Cow Country
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B. M. Bower >> Cow Country
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At the stable, Buddy looked back and saw her talking
earnestly to Ezra, who stood nodding his head in complete
approval. Buddy's knowledge of women began and ended with his
mother. Therefore, to him all women were wonderful creatures
whom men worshipped ardently because they were created for
the adoration of lesser souls. Buddy did not know what his
mother was going to do, but he was sure that whatever she did
would be right; so he hoisted his saddle on the handiest
fresh horse, and loped off to drive in the remuda, feeling
certain that his father would move swiftly to save his cattle
that ranged back in the foothills, and that the saddle horses
would be wanted at a moment's notice.
Also, he reasoned, the range horses (mares and colts and the
unbroken geldings) would not be left to the mercy of the
Indians. He did not quite know how his father would manage
it, but he decided that he would corral the REMUDA first, and
then drive in the other horses, that fed scattered in
undisturbed possession of a favorite grassy creek-bottom
farther up the Platte.
The saddle horses, accustomed to Buddy's driving, were easily
corralled. The other horses were fat and "sassy" and resented
his coming among them with the shrill whoop of authority.
They gave him a hot hour's riding before they finally bunched
and went tearing down the river bottom toward the ranch. Even
so, Buddy left two of the wildest careening up a narrow
gulch. He had not attempted to ride after them; not because
he was afraid of Indians, for he was not. The war-dance held
every young buck and every old one in camp beyond the Pass.
But the margin of safety might be narrow, and Buddy was
taking no chances that day.
When he was convinced that it was impossible for one boy to
be in half a dozen places at once, and that the cowboys would
be needed to corral the range bunch, Buddy whooped them all
down the creek below the home ranch and let them go just as
his father came riding up to the corral.
"They're war-dancing, father," Buddy shouted eagerly,
slipping off his horse and wiping away the trickles of
perspiration with a handkerchief not much redder than his
face. "I drove all the horses down, so they'd be handy. Them
range horses are pretty wild. There was two I couldn't get.
What'll I do now?"
Bob Birnie looked at his youngest rider and smoothed his
beard with one hand. "You're an ambitious lad, Buddy. It's
the Utes you're meaning--or is it the horses?"
Buddy lifted his head and stared at his father disapprovingly.
"Colorou is going to break out. I know. They've got their war
paint all on and they're dancing. I saw them myself. I was
going after the gloves Colorou s squaw was making for
me,--but I didn't get 'em. I laid in the brush and watched
'em dance." He stopped and looked again doubtfully at his
father. "I thought you might want to get the cattle outa the
way, he added. "I thought I could save some time--"
"You're sure about the paint?"
"Yes, I'm sure. And Colorou was just a-going it with his war
bonnet on and shaking his tomahawk and yelling--"
"Ye did well, lad. We'll be leaving for Big Creek to-night,
so run away now and rest yourself."
"Oh, and can I go?" Buddy's voice was shrill with eagerness.
"I'll need you, lad, to look after the horses. It will give
me one more hand with the cattle. Now go tell Step-and-a-Half
to make ready for a week on the trail, and to have supper
early so he can make his start with the rest."
Buddy walked stiffly away to the cook's cabin where Step-and-
a-Half sat leisurely gouging the worst blemishes out of soft,
old potatoes with a chronic tendency to grow sprouts, before
he peeled them for supper His crippled leg was thrust out
straight, his hat was perched precariously over one ear
because of the slanting sun rays through the window, and a
half-smoked cigarette waggled uncertainly in the corner of
his mouth while he sang dolefully a most optimistic ditty of
the West:
"O give me a home where the buff-alo roam,
Where the deer and the antelope play,
Where never is heard a discouraging
word And the sky is not cloudy all day."
"You're going to hear a discouraging word right now," Buddy
broke in ruthlessly upon the song. Whereupon, with a bit of
importance in his voice and in his manner, he proceeded to
spoil Step-and-a-Half's disposition and to deepen, if that
were possible, his loathing of Indians. Too often had he made
dubious soup of his dishwater and the leavings from a roundup
crew's dinner, and watched blanketed bucks smack lips over
the mess, to run from them now without feeling utterly
disgusted with life. Step-and-a-Half's vituperations could be
heard above the clatter of pots and pans as he made ready for
the journey.
