Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

“Odd damn, where you think? Where you’re supposed to be—working. Everybody ain’t got time to lay around the fire, drinkin’ my coffee.”

  Bris seemed surprised. “Everybody out on night herd? How come?”

  “Injuns. Couple of the boys spotted some of ’em scouting around the herd this morning. They run off when they seen ’em coming. ’Bout midday they spotted ’em again down south of the river. Reckon they had a hankerin’ for beef.”

  “Coulda been the same bunch that jumped me,” Bris said. He hesitated for a moment, standing right in front of Smoky. Finally, exasperated, he demanded, “Ain’t you gonna ask me about this damn sling?”

  “What about it?” Smoky replied, his tone indicating a definite lack of interest. Then his grin widened and he added, “I figured you broke your arm trying to wipe your ass.”

  “I swear, a man would have to git shot full of holes before he got any sympathy around here.”

  “You got shot? Odd damn, why didn’t you say so? Here, let’s have a look at it.”

  Tom sat down and relaxed by the fire while the cook looked over Bris’s wound. He suddenly felt tired. It had been a long day, and the warm fire, combined with the biscuits in his belly, seemed to add weight to his eyelids. He didn’t realize he was dozing until he was awakened by the arrival of the rest of the cowhands.

  * * *

  Bris was right when he said Eli needed cowhands, but Eli was a cautious man, and it wasn’t the natural thing to see a man riding alone in this country with no apparent destination. Occasionally, a trapper—one of the so-called mountain men—would wander across his range. But this young fellow didn’t look like a mountain man, and he wasn’t carrying prospecting tools. Bris said he’d been mustered out of the army, and maybe that was the truth. Mustered out or deserted, Eli didn’t care. He never had much use for soldiers anyway. He did have principles though, and he wanted to be assured he wasn’t hiring on any bank robbers or murderers. He had a right fair crew. They might be a little rough around the edges, but they could turn a good day’s work and there wasn’t a backstabber in the bunch. He was cautious, but he also knew his manners, so he extended his hand when introduced to Tom and gave him a firm handshake.

  “Bris here tells me you pulled his bacon outta the fire.”

  Tom smiled and shrugged, “Well, I don’t know about that. All I did was pull him out from under his horse and give him a ride home.”

  Eli Cruze didn’t look like his name, at least not what Tom expected him to look like. From Bris’s comments about him, Tom expected a giant of a man with a no-nonsense nature and a disposition akin to that of a mountain lion. On first impression, Eli seemed to present just the opposite of that image. He was a smallish, wiry man whose nose seemed a size too large for a knifelike face that bore the tracks of too many hard winters on the open range. Instead of the wide-brimmed hat favored by most men in this part of the world, he wore a short-billed cap, like those Tom had seen as a boy in St. Louis when he and his friends sat on the docks and watched the riverboats unload. His choice of caps probably was the reason the men all referred to him as the Captain. While the man was relatively small, especially when standing next to the imposing bulk of Bris Collins, Tom found that the no-nonsense nature accurately applied to him. And, while his disposition may not have been quite that of a mountain lion, it was by no means fearful. His nature was more resolute, like the mountain range that stood silently on the western horizon. Tom got the impression that Eli Cruze would be here as long as the mountains, regardless of winter snows, Indians, summer storms, or whatever else came along. If the military had been his calling, Eli Cruze surely would have been a general.

  Bris spoke up. “Cap’n, Tom here might be lookin’ to sign on with us.”

  Eli turned to Tom, his expression revealing no particular interest in the news. “That right?”

  “Well, maybe.” Tom couldn’t help but feel a little bit defensive. After all, he hadn’t come begging for a job. He was really only there because he had helped Bris out of a tight spot.

  “Ever worked cattle before?”

  “No.”

  Eli stood there for a long moment, measuring Tom with his eyes. Finally, he spoke. “I’m trying to figure what good you’d be to us if you don’t know anything about working cows. We already got a cook, and we don’t need nobody to lead no parades.”

