of having a thousand head of purebred Herefords running on what was still known and referred to as County Line Ranch made his mouth water. “Yes, Jolly,” he said finally. “They’re the prettiest things I’ve ever seen.”
15
Zack put out the word in Lampasas and Burnet counties that he had year-round work for experienced ranch hands and in less than a week, eight men had been hired. “Counting Bob and me, we’ve got ten hands now, Zack,” Ross said as he rolled his after-supper cigarette. “That’s all the help we’re gonna need. If you can talk the drovers who bring the longhorns into staying on the ranch for a few days to give us a hand, everything’ll work out just right.”
Zack nodded. “I’ll let the offer of money do my talking.”
Ross fired his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. “I was gonna mention that,” he said, heading for the bunkhouse.
Jolly Ross stationed three men on the ranch’s eastern boundary. Though they slept in the bunkhouse, they rode out each morning at the break of dawn. Their job was to position themselves a few miles apart along the ranch’s eastern line and await the arrival of the longhorns, for the drovers would have no way of knowing when they reached H and R property.
When the herd was spotted, two of Ross’s riders would join the drovers, while the third rode to the ranch to deliver the news. Then all hands would join in the effort and drive the cattle to a clearing that was at least a mile wide, located almost in the center of the ranch. There the cows would be counted and their brands confirmed. Then they would be allowed to wander off as their instincts dictated. A few days later, they would be joined by the Hereford bulls.
Ross was sitting in the cookshack sipping coffee when Slim Byers, one of the men who had been riding the eastern boundary, opened the door. “The longhorns crossed the Lampasas River yesterday afternoon,” Byers said. “Guess they’ll be here sometime tomorrow. One of the drovers was a long way ahead of the cows, looking for the H and R Ranch. Said he’d been asking people all day, but nobody had ever heard of it.” He filled a coffee cup and sat down, chuckling. “I told him he’d been asking for the ranch by the wrong name, told him if he’d asked for the County Line Ranch, most anybody could have sent him in the right direction.”
“That’s what this ranch has been called since statehood,” Ross said, reaching for his sack of Durham, “and that’s what it’s gonna always be called. Me and Zack were talking about that very thing a few days ago. He says it’s almost impossible to change something that has become a tradition, and that he has no intention of trying. He says he’ll keep using that H and R stuff for legal documents and brand registration, but that as far as he’s concerned, this place is still the County Line Ranch.”
“No damn use in changing the name nohow,” Dixie Dalton said, stirring the contents of a large iron pot. “It’s the same damn ranch, just a lot bigger.”
Ross sat quietly for a few moments, then laughed. “I’ll tell Zack you said that, Dixie.”
Accompanied by Jolly Ross and all nine of his riders, Hunter met the herd on the east side of the ranch two mornings later. Ross quickly took up a position in front of the point men, signaling that they should follow him to the designated clearing. Then, with little or no conversation, Ross’s newly hired riders scattered themselves among the drovers on each side of the herd, with two men falling back to help those riding drag.
Even with the arrival of more men and additional shouting, the cattle had never stopped. Nor did they show any sign of skittishness, for by now they were “trail broke.” Hunter rode alongside the herd knowing that his presence was completely unnecessary. He was mostly watching the cowboys that hereafter would be looking to him for a paycheck each month. Every man had no doubt done it before, and it appeared to be second nature to all of them. Pleased with the way the riders worked, he nodded. Jolly Ross had chosen the men well.
Hunter rode along at a walk, mentally counting the drovers. He counted only ten men, with two more driving the horse herd. For some reason, he had been under the impression that moving the cattle west would take at least twenty men. Perhaps it had only been his imagination, he was thinking now, for the ten drovers, two wranglers, and a cook who drove a cart with oversize wheels, had obviously brought the herd from East Texas with a minimum of difficulty. And the animals appeared to be in good shape, indicating that they had not been pushed too hard.
Zack turned his bay aside and found himself a shady spot, where he sat watching as the herd passed him by. Then he joined the men riding drag and rode beside them for the remainder of the morning.
When the leaders reached the clearing, the herd stopped and Zack rode to the front. He saw very quickly that Ross had the situation well in hand. Sitting his gray with a pencil and notebook in his hands, Jolly was barking orders loudly: “Let’s cut ’em out quick, men, before that bunch down the hill there gets too nervous! Cut out about twenty head at a time, check the brands, and run ’em over the hill before they have a chance to double back.” He repositioned his horse, then called out to Human: “You count ’em as they cut ’em out, Bob, then sing out the figures to me.”
One of the drovers was also counting the cattle, and Zack moved out of the man’s way, content to just watch and learn. One of the things he learned quickly was that it did not take men such as these all day to get something done. He had been watching for only a few minutes and already a couple hundred head had been tallied and driven over the hill. Several riders were up there now chasing back the few cows that were trying to turn around and rejoin the herd.
