“Whoo-up, whoo-up, whoo-pee!”
Again the strange long-drawn accented call echoed through the gathering darkness. Somebody was evidently in trouble. In answer to the shrill yell Jack hastily put his rifle to his shoulder and fired three shots. Immediately afterward the call was repeated, and guided by the sound Jack began to wade back through the marsh. After some time spent in search he came upon a man, almost hidden by the tall grass which was breast high. This victim of the quicksand was mired in a soft spot of silt up to his waist.
“Here, stranger, dig me outer this devilish sinking grave, fer the love of Mike,” the man called, as Jack approached. “I’ve been stuck here fer hours, and the more I struggle to git out, the deeper I git mired in. My gun is buried a foot below the surface of this hell-hole now, where I tried to climb out on it.”
“This is a treacherous spot,” Jack answered. “But I’ll soon have you out. Lucky thing I happened to be shooting to-day, isn’t it?”
“Just about the heftiest stroke o’ luck I ever ran onto.” the man responded fervently, reaching out for the long pole which Jack held out to him.
After much exertion, a lot of pulling on the part of Jack, the rescue was accomplished. The man emerged, sticky and mud covered, leaving a hip boot behind him in the bog.
“Thank all the saints I’m outer there,” he exclaimed. “But come to reconsider that there remark, I reckon it’s you I’d better be offering my thanks to, pardner,” he added with a wry smile.
“Shucks, I don’t want any thanks,” Jack responded, as the two started back through the woods. “I am glad I happened to be in hearing distance when you gave that yell. But I say, mister, what kind of a yell is that, anyhow?”
“Don’t you know, boy? Why, that’s a coyote ye’ll. It’s a kind o’ password out on the plains, to let folks know you’re a-coming, and don’t mean no harm. The pony express riders all give it, too, when they dash into the stations like all the Injuns in the West was after them.”
Jack’s eyes opened wide. “Have you been out West?” he asked.
“I shore have,” the man answered. “I’m just back here fer a visit to my folks. Seems like I can’t stay put nowhere. I’ve got a itching foot, as they say. Next time I start out I’m headin’ for Texas. I’m going down there and start me a rancho. I tell you, boy, that’s the way to git you a pile o’ shekels together. Them Mexican rancheros they’ve got the idee, and no mistake. The range is full o’ cows, just waiting to have the lariat swung around ’em and a brand put on ’em. Why don’t you strike out yourself?”
Young Jack Omohundro was talking for the first time with a man who had followed the call of adventure. This soldier of fortune whom he had rescued from the bog had pushed out beyond the traveled paths of the East to the far-off places. To the boy his words were touched with magic, and Jack asked him question after question as the two walked rapidly through the woods toward the main road. Listening to the yarns of the plains Jack felt an irre-sistible urge to be on the move himself. And before he and his companion had reached the dividing fork in the highway he had made up his mind. He would go to the unclaimed prairies of the southwest and become a cattleman.
About a month later, early one cold frosty morning, Jack bade his parents farewell and took up the trail headed South. He was riding his thoroughbred horse, Roan Racer, and carried a rifle at his back held by a strap. In his belt were stuck a hunting knife and a revolver of large caliber. A pair of saddlebags, a heavy blanket, and ninety dollars in gold completed his personal possessions. But as Jack pushed out of the State of Virginia he felt as rich as a king and as adventurous as a knight of old.
The traveler was welcomed at farm houses, and the boy spent several nights in the hospitable homes of Southern planters. On the fourth night, however, he had reached the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, and as twilight came on he approached a lonely log cabin, looking for shelter.
In answer to his knock a sour-looking mountaineer opened the door and peered out.
“Could you put me up for the night?” Jack asked.
The man seemed to hesitate, then drawled ungraciously. “Yas, I reckon I kin.”
