Cow-Country

by B. M. Bower

  CHAPTER SEVEN: BUD FLIPS A COIN WITH FATE

  "I don't think it matters so much where we light, it's what we do whenwe get there," said Bud to Smoky, his horse, one day as they stoppedwhere two roads forked at the base of a great, outstanding peak that wasbut the point of a mountain range. "This trail straddles the butte andtakes on up two different valleys. It's all cow-country--so what do yuhsay, Smoke? Which trail looks the best to you?"

  Smoky flopped one ear forward and the other one back, and switched at apestering fly. Behind him Sunfish and Stopper waited with the patiencethey had learned in three weeks of continuous travel over country thatwas rough in spots, barren in places, with wind and sun and occasional,sudden thunderstorms to punctuate the daily grind of travel.

  Bud drew a half dollar from his pocket and regarded it meditatively."They're going fast--we'll just naturally have to stop pretty soon, orwe don't eat," He observed. "Smoke, you're a quitter. What you want todo is go back--but you won't get the chance. Heads, we take the righthand trail. I like it better, anyway--it angles more to the north."

  Heads it was, and Bud leaned from the saddle and recovered the coin,Smoky turning his head to regard his rider tolerantly. "Right handgoes--and we camp at the first good water and grass. I can grain thethree of you once more before we hit a town, and that goes for me, too.G'wan, Smoke, and don't act so mournful."

  Smoky went on, following the trail that wound in and out around thebutte, hugging close its sheer sides to avoid a fifty-foot drop into thecreek below. It was new country--Bud had never so much as seen a mapof it to give him a clue to what was coming. The last turn of thedeep-rutted, sandy road where it left the river's bank and led straightbetween two humpy shoulders of rock to the foot of a platter-shapedvalley brought him to a halt again in sheer astonishment.

  From behind a low hill still farther to the right, where the road forkedagain, a bluish haze of smoke indicated that there was a town ofsome sort, perhaps. Farther up the valley a brownish cloud hung low-aroundup, Bud knew at a glance. He hesitated. The town, if it were atown, could wait; the roundup might not. And a job he must have soon, orgo hungry. He turned and rode toward the dust-cloud, came shortly to asmall stream and a green grass-plot, and stopped there long enough tothrow the pack off Sunfish, unsaddle Smoky and stake them both out tograze. Stopper he saddled, then knelt and washed his face, beat thetravel dust off his hat, untied his rope and coiled it carefully,untied his handkerchief and shook it as clean as he could and knotted itclosely again. One might have thought he was preparing to meet a girl;but the habit of neatness dated back to his pink-apron days and beyond,the dirt and dust meant discomfort.

  When he mounted Stopper and loped away toward the dust-cloud, he rodehopefully, sure of himself, carrying his range credentials in his eyes,in his perfect saddle-poise, in the tan on his face to his eyebrows, andthe womanish softness of his gloved hands, which had all the sensitiveflexibility of a musician.

  His main hope was that the outfit was working short-handed; and when herode near enough to distinguish the herd and the riders, he grinned hissatisfaction.

  "Good cow-country, by the look of that bunch of cattle," He observedto himself. "And eight men is a small crew to work a herd that size. Iguess I'll tie onto this outfit. Stopper, you'll maybe get a chance toturn a cow this afternoon."

  Just how soon the chance would come, Bud had not realized. He had nomore than come within shouting distance of the herd when a big, rollickysteer broke from the milling cattle and headed straight out past him,running like a deer. Stopper, famed and named for his prowess with justsuch cattle, wheeled in his tracks and lengthened his stride to a run.

  "Tie 'im down!" someone yelled behind Bud. And "Catch 'im and tie 'imdown!" shouted another.