That night's ride up the pass through the narrow range of
high-peaked hills to the Tomahawk's farthest range on Big
Creek was a tedious affair to Buddy. A man had been sent on a
fast horse to warn the nearest neighbor, who in turn would
warn the next,--until no settler would be left in ignorance
of his danger. Ezra was already on the trail to Laramie, with
mother and Dulcie and the cats and a slat box full of
chickens, and a young sow with little pigs.
Buddy, whose word no one had questioned, who might pardonably
have considered himself a hero, was concerned chiefly with
his mother's flower garden which he had helped to plant and
had watered more or less faithfully with creek water carried
in buckets. He was afraid the Indians would step on the
poppies and the phlox, and trample down the four o'clocks
which were just beginning to branch out and look nice and
bushy, and to blossom. The scent of the four o'clocks had
been in his nostrils when he came out at dusk with his fur
overcoat which mother had told him must not be left behind.
Buddy himself merely liked flowers: but mother talked to them
and kissed them just for love, and pitied them if Buddy
forgot and let them go thirsty. He would have stayed to fight
for mother's flower garden, if it would have done any good.
He was thinking sleepily that next year he would plant
flowers in boxes that could be carried to the cave if the
Indians broke out again, when Tex Farley poked him in the
ribs and told him to wake up or he'd fall off his horse. It
was a weary climb to the top of the range that divided the
valley of Big Creek from the North Platte, and a wearier
climb down. Twice Buddy caught himself on the verge of
toppling out of the saddle. For after all he was only a
thirteen-year Old boy, growing like any other healthy young
animal. He had been riding hard that day and half of the
preceding night when he had raced back from the Reservation
to give warning of the impending outbreak. He needed sleep,
and nature was determined that he should have it.
CHAPTER FIVE: BUDDY RUNS TRUE TO TYPE
One never could predict with any certainty how long Indians
would dance before they actually took the trail of murder and
pillage. So much depended upon the Medicine, so much on signs
and portents. It was even possible that they might, for some
mysterious reason unknown to their white neighbors, decide at
the last moment to bide their time. The Tomahawk outfit
worked from dawn until dark, and combed the foothills of the
Snowies hurriedly, riding into the most frequented, grassy
basins and wide canyons where the grass was lush and sweet
and the mountain streams rushed noisily over rocks. As fast
as the cattle were gathered they were pushed hastily toward
the Platte, And though the men rode warily with rifles as
handy as their ropes, they rode in peace.
Buddy, proud of his job, counting himself as good a man as
any of them, became a small riding demon after rebellious
saddle horses, herding them away from thick undergrowth that
might, for all he knew, hold Indians waiting a chance to
scalp him, driving the REMUDA close to the cabins when night
fell, because no man could be spared for night herding,
sleeping lightly as a cat beside a mouse hole. He did not say
much, perhaps because everyone was too busy to talk, himself
included.
Men rode in at night dog-weary, pulled their saddles and
hurried stiffly to the cabin where Step-and-a-Half was
showing his true worth as a cook who could keep the coffee-
pot boiling and yet be ready to pack up and go at the first
rifle-shot. They would bolt down enormous quantities of
bannock and boiled beef, swallow their coffee hot enough to
scald a hog, and stretch themselves out immediately to sleep.
Buddy would be up and on his horse in the clear starlight
before dawn, with a cup of coffee swallowed to hearten him
for the chilly ride after the remuda. Even with the warmth of
the coffee his teeth would chatter just at first, and he
would ride with his thin shoulders lifted and a hand in a
pocket. He could not sing or whistle to keep himself company.
He must ride in silence until he had counted every dark,
moving shape and knew that the herd was complete, then ease
them quietly to camp.
On the fourth morning he rode anxiously up the valley,
fearing that the horses had been stolen in the night, yet
hoping they had merely strayed up the creek to find fresh
pastures. A light breeze that carried the keen edge of frost
made his nose tingle. His horse trotted steadily forward, as
keen on the trail as Buddy himself; keener, for he would be
sure to give warning of danger. So they rounded a bend in the
creek and came upon the scattered fringe of the remuda
cropping steadily at the meadow grass there.
Bud circled them, glancing now and then at the ridge beyond
the valley. It seemed somehow unnatural--lower, with the
stars showing along its wooded crest in a row, as if there
were no peaks. Then quite suddenly he knew that the ridge was
the same, and that the stars he saw were little, breakfast
camp-fires. His heart gave a jump when he realized how many
little fires there were, and knew that the dance was over.
The Indians had left the reservation and had crossed the
ridge yesterday, and had camped there to wait for the dawn.