After attending to Roan Racer, Jack rejoined his host in the cabin. As the evening wore on the vague dislike which he had felt upon first seeing the man deepened. Twice during the night his host rose from his cot stealthily. But each time Jack gave evidences that he was awake, and the man returned to his bed. When they sat down to their breakfast of corn hoe cake and bacon, the mountaineer appeared more sullen than ever. Jack felt that he would be glad to finish his meal and be on the trail again.
“How much do I owe you?” he asked his host when Roan Racer had been saddled and he was ready to take his departure.
The mountaineer hesitated. It was not the custom to charge travelers anything.
“A couple o’ dollars,” he finally replied.
As Jack opened his wallet to fulfill the demand, several gold pieces rolled to the floor. Stooping to pick them up, the young Virginian surprised a covetous glitter in the eyes of the mountaineer.
All day Jack rode at a brisk trot, feeling that he wanted to put a good distance between himself and his ungracious host, and at nightfall reached an old tavern on a river bank. Here he procured a good room and enjoyed a hearty supper. As he passed out of the dining room, however, he was startled to see his host of the previous night in close conversation with the tavern keeper. The two men were in the taproom, and as Jack entered, the mountaineer quickly turned his back and dodged out of a side door.
When the young adventurer retired that night he put his revolver under his pillow, and stood his rifle at the head of the bed, ready for use. However, he was thoroughly tired out by the long day’s ride, and soon fell asleep.
Some hours later Jack was awakened by a light touch. Instantly he put his hand on his revolver and called out “Who’s there?”
Two hard-knotted hands gripped his throat just as he pulled the trigger of his Colt. There was a flash, and with a cry his assailant dropped heavily to the floor. Soon there was the sound of many hurrying feet down the passageway, followed by a loud banging upon his door.
“Open the door. Let me in,” a voice commanded.
Jack opened the door, and the landlord entered, a number of guests following close on his heels. On the floor lay the body of the would-be assassin, his hand grasping a knife, the blade of which was driven an inch in the floor. An opened window showed how the man had entered. Looking down at the lifeless body, Jack was not surprised to see that the midnight intruder was the mountaineer.
“You have killed one of my guests, boy,” the landlord stated in a firm, hard voice. “Dave Johnson has a habit of walking in his sleep. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“No, he’ll never hurt anything else,” Jack responded. “But he wasn’t asleep. He came in here to rob me.”
“Well, you can tell that story to the constable in the morning,” the tavern keeper said sneeringly. “In the meantime I’ll lock you up for safe-keeping. I’m thinking you’ll swing for this night’s work.
When the landlord had gone away, taking Jack’s arms and saddlebags and locking the door behind him, the lad was filled with despair. All his plans and his wonderful adventures had come to an end! Despondently he sank down on the side of the bed, burying his face in his hands. But the young Virginian was resourceful and soon he rose from the bed and, stealing over to the door, felt the lock. The landlord had forgotten to search the boy’s pockets. Now he fell busily to work with his penknife, and a short time afterward the lock was loosened and he was free.
Cautiously he descended the stairs to the lower hall. The tap-room door was slightly ajar, and on a table Jack saw his arms and saddlebags. But sleeping before the flickering fire on the hearth was a dog. Jack knew that the minute the animal was aware of his presence he wo
uld bark and arouse the whole house. But he could not start out upon the long and hazardous journey before him unarmed. He would have to take a chance. Quietly he opened the door and with a quick, stealthy movement was upon the animal, his strong sinewy hands around its throat. Reaching for his knife he plunged it through the dog’s ribs. Then grabbing his belongings he rapidly yet noiselessly unlocked the tavern door and was in the pitchy darkness outside.
Making his way cautiously to the stable Jack saddled the first horse he found there and, mounting it, rode off. As he did so the village clock boomed two strokes.
“Four hours until morning,” Jack whispered to his horse. “Let’s ride!” Fortunately the boy had procured a good mount which he christened “Stranger.” By daylight he came to a narrow river landing where he found a ferryboat attached to a rope that extended from one bank to the other. There was no ferryman, the boat being operated by the passenger, who pulled the flat across. The boat was only eighteen feet long and large enough for a couple of horses and a wagon. Jack dexterously pulled it across, led Stranger aboard and tied him to one of the railings, and then, coolly cutting the pull ropes at each end, freed the boat which drifted down the stream, carried on by the current.