  For answer Bud waved his hand, and reached in his pocket for his knife.Stopper was artfully circling the steer, forcing it back toward theherd, and in another hundred yards or so Bud must throw his loop Hesliced off a saddle-string and took it between his teeth, jerked hisrope loose, flipped open the loop as Stopper raced up alongside, droppedthe noose neatly, and took his turns while Stopper planted his forefeetand braced himself for the shock. Bud's right leg was over the cantle,all his weight on the left stirrup when the jerk came and the steer fellwith a thump. By good luck--so Bud afterwards asserted--he was off andhad the steer tied before it had recovered its breath to scramble up.He remounted, flipped off the loop and recoiled his rope while he wentjogging up to meet a rider coming out to him.

  If he expected thanks for what he had done, he must have received ashock. Other riders had left their posts and were edging up to hearwhat happened, and Bud reined up in astonishment before the most amazingstring of unseemly epithets he had ever heard. It began with: "What'dyou throw that critter for?"--which of course is putting it mildly--andended in a choked phrase which one man may not use to another's face andexpect anything but trouble afterwards.

  Bud unbuckled his gun and hung the belt on his saddle horn, anddismounted. "Get off your horse and take the damnedest licking you everhad in your life, for that!" He invited vengefully. "You told me totie down that steer, and I tied him down. You've got no call tocomplain--and there isn't a man on earth I'll take that kinda talkfrom. Crawl down, you parrot-faced cow-eater--and leave your gun on thesaddle."

  The man remained where he was and looked Bud over uncertainly. "Who areyou, and where'd yuh come from?" he demanded more calmly. "I never sawyuh before."

  "Well, I never grew up with your face before me, either!" Bud snapped."If I had I'd probably be cross-eyed by now. You called me something!Get off that horse or I'll pull you off!"

  "Aw, yuh don't want to mind--" began a tall, lean man pacifically; buthe of the high nose stopped him with a wave of the hand, his eyes stillmeasuring the face, the form and the fighting spirit of one Bud Birnie,standing with his coat off, quivering with rage.

  "I guess I'm in the wrong, young fellow--I DID holler 'Tie 'im down.'But if you'd ever been around this outfit any you 'd have known I didn'tmean it literal." He stopped and suddenly he laughed. "I've been yellin''Tie 'im down' for two years and more, when a critter breaks outa thebunch, and nobody was ever fool enough to tackle it before. It's just asayin' we've got, young man. We--"

  "What about the name you called me?" Bud was still advancing slowly, notmuch appeased by the explanation. "I don't give a darn about the steer.You said tie him, and he's tied. But when you call me--"

  "My mistake, young feller. When I get riled up I don't pick my words."He eyed Bud sharply. "You're mighty quick to obey orders," He addedtentatively.

  "I was brought up to do as I'm told," Bud retorted stiffly. "Anyobjections to make?"

  "Not one in the world. Wish there was more like yuh. You ain't been inthese parts long?" His tone made a question of the statement.

  "Not right here." Bud had no reason save his temper for not givingmore explicit information, but Bart Nelson--as Bud knew himafterwards--continued to study him as if he suspected a blotched past.

  "Hunh. That your horse?"

  "I've got a bill of sale for him."

  "You don't happen to be wanting a job, I s'pose?"

  "I wouldn't refuse to take one." And then the twinkle came back to Bud'seyes, because all at once the whole incident struck him as being ratherfunny. "I'd want a boss that expected to have his orders carried out,though. I lack imagination, and I never did try to read a man's mind.What he says he'd better mean--when he says it to me."

  Bart Nelson gave a short laugh, turned and sent his riders back to theirwork with oaths tingling their ears. Bud judged that cursing was hisnatural form of speech.

