Home Ranch (16 page)

“Well, I ain't even stayed loose
one
time—leastways, not if I done the hissin'—and I ain't goin' to stop till I do!”

I remembered what Mr. Bendt had said to me that morning, and told Hazel, “Don't go raring at it as if tomorrow'd be the day of judgment! Your father knows what we're doing, and he might be worried about us.”

“Guess you don't know much about Paw!” she said. “If he said you could learn me, he ain't goin' to worry about it afterwards. But I s'pose we'd best get on back, or Maw'll go to frettin'.”

We were about half way to the buildings when Hazel pulled Pinto back beside Pinch, and asked, “Is it sneakin' not to tell somebody somethin' so they won't worry?”

“Well,” I said, “I guess it would depend on whether you just didn't tell, or told a lie about it. Why?”

“Well . . . if Maw finds out about this trick-ridin' business, that'll be the end of it. I don't want to be sneakin', but I don't want her to find out about it, neither.”

I was pretty sure Hazel was right, and I did want to teach her the trick, so I said, “As long as your father knows, I think it would be all right if you just didn't mention it to your mother—or to Kenny.” Hazel grinned, nodded, and spurred Pinto on toward the corrals.

I'd banged against the saddle pommel so much that my legs ached, and I knew that Hazel's must, too. But I didn't realize how bad it was until we climbed out of our saddles. Both of us were as stiff as tin soldiers, and when we tried to walk we waddled like ducks.

I was putting the saddles in the harness shop when Hazel went to the house, but I heard Mrs. Bendt call to her, in a real sharp voice, “What in the world have you children been doin' to get yourselves so crippled up?” I listened as hard as I could, but Hazel spoke too low for me to hear.

Mr. Bendt was waiting by the chuckhouse steps when I went to supper, and his face was set hard. “Didn't reckon tomorrow'd be the day o' jedgment, did you?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I said, “but I guess we rode a little more than we should have.”

“Reckon that's a good guess,” he told me. “Better put some liniment on them legs and turn in early tonight. If you're that rarin' to ride, I'll see you get a bellyful of it 'fore the week's out.”

15

A Bellyful of Riding

M
ONDAY
morning I felt as if I'd slept with my legs tied around a barrel, and I could almost hear myself squeak in the joints. I rubbed on plenty of liniment, and made up my mind that I'd walk with my knees close together, so nobody could guess how rough I really felt.

That was the first morning Hank was well enough to eat in the chuckhouse. He still looked sort of puny, but being sick hadn't slowed his talking a mite. Over and over again, he kept telling us how sick he'd been and what the doctor had said to him, and all the different dreams he'd had when he was out of his head. “Yes, sir, by dogies!” he shouted. “I seen them pearly gates a-swingin' open and old Peter . . .”

“Speakin' about gates,” Mr. Bendt cut in on him, “you reckon you're stout enough to open and close a gate today? There's a heap o' roundin' up and cuttin' to be done 'fore Batch gets back here at the weekend, and short-handed as I am, I could sure use you to man a gate.”

Hank tried his best to cough, and said weakly, “By dogies, I don't know if I can make it, Watt. I'm feelin' mighty, mighty poorly. But with you a-bein' short-handed I'll try my best to get out and around.”

“Reckon that would be a good idee!” Mr. Bendt told him. “I'll want you at the corrals right after dinner.”

There was a tone in Mr. Bendt's voice that I hadn't heard before, and he didn't speak again until we were out at the horse corral. Then he told Ned and me, “Get your saddles on your best horses, boys. We'll start at the north end and sweep everything this way. ‘Fore the week's out we're goin' to put every critter on the home place through the corrals. Batch wants everything booked, the young stock put up to the mountains, and a hundred and twenty head o' trade stock cut out and ready by Sunday. We'll round up forenoons and cut after dinner.”

The sun was just rising when Mr. Bendt, Ned and I reined onto the north trail at a good sharp canter, and we didn't slack off till we reached the north fence—seven miles from the buildings. And when he'd said we were going to “sweep” the cattle, he'd used just the right word.

On open range, where a steer can be seen for a mile, cattle can be rounded up and driven in big herds. But in brush country they have to be swept out of each canyon, draw or hollow, the way a woman sweeps out the rooms of her house. And you have to sweep around every thicket and clump of scrub oak the way she sweeps around the furniture.

We started with the canyons in the far northwest corner of the home ranch, right up against the front range of the Rockies. Mr. Bendt did the planning and bossing, but he did an awful lot of the riding, too—and he put his sorrel down canyon sides that looked too steep and rocky for a mountain goat. We worked every canyon separately, with Ned on one side, me on the other, and Mr. Bendt all over it. He was always bringing out cattle we'd missed, but he never blamed us and he never shouted. Around the corrals his voice was deep and rumbly, but in the brush he raised it just enough to make it carry. From a quarter of a mile away, it would come as clear as a bell, “Above you, boy!” “Catch that side pocket!” “Watch it, Ned; they're turning back below you!” or “Leave any cows with calves, but mark 'em down in your head!”