Down the dismal river running between swamp lands Jack’s boat sailed, making good time, and toward night the boy felt that he had eluded any pursuers. About the same time he began to feel the pangs of hunger, and when he spied a deer some distance ahead which had come to the river to drink, he leveled his rifle and, taking aim, brought the animal down. Pulling his boat ashore by the aid of a long pole, he landed, setting the ferry afloat. Stranger was tied in a bed of luxurious grass, and Jack having cut the choicest bits of meat from the deer set about getting his supper. Over a fire he roasted his venison steak and boiled some coffee; then, having rested, he was on the trail again.
For many long, tiresome weeks Jack traveled, his course taking him through Tennessee, across the Mississippi River into Arkansas. Here one day, in Little Rock, he met a party of wagon trains bound for the Southwest, and joined the emigrants. These pioneers were quitting their homes in Mississippi, Alabama, and Tennessee for the land on the Mexican border. They too had heard tales of other hardy explorers who, following the old Santa Fe trail, had chanced upon Mexican establishments and had thrown in their lot with the Spanish rancheros. Soon these once-impoverished Americans were in the class of the cattle kings.
The wagon train traveled through Arkansas to Texarkana, and crossing the Red River entered the Lone Star State not far from Indian territory, which is now Oklahoma. Here Jack bade his new-found friends farewell, determined to locate a well-established ranch where he could get a job as cowboy. He knew that in the southwestern part of Texas there were numerous outfits, each covering an enormous acreage and asserting ownership over the great herd that habitually grazed upon it. These original Texas rancheros had copied the Mexican knowledge of ranching which had been in use for generations below the Rio Grande. In breaking, riding the bucking ponies, and in using the branding iron the Texas cattleman was almost as skilled as his Spanish neighbor.
One of the richest and most expert of the Texas rancheros was Henry Montague, owner of Prairie Roost. And it was to him that Jack Omohundro applied for a job. The ranchero looked him over critically and asked him if he could ride and shoot. When the young Virginian had answered these questions to the ranchman’s satisfaction, he was taken on at a salary of twenty-five dollars a month. Then the lad was turned over to a seasoned cowboy called “Old Reckless.”
Trailing around after his guide Jack got his first sight of a ranch. This layout consisted of a main building, a bunk house for the cowboys, a barn with an open shed attached, a hitching bar, and two corrals, which Old Reckless called “round pens.” These pens were circular in form and built of stout horizontal wooden rails which were supported by posts set firmly in the ground.
“Why are the pens round?” Jack asked.
“So that there ain’t no corners for the cows to dodge into,” Old Reckless answered. “And these here rails were lashed to the posts by strips of green rawhide which contracted as they dried and made this here place as rigid and strong as iron. An’ it needs to be. You jist wait till you see a rodeo.”
Connecting the two corrals was a narrow fenced lane called a shoot.
As Jack and Old Reckless rode over the ranch they passed numbers of men in the serviceable yet picturesque attire of the cowboy. Most of these Texas cow-punchers used a Mexican rig and bit, heavy with silver pesos and with a horn on it the size of a dinner plate. Buckskin leggings, fringed and beaded, were stuck into cavalry boots. Sombreros turned up on one side and caught with a gold star were stuck on their heads at a rakish angle.
Underneath this Spanish picturesqueness, however, Jack soon found much rugged character. Courage was a prerequisite both to entering and pursuing the vocation. The men who followed the cow trail were required to endure the pitiless blizzard and to traverse the equally pitiless desert. They fought the outlaw and the Indian. Over the mountain’s cliffs and through the river’s rapids they rode; also over ground pitted by the gopher and the badger. Death they looked in the face often, and most of the time alone.