  "Go let up that steer, and I'll put you to work," he said to Budafterwards. "That's a good rope horse you're riding. If you want to usehim, and if you can hold up to that little sample of roping yuh gaveus, I'll pay yuh sixty a month. And that's partly for doing what you'retold," he added with a quick look into Bud's eyes. "You didn't say whereyou're from----"

  "I was born and rai
sed in cow-country, and nobody's looking for me,"Bud informed him over his shoulder while he remounted, and let it go atthat. From southern Wyoming to Idaho was too far, he reasoned, to makeit worth while stating his exact place of residence. If they had neverheard of the Tomahawk outfit it would do no good to name it. If they hadheard of it, they would wonder why the son of so rich a cowman as BobBirnie should be hiring out as a common cowpuncher so far from home. Hehad studied the matter on his way north, and had decided to let peopleform their own conclusions. If he could not make good without the nameof Bob Birnie behind him, the sooner he found it out the better.

  He untied the steer, drove it back into the herd and rode over to wherethe high-nosed man was helping hold the "Cut."

  "Can you read brands? We're cuttin' out AJ and AJBar stuff; leftear-crop on the AJ, and undercut on the AJBar."

  Bud nodded and eased into the herd, spied an AJ two-year-old and urgedit toward the outer edge, smiling to himself when he saw how Stopperkept his nose close to the animal's rump. Once in the milling fringe ofthe herd, Stopper nipped it into the open, rushed it to the cut herd,wheeled and went back of his own accord. From the corner of his eye, ashe went, Bud saw that Bart Nelson and one or two others were watchinghim. They continued to eye him covertly while he worked the herd withtwo other men. He was glad that he had not travelled far that day,and that he had ridden Smoky and left Stopper fresh and eager for hisfavorite pastime, which was making cattle do what they particularly didnot want to do. In that he was adept, and it pleased Bud mightily to seehow much attention Stopper was attracting.

  Not once did it occur to him that it might be himself who occupied thethoughts of his boss. Buddy--afterwards Bud--had lived his whole lifeamong friends, his only enemies the Indians who preyed upon the cowmen.White men he had never learned to distrust, and to be distrusted hadnever been his portion. He had always been Bud Birnie, son and heir ofBob Birnie, as clean-handed a cattle king as ever recorded a brand. Evenat the University his position had been accepted without question. Thatthe man he mentally called Parrotface was puzzled and even worried abouthim was the last thing he would think of.

  But it was true. Bart Nelson watched Bud, that afternoon. A man mightride up to Bart and assert that he was an old hand with cattle, and Bartwould say nothing, but set him to work, as he had Bud. Then he wouldknow just how old a "Hand" the fellow was. Fifteen minutes convincedhim that Bud had "growed up in the saddle", as he would have put it. Butthat only mystified him the more. Bart knew the range, and he knew everyman in the country, from Burroback Valley, which was this great valley'sname, to the Black Rim, beyond the mountain range, and beyond the BlackRim to the Sawtooth country. He knew their ways and he knew their pastrecords.

  He knew that this young fellow came from farther ranges, and he wouldhave been at a loss to explain just how he knew it. He would have saidthat Bud did not have the "earmarks" of an Idaho rider. Furthermore, thesmall Tomahawk brand on the left flank of the horse Bud rode was totallyunknown to Bart. Yet the horse did not bear the marks of long riding.Bud himself looked as if he had just ridden out from some nearbyranch--and he had refused to say where he was from.

  Bart swore under his breath and beckoned to him a droopy-mustached,droopy-shouldered rider who was circling the herd in a droopy,spiritless manner and chewing tobacco with much industry.

  "Dirk, you know brands from the Panhandle to Cypress Hills. What d' yuhmake of that horse? Where does he come from?" Bart stopped abruptly androde forward then to receive and drive farther back a galloping AJBarcow which Bud and Stopper had just hazed out of the herd. Dirk squintedat Stopper's brand which showed cleanly in the glossy, new hair of earlysummer. He spat carefully with the wind and swung over to meet his bosswhen the cow was safely in the cut herd.

  "New one on me, Bart. They's a hatchet brand over close to Jackson'sHole, somewhere. Where'd the kid say he was from?"

  "He wouldn't say, but he's a sure-enough cowhand."

  "That there horse ain't been rode down on no long journey," Dirkvolunteered after further scrutiny. And he added with the unconsciousimpertinence of an old and trusted employee, "Yuh goin' to put him on?"