As each bunch was counted and driven over the hill, more cattle were pushed into the clearing to be counted, and by midafternoon, the job was done. With several riders harassing them to make sure they traveled west instead of east, the longhorns began to scatter among the short hills and grassy valleys, and in less than an hour, most were out of sight.
The drover who had been counting the cows introduced himself to Ross as Jack Singleton, head man of the outfit that had delivered the longhorns. “Nine hundred eighty-five head is my count,” he said, holding up his notebook. “How about you?”
“Nine hundred eighty-four,” Ross said. He smiled broadly and reached for his sack of Durham. “Shall we call it nine hundred eighty-four and a half?”
“Sounds good to me,” Singleton said, his smile revealing a broken tooth. “I guess you saw that young bull in the herd. He just insisted on tagging along after his mammy.” He motioned toward the large number of riders, most still sitting their saddles. “Guess there’s about enough of us here to eat him; then my count would match up with yours.”
Ross began to shake his head. “No, I didn’t see the bull, Jack, but we need to get him out of the herd right away. We’ve got Herefords in the pen, and we don’t want a longhorn bull anywhere near this place.”
“Well, there wouldn’t be no problem with this one for a long time yet. He’s way too young to breed.”
“He’s not gonna get any older, either,” Ross said. “You got somebody you can send after him?”
Singleton did not answer, just motioned one of his men over and spoke to him: “Clint, I want you and Willie to go hunt up that little old bull and drag him back here. Shouldn’t be too hard to find, he always foll
ows that big yellow cow with the broke horn.” Clint spoke with Willie for a moment, then both men galloped over the hill.
Zack and Singleton were soon standing beside their horses, shaking hands. “Where’s Mister Rollins?” Singleton asked. “I was told that I’d be dealing with him.”
“I have no idea where he is at the moment,” Zack said, “or when he’ll be back. He said he was gonna take a vacation. Anyway, I’m his partner, and I’m the man with the money. We can settle up when we get to the ranch house.”
Singleton shrugged, then began to nod. “Sounds all right to me. You say you’re the man with the money, I reckon that makes you the man to deal with.”
They stood quietly for a while, then Zack spoke again: “I’ve been hoping I could interest you and your riders in staying around a little longer, Mister Singleton. You see, I have only ten men, and I need more help to keep the cattle on my own property till they settle down some. You think you could talk your riders into giving us a hand?”
The thick-chested, brown-haired drover stared at the toes of his well-worn boots for a few moments, wiping the sweatband of his battered Stetson with his hand. “I guess I could talk to ’em all right,” he said, raising his eyes to meet those of Zack. “Trouble is, you ain’t give me nothing to say to ’em yet.”
Zack chuckled softly at the drover’s choice of words. “Oh, yes, of course,” he said quickly. “Here’s my proposition: if your bunch will lend us a hand for two weeks, I’ll pay each man twenty-five dollars.”
“Twenty-five dollars,” Singleton repeated. “With you offering that kind of money, I don’t expect to have to do much talking. That’s a damn sight more’n they’re making now, and I figure you just hired yourself a dozen men.” He walked into the clearing and held a short conversation with a cluster of men, then returned. “Yep,” he said, offering a quick glimpse of the broken tooth, “reckon we’re all on your payroll now.”
Pairing each of his own men with one of the drovers, Ross assigned two men to each of the line shacks. The additional members of the combined crews, bedrolls behind their saddles, would concentrate on the north, south and east boundaries of the ranch. The drovers’ cook would set up a feeding station on the east boundary for half the men, and Dixie Dalton would feed the other half in the cookshack.
Long before sunset, the riders scattered to their assigned areas. The young bull had been butchered and eaten for the most part, and each of the men going to the line shacks carried along a few pounds of fresh beef. By the time the cooks had brewed up a large pot of beefstew tomorrow, it would be just as if the young bull had never existed.
With the passing of each day, the line riders had less to do. After the first week, the longhorns settled down in a grassy, five-mile area that was somewhere close to the center of the ranch, where half a dozen creeks and springs watered the landscape. For the time being, they had everything they needed right under their noses and were relatively free from the harassment of mounted men. They were unlikely to ramble any great distance until such time as they needed new graze. Even then, they would move about slowly.
Ten days after the arrival of the longhorns, Ross opened the pen and released the bulls. Then, with the help of five riders, he drove the animals north to join the herd. Shouting loudly and swinging their ropes around and around, the horsemen forced the bulls to scatter and intermingle with the cows, an arrangement that appeared to be appreciated by neither sex.
The men stayed with the herd most of the day, mainly to keep an eye on the Herefords and make sure they didn’t decide to go back to Fort Worth. Two hours before sunset, Slim Byers pointed down the hill. “Guess we oughtta go home while we’ve still got enough daylight,” he said. “These bulls ain’t going nowhere.”
Ross followed Slim’s point with his eyes. Two hundred yards down the hill, one of the bulls had separated a cow from the herd and was already earning its keep. Ross chuckled. “I believe you’re right, Slim. I can’t imagine anyplace where they’d have it made like they do here. Mother Nature will keep ’em right where they are.”