While he gathered his horses together he guessed how old
Colorou had planned to catch the Tomahawk riders when they
left camp and scattered, two by two, on "Circle." He had held
his band well out of sight and sound of the Big Creek cabin,
and if the horses had not strayed up the creek in the night
he would have caught the white men off their guard.
Buddy looked often over his shoulder while he drove the
horses down the creek. It seemed stranger than luck, that he
had been compelled to ride so far on this particular morning;
as if mother's steadfast faith in prayer and the guardianship
of angels was justified by actual facts. Still, Buddy was too
hard-headed to assume easily that angels had driven the
horses up the creek so that he would have to ride up there
and discover the Indian fires. If angels could do that, why
hadn't they stopped Colorou from going on the warpath? It
would have been simpler, in Buddy's opinion.
He did not mention the angel problem to his father, however.
Bob Birnie was eating breakfast with his men when Buddy rode
up to the cabin and told the news. The boys did not say
anything much, but they may have taken bigger bites by way of
filling their stomachs in less time than usual.
"I'll go see for myself," said Bob Birnie. "You boys saddle
up and be ready to start. If it's Indians, we'll head for
Laramie and drive everything before us as we go. But the lad
may be wrong." He took the reins from Buddy, mounted, and
rode away, his booted feet hanging far below Buddy's short
stirrups.
Speedily he was back, and the scowl on his face told plainly
enough that Buddy had not been mistaken.
"They're coming off the ridge already," he announced grimly.
"I heard their horses among the rocks up there. They think to
come down on us at sunrise. There'll be too many for us to
hold off, I'm thinking. Get ye a fresh horse, Buddy, and
drive the horses down the creek fast as ye can."
Buddy uncoiled his rope and ran with his mouth full to do as
he was told. He did not think he was scared, exactly, but he
made three throws to get the horse he wanted, blaming the
poor light for his ill luck; and then found himself in
possession of a tall, uneasy brown that Dick Grimes had
broken and sometimes rode. Buddy would have turned him loose
and caught another, but the horses had sensed the suppressed
excitement of the men and were circling and snorting in the
half light of dawn; so Buddy led out the brown, pulled the
saddle from the sweaty horse that had twice made the trip up
the creek, and heaved it hastily on the brown's back. Dick
Grimes called to him, to know if he wanted any help, and
Buddy yelled, "No!"
"Here they come--damn 'em--turn the bunch loose and ride!" called
Bob Birnie as a shrill, yelling war-whoop, like the yapping of
many coyotes, sounded from the cottonwoods that bordered the
creek. "Yuh all right, Buddy?"
"Yeah--I'm a-comin'," shrilled Buddy, hastily looping the
latigo. Just then the sharp staccato of rifle-shots mingled
with the whooping of the Indians. Buddy was reaching for the
saddle horn when the brown horse ducked and jerked loose.
Before Buddy realized what was happening the brown horse, the
herd and all the riders were pounding away down the valley,
the men firing back at the cottonwoods.
In the dust and clamor of their departure Buddy stood
perfectly still for a minute, trying to grasp the full
significance of his calamity. Step-and-a-Half had packed
hastily and departed ahead of them all. His father and the
cowboys were watching the cottonwood grove many rods to
Buddy's right and well in the background, and they would not
glance his way. Even if they did they would not see him, and
if they saw him it would be madness to ride back--though
there was not a man among them who would not have wheeled in
his tracks and returned for Buddy in the very face of Colorou
and his band.
From the cottonwoods came the pound of galloping hoofs.
"Angels NOTHING!" Cried Buddy in deep disgust and scuttled
for the cabin.
The cabin, he knew as he ran, was just then the worst place
in the world for a boy who wanted very much to go on living.
Through its gaping doorway he saw a few odds and ends of food
lying on the table, but he dared not stop long enough to get
them. The Indians were thundering down to the corral, and as
he rounded the cabin's corner he glanced back and saw the
foremost riders whipping their horses on the trail of the
fleeing white men. But some, he knew, would stop. Even the
prospect of fresh scalps could not hold the greedy ones from
prowling around a white man's dwelling place. There might be
tobacco or whiskey left behind, or something with color or a
shine to it. Buddy knew well the ways of Indians.