  "Already done it--sixty a month," Bart confided. "That'll bring outwhat's in him; he's liable to turn out good for the outfit. Showed he'lldo what he's told first, and think it over afterwards. I like that theretrait in a man."

  Dirk pulled his droopy mustache away from his lips as if he wanted tomake sure that his smile would show; though it was not a pretty smile,on account of his tobacco-stained teeth.

  "'S your fun'ral, Bart. I'd say he's from Jackson's Hole, on a roughguess--but I wouldn't presume to guess what he's here fur. Mebby he comeacross from Black Rim. I can find out, if you say so."

  Bud was weaving in and out through the herd, scanning the animalsclosely. While the two talked he singled out a yearling heifer, letStopper nose it out beyond the bunch and drove it close to the boss.

  "Better look that one over," He called out. "One way, it looks like AJ,and another way I couldn't name it. And the ear looks as if about halfof it had been frozen off. Didn't want to run it into the cut until youpassed on it."

  Bart looked first at Bud, and he looked hard. Then he rode over andinspected the yearling, Dirk close at his heels.

  "Throw 'er back with the bunch," He ordered.

  "That finishes the cut, then," Bud announced, rubbing his hand alongStopper's sweaty neck. "I kept passing this critter up, and I guess theother boys did the same. But it's the last one, and I thought I'd runher out for you to look over."

  Bart grunted. "Dirk, you take a look and see if they've got 'em all. Andyou, Kid, can help haze the cut up the Flat--the boys'll show you whatto do."

  Bud, remembering Smoky and Sunfish and his camp, hesitated. "I've gota camp down here by the creek," He said. "If it's all the same to you,I'll report for work in the morning, if you'll tell me where to headfor. And I'll have to arrange somehow to pasture my horses; I've got acouple more at camp."

  Bart studied him for a minute, and Bud thought he was going to changehis mind about the job, or the sixty dollars a month. But Bart merelytold him to ride on up the Flat next morning, and take the first trailthat turned to the left. "The Muleshoe ranch is up there agin that pinemountain," he explained. "Bring along your outfit. I guess we can takecare of a couple of horses, all right."

  That suited Bud very well, and he rode away thinking how lucky he was tohave taken the right fork in the road, that day. He had ridden straightinto a job, and while he was not very enthusiastic over the boss, theother boys seemed all right, and the wages were a third more than hehad expected to get just at first. It was the first time, he remindedhimself, that he had been really tempted to locate, and he certainly hadstruck it lucky.

  He did not know that when he left the roundup his going had beencarefully noted, and that he was no sooner out of sight than Dirk Tracywas riding cautiously on his trail. While he fed his horses the last bitof grain he had, and cooked his supper over what promised to be his lastcamp-fire, he did not dream that the man with the droopy mustache waslying amongst the bushes on the other bank of the creek, watching everymove he made.

  He meant to be up before daylight so that he could strike the ranchof the Muleshoe outfit in time for breakfast, wherefore he went to bedbefore the afterglow had left the mountain-tops around him. And beingyoung and carefree and healthfully weary, he was asleep and snoringgently within five minutes of his last wriggle into his blankets. ButDirk Tracy watched him for fully two hours before he decided that thekid was not artfully pretending, but was really asleep and likely toremain so for the night.

  Dirk was an extremely cautious man, but he was also tired, and the coldfood he had eaten in place of a hot supper had not been satisfying tohis stomach. He crawled carefully out of the brush, stole up the creekto where he had left his horse, and rode away.

  He was not altogether sure that he had done his full duty to theMuleshoe, but it was against human nature for a man nearing for
ty tolie uncovered in the brush, and let a numerous family of mosquitoes feedupon him while he listened to a young man snoring comfortably in a goodcamp bed a hundred feet away.

  Dirk, because his conscience was not quite clear, slept in the stablethat night and told his boss a lie next morning.