  Tom was beginning to rankle. He looked Eli in the eye long and hard before he replied. “Well, Mr. Cruze, it’s like this. I don’t know if I’d be of any use to you or not. It depends. I’m a fair hand with a horse, and I reckon I can shoot as well as the next man. I didn’t come here looking for a job, but I could probably use one. As far as working cattle, I figure if you can do it, then, by God, I reckon I can.”

  Eli didn’t react right away. His expression, stern and skeptical, remained that way for a few seconds while he continued to evaluate the young visitor to his camp. Then the corners of his mouth slowly turned up to form a thin smile, and his eyes softened perceptively. “Don’t get yourself all riled up, young feller. I just wanted to see if there was any sand in you.” He turned back to Bris, who was grinning broadly. “Bris here can show you where you can throw your bedroll. You stick close to Bris. He’ll show you what to do.” He turned back to Tom and said, “Glad to have you. We’re short of hands.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed for his tent.

  Tom stood and watched the man walk away. “Well,” he sighed and said, “I guess that means I’m hired.”

  “I told you,” Bris said, still grinning broadly. “You’ll find the Cap’n is as fair a man to work for as there is.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll try this for a while, but I’m not sure how long I’ll stay.”

  Chapter V

  Spring was a busy time for the Broken-T’s cowhands. It was the time of year to round up all the scattered remnants of the close to five thousand head of beef that had managed to make it through the winter, and brand all the spring calves and strays. Spring thaws produced small bunches of cattle from obscure draws and canyons that had been inaccessible under winter snows. There was an urgency about the work, and Eli kept after his hands constantly, reminding them that their bonus was dependent upon how many head, ready for market, could be rounded up for the fall drive to the Missouri, some three hundred and fifty miles distant. The men worked from dark to dark, from can to can’t, sometimes with barely a couple of hours sleep at night, sometimes with none at all.

  It was a hard way to earn thirty dollars a month, but Tom found the work to be a balm, easing the despair he still harbored. His exhausted body left little room for his mind to dwell on things that had happened in his past or to speculate on what the future might hold. Bris Collins took him under his wing, and within a couple of weeks’ time Tom was working like an experienced cowhand. His initial responsibility was that of a wrangler since he had no experience in roping. So, for most of the roundup, his job was to watch over the remuda, a position of decidedly lower status than that of a regular cowhand, whose task it was to cut out a calf, rope it, tie it, and brand it. It was a far cry from a lieutenant in the cavalry, but Tom didn’t mind. In fact, he openly admired the skill demonstrated by the men, most of whom were much younger than he. With Bris showing him the basics of roping, he started practicing on the horses in the remuda. On Sundays, while on the home range, Eli slacked off a little on the work. He was a religious man in a somewhat free-wheeling way, enough so that he at least tried to acknowledge the Sabbath. Tom used the free hours to practice on the calves. Before long, he became a fair hand at roping. Being shorthanded, Eli decided to let him help with the branding. Bris helped him pick a string of good cow ponies. A cowhand needed six or eight horses because the work would wear down a couple of horses in no time at all. His favorite was a little buckskin named Breezy. Billy was as fine a horse as a man could ask for, but he was not inclined toward working cattle, so he was temporarily retired to the remuda. Tom made it a point to give his old companion a little attention wh
enever he had the time. He and Billy had been through a lot together, and it wouldn’t do to have Billy feel as though he had been abandoned.

  Bris had been truthful when he said the Cap’n was a fair man, and Tom found the crew of the Broken-T to be as amiable a group of men as he had ever encountered. There seemed to be no troublemakers. Of course, as Bris pointed out, as hard as they were working, nobody had any energy left to make trouble. Aside from Bris, the men Tom worked with most were Slim and Doc. Slim was called Slim for obvious reasons—he was tall and gangly, a man of perhaps twenty-five. Doc, an average-looking man, was a few years older. When asked why he was called “Doc,” he had no idea at all. For as long as he could remember, he had been called Doc. Then there was Big Joe and Little Joe, two brothers from Texas who had signed on with Eli when he made the big drive up from the Canadian River range. Big Joe was the elder by two years. Little Joe’s name was actually Cecil, but no one was able to remember that. They had always referred to him as Little Joe, and after a while it became his name. Tom rode with the two brothers occasionally, but most of the time he was paired with Bris and Doc, or Bris and Slim. In a short time they became real comfortable around each other, almost like family.