The last three days the drovers spent on the ranch, they worked in the rain. With the collars of their slickers turned up and their hat brims pulled low, and without a single complaint from any man, they went about their assigned duties in a steady drizzle. Today was the last day of their two-week agreement, and tomorrow the drovers would head back to East Texas. Shortly after noon, with the rain still falling, Zack paid the riders off on the ranch-house porch. Jack Singleton, the first man in the pay line, accepted his money and commented on the rain: “It gets aggravating as hell to work in it after a while, but it’s sure gonna be good for your cows. They’re all gonna be standing knee-deep in grass about a week from now.”
Zack smiled. “That sure won’t make me mad.”
An hour before dark, Dixie Dalton provided the entire crew with a supper of venison steaks. Then the regular hands retired to the bunkhouse, while most of the drovers carried their bedrolls to the barn. A short time later, Jolly Ross knocked at Zack’s door. Standing beside him was a man whose name Zack could not call. The only time he had seen him up close was in today’s pay line, and no conversation had taken place at that time.
“This is Bill Moon, Zack,” Ross said, pointing to the man with his thumb, “and he says he ain’t lost nothing in East Texas. Says he’d like to stay on with us.”
Zack returned the firm grip as they shook hands. The man had an uncommomly healthy look, and Zack gauged him to be about twenty-five years old. Dark-haired, with a smooth, weathered complexion, the green-eyed Moon stood a couple of inches over six feet tall. Broad at the top and narrow in the middle, his muscular frame appeared to weigh a little more than two hundred pounds. “Good to meet you, Bill,” Zack said, releasing Moon’s hand. “Both of you come on in and sit by the fire. I’ve got hot coffee on the stove.”
They sat in front of the fireplace sipping coffee for a long time, talking about one thing and another. Nothing else had been said concerning Moon’s request for full-time employment on the ranch. “Where do you call home, Bill?” Zack asked finally. “I mean, where did you come from originally?” He already knew the man was a Southerner, for he spoke with an accent much like his own.
“Came from Kentucky,” Moon replied quickly. “Little town called Lexington.” Bill Moon had left the bluegrass country in 1866. He had been raised on a horse farm fifteen miles northwest of Lexington, with the main road to Louisville passing almost through his stepfather’s front yard. Will Brown, the stepfather, had married Moon’s mother when the boy was only seven years old, and Bill lived and attended school under the Brown surname.
It was only when the young man struck out on his own that his surname once again became Moon. He remembered his father clearly. Manley Moon had been a large man who raised tobacco and thoroughbred horses. He also had a small blacksmith shop behind his house, where young Bill sometimes sat for long periods of time hoping his father would let him turn the bellows.
When Manley Moon was killed by a man who owed him money, no one was more incensed than Will Brown, who owned a much larger horse farm just down the road. The two men had been friends for many years, and it was only after a respectable length of time had passed that Brown began to court young Bill’s mother, eventually marrying her.
Brown treated his wife and his stepson exceptionally well, and both had many more material things than ever before. Bill was given his own horse at the age of eight, and he could usually pick and choose any animal on the place that he wanted to ride. Consequently, he was an expert horseman by the time he was a teenager and could usually tell at a glance whether or not a horse was worth its salt. In fact, his stepfather had more than once asked his opinion on a horse that he was about to buy or sell.
Bill’s mother died the year he was fifteen. Though the winter had been a hard one, the family had come through it with none of them even catching a cold. Then, when spring arrived and the weather turned warm, the lady went to bed with pn
eumonia. Three days later, she was dead.
With his mother in the ground, Bill made up his mind quickly that he would not remain on the farm and said as much to his stepfather. “I’m gonna be heading west in a day or so, probably all the way to Texas. I hope you don’t mind me taking a good horse.”
Will Brown did not answer for a long time. He sat staring at the doorstep, clearly unhappy at what he was hearing. “Guess I’d mind a whole lot more if you didn’t take a good horse,” he said finally. “You’d better take two. You’ll need one to haul the things you’re gonna need to carry.”
Nothing else was said for several minutes. Then Brown broke the silence: “We both know that I’ve never tried to tell you what to do, Bill. I’ve always let you grow and learn at your own pace, and you’ve done both very well. You’re already bigger than I am. Looks like you might turn out to be as big as your daddy was, and you know near as much about horseflesh as anybody needs to know.
“I don’t want you to leave, but like I say, I’ve always let you call your own shots.” Brown rose from his seat in the porch swing and headed for the door, for it was approaching his bedtime. “Just don’t run off without me knowing it,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll be needing to carry enough stuff to live outdoors, and I’ll make sure you’ve got some money to tide you over.” He walked to his bedroom and a few minutes later, blew out the lamp.
Bill sat on the dark porch for a long time, trying to imagine what his life would be like where he was going. The things he had read and heard about Texas made the place sound like a different country—completely separate from the rest of the United States. He had also heard that a young man with a little know-how could find a job easily, for now that the war was over, cattle ranching was becoming big business.