As we swept each canyon clean, we drove the cattle we'd found past the mouth of the next canyon, to graze along and be joined by the next sweeping. Pinch's shadow was so short it was hidden under his belly when Mr. Bendt called, “That's got it, boys! We'll head on in to the corrals!”

Outside of orders, Mr. Bendt hadn't said anything to me all forenoon. But when we had the herd lined out and moving toward the corrals, he slowed his horse as he rode by me, and said, “'Pears like Hazel done a pretty good job o' learnin' you to find cattle in brush country.”

“Yes, sir, she's a good teacher,” I said, and he rode on.

It was nearly four o'clock when we brought that first sweeping in to the corrals, but Mr. Bendt must have planned it that way. As soon as the gate was closed, he said, “Better get washed up and to the chuckhouse, boys. Grub's on the table.” Then he looked at me and said, “Eat hearty; you still got a big day's work ahead!”

I don't think I looked up from my plate once during dinner. I was too busy eating and thinking about the day's work that was ahead of me. I knew what it would be, and had trouble to keep from being afraid of it. There was every kind of cattle in the sweeping we'd brought in, and the only cutting horse on the place was in my string. I ate enough, but I didn't stuff. A stomach-ache, to go along with my lame legs and Clay, was something I couldn't take a chance on.

Hank hadn't come to the table, and I hadn't seen Hazel since the night before, but when Jenny brought in the pie, Mr. Bendt said, “Tell Hazel to fetch the herd book and a pencil out to the corral, and tell Hank I'm ready for some gate tendin'! Gettin' his legs under him won't do him no hurt, and might work a little of the wind out of him, so's we can eat a meal o' vittles in peace.” Then he looked at me and said, “Throw your saddle on Clay; I'll be at the cuttin' corral!”

I ate my pie in about six bites, then hurried to the bunkhouse and rubbed plenty of liniment on my legs. When I'd saddled Clay and ridden to the cutting corral, everybody else was there and ready to work. Hazel was sitting on a little platform by the cattle pens with a book open on her lap, Hank was leaning against one of the gates, and Mr. Bendt and Ned were mounted—ready to take away the cattle as they were cut from the herd. Mr. Bendt opened the gate for me to ride in, and told me, “With only one man on the gates, we'll have to take 'em by kinds. Take the young stock first; pick 'em off the outside of the herd as long as you can!” Then he turned back and stood his horse beside Ned's.

There were about sixty cattle in the corral, and they were jammed into a far corner. I've heard that a drowning man thinks of a million things in less than a minute. If it's so, I was pretty close to drowning as Clay walked slowly toward that herd. From the way Mr. Bendt had spoken and acted, I knew I'd have to sink or swim without any help. And in the minute it took Clay to reach the herd, I'd thought of every thing Mr. Batchlett, Mr. Bendt, Hazel, or my father had ever taught me—and I think I prayed a little—but over it all, I kept telling myself, “Stay loose! Stay loose! Stay loose!”

I don't know what helped the most, but I must have had help from somewhere. One after another, Clay took the animals I wanted out of the herd, and when he dodged and side-slipped I didn't feel as if I'd be spilled at every turn. I knew the job I was doing was far from perfect, and I tightened up a good many times when I shouldn't have, but, for the first time since I'd tried to use him, Clay didn't act as if he thought I was a stupid fool.

As I cut each animal from the herd, Mr. Bendt rode his horse in behind Clay and took it away. As he and Ned drove it toward the gate, he'd call to Hazel, “Yearling heifer—roan—Shorthorn! Durham steer—short yearling—good grade!” or “Bull—White Face—herd grade—long yearling!”

I knew that marking down the cattle wasn't all Hazel was doing—that she was watching every move Clay and I made. And I could almost see her keeping score of my mistakes. Each time I tightened up or made a mistake, I wanted to peek up to see if she'd noticed it, but I didn't let myself do it until I had the last yearling cut out and turned over to her father. Then, when I did look up, she didn't say a word. She just let her shoulders slump loose, grinned, and nodded her head. I don't know why, but it made a lump come into my throat. If she'd shouted that I was staying loose and doing a pretty fair job, she couldn't have told me any plainer.

My nerves were zinging when Mr. Bendt turned back from the last yearling and rode toward me. “All right,” he said: “now we'll cut out the trade stock! I'll call 'em to you as I want 'em! Fetch that two-year-old White Face bull that's tryin' to pick a fight! Watch ou . . .” Then, without finishing, he reined his horse away and stood it beside Ned's. If he'd gone on and said, “Watch out for his horns,” it wouldn't have hurt my feelings. But his
not
saying it made me pretty happy—just having him show that he didn't think I needed to be told.