But Jack was not lacking in bravery, and he made good in his new job. He quickly learned the ranges of the cattle and much about the country. After a short time he became a proficient trailer and could track a stray pony or steer with ease. He learned to swing a lariat with skill and became familiar with the quaint and graphic phraseology of the men. For not only did the American cowboy owe his vocation, the tools of his trade and the technique of his craft to the Mexicans to the south, but also the very words by which he designated his utensils and the animals with which he dealt.
Twice a year in the spring and again in the fall all the West climbed into the saddle and lariats were swung through the area bounded by the Missouri River, the Sierra Nevadas, and the Mexican border. This was known as the “roundup,” or rather on the border as the “rodeo.”
Prairie fires were frequent, although usually of little importance. At rare intervals a cyclone whirled its way across the flat land, leaving in its path lifeless animals and terrified brutes still galloping in wild stampede. One day as Jack and Old Reckless were out on the prairie together, the sky became inky black. Then suddenly it was shot through with shades of copper and dark green. The wind ceased and silence reigned, interrupted by the nervous lowing of cattle.
Presently there was a long-drawn moan, and out of the mottled gold-and-green sky there rushed a lightning-capped funnel, point down, lined with dust, vegetation, and uprooted trees. Across the prairie it tore, and through the wind, thunder and lightning rode the cow-punchers, trying to maneuver the cattle back into protecting gullies.
In fact the life of the cow-puncher was full of excitement and adventure. If things threatened to grow a bit dull there was always the alternative of getting up a horse race. Sometimes these races were between a spirited pony of the ranch and some other steed which had been ridden into Prairie Roost by a cowboy from a neighboring outfit. Or perhaps a Comanche brave appeared, and when the competing ponies had been selected, excitement flamed high. The gambling spirit was strong in the cow-punchers, and they would bet all their possessions and six months’ wages against the generous stakes of the redskins. When the race had been run and the bets paid the punchers were either dead broke or the Indians were minus their horses.
Texas was overrun by bands of outlaws who thieved upon the rancheros, Horse stealing earned either death by hanging or, if the vigilance committee were tolerant, life banishment from “these parts” preceded in the latter case by the loss of the upper half of an ear, a distinguishing mark which lasted to the grave. But sometimes the bandits were so clever that it was hard to bring them to an accounting. This was the case with the gang under the leadership of a desperado known as “Buckskin Ben.” Several times this man an
d his followers had visited Prairie Roost and escaped with some of the best ponies on the ranch. Finally Henry Montague decided to put a stop to the business.
A number of cowboys were selected to keep constant watch and to give a signal should the bandits appear. One night Jack was awakened by the firing of three shots, even spaced as to time. On the plains this was known as the distress signal, and in a flash Jack was on his feet, pulling on his clothes. Soon a company of cow-punchers were in their saddles chasing over the prairie in pursuit of the horse thieves. To the mountains the outlaws were followed, and as they made for a lonely spot in the valley, hemmed in by precipitous sides, the cow-punchers opened fire.
In the battle that ensued, Buckskin Ben was killed by Old Reckless in a hand-to-hand fight, the cowboy by an underhand thrust driving his knife, edge up, into his enemy.
Young Jack Omohundro, in attempting to come to the aid of Old Reckless, was attacked by a bandit and badly wounded. On the way back to the ranch the lad was left by the cow-punchers at the old River Fort, where he could be under the care of the army surgeon. So fond did the soldiers become of the cow-puncher that he was made hunter for the garrison. At this time Jack was only seventeen years of age, although he looked much older. He had a mass of curling chestnut hair, which he wore long. His shoulders were broad, his waist small, and his carriage easy and graceful. He dressed after the manner of the Texas cowboy, adding a gay-colored serape, handsome cavalry boots which were armed with gold spurs, a silk shirt, black scarf under a wide collar, and a velvet jacket in the Mexican style. But a certain soldier who dared to address him as “Dandy Jack” was reported on sick leave for several days after the remark.
The Third Western Megapack Page 48