He made for the creek, thinking at first to hide somewhere in
the brush along the bank. Then, fearing the brightening light
of day and the wide space he must cross to reach the first
fringe of brush, he stopped at a dugout cellar that had been
built into the creek bank above high-water mark. There was a
pole-and-dirt roof, and because the dirt sifted down between
the poles whenever the wind blew--which was always--the place
had been crudely sealed inside with split poles overlapping
one another. The ceiling was more or less flat; the roof had
a slight slope. In the middle of the tiny attic thus formed
Buddy managed to worm his body through a hole in the gable
next to the creek.
He wriggled back to the end next the cabin and lay there very
flat and very quiet, peeping out through a half-inch crack,
too wise in the ways of silence to hold his breath until he
must heave a sigh to relieve his lungs. It was hard to
breathe naturally and easily after that swift dash, but
somehow he did it. An Indian had swerved and ridden behind
the cabin, and was leaning and peering in all directions to
see if anyone had remained. Perhaps he suspected an ambush;
Buddy was absolutely certain that the fellow was looking for
him, personally, and that he had seen, Buddy run toward the
creek.
It was not a pleasant thought, and the fact that he knew that
buck Indian by name, and had once traded him a jackknife for
a beautifully tanned wolf skin for his mother, did not make
it pleasanter. Hides-the-face would not let past friendliness
stand in the way of a killing.
Presently Hides-the-face dismounted and tied his horse to a
corner log of the cabin, and went inside with the others to
see what he could find that could be eaten or carried off.
Buddy saw fresh smoke issue from the stone chimney, and
guessed that Step-and-a-Half had left something that could be
cooked. It became evident, in the course of an hour or so,
that his presence was absolutely unsuspected, and Buddy began
to watch them more composedly, silently promising especial
forms of punishment to this one and that one whom he knew.
Most of them had been to the ranch many times, and he could
have called to a dozen of them by name. They had sat in his
father's cabin or stood immobile just within the door, and
had listened while his mother played and sang for them. She
had fed them cakes--Buddy remembered the good things which
mother had given these despicable ones who were looting and
gobbling and destroying like a drove of hogs turned loose in
a garden, and the thought of her wasted kindness turned him
sick with rage. Mother had believed in their friendliness.
Buddy wished that mother could see them setting fire to the
low, log stable and the corral, and swarming in and out of
the cabin.
Painted for war they were, with red stripes across their
foreheads, ribs outlined in red which, when they loosened
their blankets as the sun warmed them, gave them a fantastic
likeness to the skeletons Buddy wished they were; red stripes
on their arms, the number showing their rank in the tribe;
open-seated, buckskin breeches to their knees where they met
the tightly wrapped leggings; moccasins laced snugly at the
ankle--they were picturesque enough to any eyes but Buddy's.
He saw the ghoulish greed in their eyes, heard it in their
voices when they shouted to one another; and he hated them
even more than he feared them.
Much that they said he understood. They were cursing the
Tomahawk outfit, chiefly because the men had not waited there
to be surprised and killed. They cursed his father in
particular, and were half sorry that they had not ridden on
in pursuit with the others. They hoped no white man would
ride alive to Laramie. It made cheerful listening to Buddy,
flat on his stomach in the roof of the dugout!
After a while, when the cabin had been gutted of everything
it contained save the crude table and benches, a few Indians
brought burning brands from the stable and set it afire. They
were very busy inside and out, making sure that the flames
took hold properly. Then, when the dry logs began to blaze
and flames licked the edges of the roof, they stood back and
watched it.
Buddy saw Hides-the-face glance speculatively toward the
dugout, and slipped his hand back where he could reach his
six-shooter. He felt pretty certain that they meant to
demolish the dugout next, and he knew exactly what he meant
to do. He had heard men at the posts talk of "selling their
lives dearly ", and that is what he intended to do.
He was not going to be in too much of a hurry; he would wait
until they actually began on the dugout--and when they were
on the bank within a few feet of him, and he saw that there
was no getting away from death, he meant to shoot five
Indians, and himself last of all.
Tentatively he felt of his temple where he meant to place the
muzzle of the gun when there was just one bullet left. It was
so nice and smooth--he wondered if God would really help him
out, if he said Our Father with a pure heart and with faith,
as his mother said one must pray. He was slightly doubtful of
both conditions, when he came to think of it seriously. This
spring he had felt grown-up enough to swear a little at the
horses, sometimes--and he was not sure that shooting the
Indian that time would not be counted a crime by God, who
loved all His creatures. Mother always stuck to it that
Injuns were God's creatures--which brought Buddy squarely
against the incredible assumption that God must love them. He
did not in the least mean to be irreverent, but when he
watched those painted bucks his opinion of God changed
slightly. He decided that he himself was neither pure nor
full of faith, and that he would not pray just yet. He would
let God go ahead and do as He pleased about it; except that
Buddy would never let those Indians get him alive, no matter
what God expected.