  After roundup, most of the summer was spent riding herd. It was a lonesome job, Tom found, covering a big territory, usually by himself. For the most part he counted cattle, doctored them if they were sick, drove off occasional wolves, and talked to himself a great deal. Still, it was not a bad time. Solitude was sometimes good for the soul, so he went about his work content to be alone with his thoughts. By the time the morning came when Eli gave the order to “Move ’em out!” and they started the herd toward the east and the Missouri, Tom had all but forgotten his time as a cavalry officer. He had taken to working cattle.

  Eli had been impatient to get the drive started, but once under way he was in no particular hurry to complete it. He was a practical man, and he had a set schedule for the trip to the Northern Pacific railhead at Bismarck. The drive would cover some three hundred plus miles, and he had allowed plenty of time to make it. Ten miles a day was about average for a herd this size, and that was the schedule Eli planned on. There was plenty of good grass and water between the Musselshell and the Missouri, and he planned to have well filled-out beef when he completed the trip. When Bris suggested they could easily make five miles more a day, thereby getting to the saloons that much quicker, Eli had an answer for him. “I’ll get a helluva lot better price for beef than I will for soup bones.” He was already aware that his Texas longhorns, while tough and resilient on the range, were second in quality to the short-horned purebreds raised by most of the Montana ranchers, and it was his plan to eventually convert his entire herd to the better strain. One of the first things he had done when he first arrived in Montana territory was to buy a couple of bulls from a rancher over near Miles City.

  Most of the cattlemen, and almost all of the Texas herds, were content simply to use the open range of Montana and not own any of it outright. It seemed there was enough good open range to last forever, especially since the buffalo had been all but killed off. But Eli planned to sink roots in this new territory. He had staked claim and filed for the one hundred and sixty acres offered under the Homestead Act of 1862. The parcel he selected was on the banks of the Musselshell. It was only a hundred and sixty acres, but he had the use of unlimited open range around his property. The way he saw it, there would come a time when all that unlimited range would suddenly become crowded, what with more railroads pushing into the land every year, and more Texas cattlemen, like himself, leaving the drought-stricken prairies of Texas to graze on the lush grass of Montana. Eli was here to stay, and when the range was no longer free, he aimed to have possession of a good bit more than a hundred and sixty acres of it.

  * * *

  It had been a good drive so far. They would reach Pronghorn Creek early the next afternoon. It was a wide creek that probably had another name, but they referred to it as the Pronghorn because they had seen a herd of antelope near there the year before. Remembering this, Smoky asked Eli if Tom, being somewhat of a hunter, might ride out from the herd on the chance he might run up on some wild game. Smoky, despite his gruff exterior, was not a man without compassion, and the diet on a cattle drive was not the most appetizing, consisting mainly of sourdough biscuits and sowbelly. He would sometimes dress it up a little with gravy on the biscuits, but the fare seldom varied. So if there was a chance to serve some antelope, he knew the men would appreciate it. Besides, Smoky was as bored with the diet as anybody. Eli agreed that it was a good idea, so Tom rode out early the next morning before the herd started moving. Slim asked to go along since he was a fair shot himself.

  Tom turned Breezy in with the remuda and saddled Billy. It had been a while since Billy had been ridden, and he was a bit rank at first. He started kicking up his heels as soon as Tom tried to throw the saddle on him. Tom knew what was bothering him—he had been neglected while Tom worked cattle on Breezy and the rest of his string. Horses can feel jealousy the same as humans, and Billy wasn’t going to let Tom forget that he had been ignored. Tom was patient with him, but had to slap him once behind the ears when Billy started to buck. It wasn’t much of a bucking, just a halfhearted hump to let Tom know he was protesting. But Tom gave him a hard slap anyway. He and Billy were partners, but it was important to establish which one of them gave the orders. Billy settled down quick enough, and when he did, Tom stroked his neck and whispered a little sweet talk to him. Billy was Billy after that. Slim seemed to be enjoying the reunion.