It's easy to stay relaxed when you're fishing or just watching a herd of cattle graze, but it's hard to do when your nerves are humming like a telegraph wire on a cold night. I'd been keeping an eye on that White Face bull ever since Ned flushed him out of a canyon, and there was no question about his being ugly and looking for a fight. I wasn't exactly afraid of him, but he outweighed Clay by five hundred pounds, and had wide, forward-curved horns. If that kind of a bull charges and gets his head under a horse, he can throw it as if it were a sack of meal—and the rider has about as much chance as a fat pig at a barbecue.

I was telling myself, “Keep loose! Keep loose!” as I turned Clay to face the herd. The White Face bull watched us with his head low, grumbling deep in his throat, and pawing dirt high over his back. I let Clay take a couple of steps straight at him, so he'd know which animal we were after, then drew him off a trifle to get behind and push the bull out. We didn't need to get behind; when we were within two lengths of him, the bull charged.

Quicker than the shot of a pistol, Clay sidestepped the rush and was between the bull and the herd. I let the reins go loose, grabbed the horn, and from then on things happened too fast for me to remember. I do know that the bull charged us at least a dozen times, and that Clay used his own body to twist him and turn him—the way a matador uses his cape in bull fighting. And I know one other thing: that was the first time I ever really got that feeling Mr. Bendt had told me about—the one about dancing with your best girl.

I never knew a horse could whirl, weave, twist, and bounce away as fast as Clay did with that charging bull. But my muscles stayed loose, and the saddle stayed under my bottom all the way. I was getting just a little bit dizzy when Clay yanked the bull around in a turn that was shorter than its own body. It must have made the bull even dizzier than I, because all the fight went out of him. He stood with his head and tail down as Mr. Bendt rode in to take him away. I don't think Mr. Bendt had noticed me once during the whole fight. When he rode past, he was slipping a six-shooter back into its holster, and all he said was, “Lot o' horse, ain't he, boy?”

I was proud to have my voice steady when I said back, “Yes, sir, an awful lot! What animal do you want now?”

I don't know whether Mr. Bendt picked that bull on his first call just to get him out of the herd, or if he did it to let me find out that I'd finally got the hang of Clay—and maybe of myself a little bit. Whichever way he intended it, it worked the second way. From then on I never had to tell myself to stay loose in the saddle, and I was never afraid again. It was in that fight with the bull that the first real understanding began between Clay and me.

One after another, Mr. Bendt called for the cattle he wanted, and as we brought them out he called the description to Hazel. I didn't look up at her until the last of the trading cattle had been cut out of the herd, and then she just grinned and nodded.

The sun was nearly two hours from setting when we began cutting out the brood cows that would be turned back to pasture after the sweep was finished. Most of them were beginning to be heavy with calf, and the job of cutting them away from the herd was easy—now that Clay and I understood each other better. We were about half through the cutting when Kenny came riding to the corral gate on his donkey. He called something, and I heard Mr. Bendt call back, “Tell her to get the grub on the fire! We'll be through a lot earlier than I reckoned on.”

I glanced up at Hazel while they were talking, and she pointed back and forth between herself and me, then at her father. I guessed that she wanted me to ask him if we could go and practice when we'd finished with the cattle. After his having told me he'd give me a bellyful of riding, I didn't like to ask, but Hazel kept motioning. So, when I brought the last cow out of the corner, I asked, “Would it be all right for Hazel and me to practice the horses a little while after supper?”

Mr. Bendt's face had been serious all day, but when I asked him it brightened up, and he said, “Betcha my life! Betcha my life, boy!”

He started to ride away, then turned back and said quietly, “Reckon you'd best to do it 'fore we eat. Hazel's maw might not cotton to her goin' out after supper. If I was you, I don't reckon I'd say much about this trick-ridin' business 'round the house. How's the gal doin'?”

“Fine,” I said. “I'm sorry she got bruised up so much, but it won't be safe for her to try the diving trick till she can stay loose in the saddle on quick stops.”

For a few seconds Mr. Bendt sat as if he were trying to make sense out of what I'd told him. Then he just said, “Betcha my life! Make her learn it good!” and rode away.

All the way to the practice meadow, Hazel was as bubbly as soapsuds. We'd hardly hit the north trail when she called back, “I got it all learnt! I learnt it this afternoon when you was riding Clay—and you done . . . did fine!”

“Maybe I'm getting the hang of him a little bit,” I called back. “But what was it you learned?”

“How to keep loose; what else is there to learn?”

“Not much,” I told her, “but I still don't know what you're talking about.”

“Well, I do! All I got to do is to not let myself know I'm goin' to say, ‘Tsssst!' till I hear it. That way I won't get scairt and tighten up.”

“It would work if you could do it,” I told her, “but I don't see how that has anything to do with my riding Clay.”

“That's what you was doin'—right clean up to the time you had the fight with the White Face bull—not lettin' yourself know you was scairt. I seen it plain as daylight.”