Hides-the-face walked over toward the dugout. Buddy crooked
his left arm and laid the gun barrel across it to get a "dead
rest" and leave nothing to chance. Hides-the-face stared at
the dugout, moved to one side--and the muzzle of the gun
followed, keeping its aim directly at the left edge of his
breastbone as outlined with the red paint. Hides-the-face
craned, stepped into the path down the bank and passed out of
range. Buddy gritted his teeth malevolently and waited, his
ears strained to catch and interpret the meaning of every
soft sound made by Hides-the-face's moccasins.
Hides-the-face cautiously pushed open the door of the cellar
and looked in, standing for interminable minutes, as is the
leisurely way of Indians when there is no great need of
haste. Ruddy cautiously lowered his face and peered down like
a mouse from the thatch, but he could not handily bring his
gun to bear upon Hides-the-face, who presently turned back
and went up the path, his shoulder-muscles moving snakishly
under his brown skin as he climbed the bank.
Hides-the-face returned to the others and announced that
there was a place where they could camp. Buddy could not hear
all that he said, and Hides-the-face had his back turned so
that not all of his signs were intelligible; but he gathered
that these particular Indians had chosen or had been ordered
to wait here for three suns, and that the cellar appealed to
Hides-the-face as a shelter in case it stormed.
Buddy did not know whether to rejoice at the news or to
mourn. They would not destroy the dugout, so he need not
shoot himself, which was of course a relief. Still, three
suns meant three days and nights, and the prospect of lying
there on his stomach, afraid to move for that length of time,
almost amounted to the same thing in the end. He did not
believe that he could hold out that long, though of course he
would try pretty hard.
All that day Buddy lay watching through the crack, determined
to take any chance that came his way. None came. The Indians
loitered in the shade, and some slept. But always two or
three remained awake; and although they sat apparently ready
to doze off at any minute, Buddy knew them too well to hope
for such good luck. Two Indians rode in toward evening
dragging a calf that had been overlooked in the roundup; and
having improvidently burned the cabin, the meat was cooked
over the embers which still smouldered in places where knots
in the logs made slow fuel.
Buddy watched them hungrily, wondering how long it took to
starve.
When it was growing dark he tried to keep in mind the exact
positions of the Indians, and to discover whether a guard
would be placed over the camp, or whether they felt safe
enough to sleep without a sentinel. Hides-the-face he had
long ago decided was in charge of the party, and Hides-the-
face was seemingly concerned only with gorging himself on the
half-roasted meat. Buddy hoped he would choke himself, but
Hides-the-face was very good at gulping half-chewed hunks and
finished without disaster.
Then he grunted something to someone in the dark, and there
was movement in the group. Buddy ground his growing
"second" teeth together, clenched his fist and said "Damn it!"
three times in a silent crescendo of rage because he could
neither see nor hear what took place; and immediately he
repented his profanity, remembering that God could hear him.
In Buddy's opinion, you never could be sure about God; He
bestowed mysterious mercies and strange punishments, and His
ways were past finding out. Buddy tipped his palms together
and repeated all the prayers his mother had taught him and
then, with a flash of memory, finished with "Oh, God,
please!" just as mother had done long ago on the dry drive.
After that he meditated uncomfortably for a few minutes and
added in a faint whisper, "Oh, shucks! You don't want to pay
any attention to a fellow cussing a little when he's mad. I
could easy make that up if you helped me out some way."
Buddy believed afterwards that God yielded to persuasion and
decided to give him a chance. For not more than five minutes
passed when a far-off murmur grew to an indefinable roar, and
the wind whooped down off the Snowies so fiercely that even
the dugout quivered a little and rattled dirt down on Buddy
through the poles just over his head.
At first this seemed an unlucky circumstance, for the Indians
came down into the dugout for shelter, and now Buddy was
afraid to breathe in the quiet intervals between the gusts.
Just below him he could hear the occasional mutters of
laconic sentences and grunted answers as the bucks settled
themselves for the night, and he had a short, panicky spell
of fearing that the poles would give way beneath him and drop
him in upon them.
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