  “That there horse acts more like a wife than a horse,” he said and laughed as Tom calmed Billy down. “I just kick the shit out’n mine when he acts up.

  Tom shook his head and smiled back at Slim. “Billy and I have a pretty good understanding,” he said. “Besides, he’s got a pretty good memory, and if we get caught out on the prairie somewhere by a Sioux hunting party, we might have to make a run for it. I want to make sure Billy doesn’t take off without me.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Slim agreed. “But, if it comes to that, this plug’ll play hell gittin’ me off’n his back.” He laughed at the thought. “And, if’n he did throw me, I’d shoot the son of a bitch before he had a chance to leave me.”

  Tom laughed. He knew Slim to be one of the gentlest of souls. He was just talking big. If it came down to it, he’d more than likely give up his life to save that of his horse. Tom liked Slim. He was easy to be around.

  They took one packhorse with them, and as they ambled out of camp, Bris called out to them, “You boys must figure on gittin’ a helluva lot of game. You sure one packhorse’ll be enough?”

  “We’ll load this ’un up, and then herd the rest of the game back into camp so’s you can watch us kill ’em,” Slim called back.

  “All the same, I reckon I’ll git my belly ready for more sourdough and sowbelly,” Bris laughingly replied. “I’m gonna be hunting strays south of here, and I don’t wanna see that there horse loaded down with none of Cap’n’s beef when you git back.”

  At a canter, they soon were out of sight of the herd, so they drew back on the horses into a more leisurely pace. The range spread out before them like a vast peaceful ocean, rolling gently toward the horizon, broken only occasionally by small stands of trees that marked the course of a wayward stream. After riding for about an hour, they paused at one such creek to give the horses a drink. Slim climbed up into a tree to take a look around.

  “Hold on! There they are!”

  “What is it?” Tom asked.

  Slim didn’t answer at once, as he strained to see. After a moment more, he said, “Looks like pronghorns to me, maybe fifteen or twenty of ’em.”

  By this time, Tom had climbed up in the tree beside Slim and followed the direction in which Slim was looking. “I think you’re right. Looks like meat, all right, if we can get close enough to get a shot.”

  They circled around to get downwind and then tried to gra
dually close the distance between themselves and the small herd of antelope. Tom estimated that they followed the herd for about three miles, yet only managed to shorten the distance between them by about three or four hundred yards. It was almost as if the animals knew what they were up to and were careful not to let them get too close. The prairie was too flat at this point. There were no hills or draws to conceal their movements, so there was nothing to do but continue trailing them. At last they reached terrain that offered Tom the cover he needed. The antelope led them to one of the numerous streams that followed a small tree-lined ravine. While the herd drank, Tom and Slim hurried to gain a position behind a hill that formed one side of the ravine. It was their intention to use the cover of the hill to shoot from, making the antelope easy targets while they drank from the stream. But they weren’t that lucky. Somehow, the herd got nervous and bolted from the stream, through the trees, and over the other side of the ravine.

  “Damn!” Slim swore.

  Tom jumped to his feet. “Hurry! Let’s get down to that creek and get these horses out of sight. We might get our meat yet if we’re quick enough.”

  Slim followed right behind as Tom raced down to the stream and tied the horses to a tree. Running in a crouch to keep his profile low, he quickly made his way to the top of the hill. The antelope had gone no farther than a few hundred yards before they stopped to graze again. This was what he had hoped for.

  “You want to take a shot at ’em?” Slim asked. “It’s a little fer but we might get lucky.”

  “No, wait,” Tom replied. “I’ll show you an old trick Squint Peterson taught me.”

  “Who’s Squint Peterson?”

  “An old friend, a scout,” Tom replied as he quickly pulled his bandanna from around his neck and tied it to the barrel of his rifle. “You just sit tight right here and get ready to shoot when I do.” He got up on his hands and knees and crawled over the brow of the hill. “Just make sure you shoot at a pronghorn and not at me,” he called back over his shoulder.