Jack the Young Cowboy: An Eastern Boy's Experiance on a Western Round-up, Page 6

  CHAPTER IV

  OLD FRIENDS

  It was almost sunset when Powell and Jack rode over the hill and sawthe round-up camp in the valley, far below them. There was a big bunchof cattle still scattered out and feeding, but about them were the fouror five riders who were keeping them together, and who a little later,and before dark, would bring them up into a close bunch, to bed themdown. Off to one side was the c?vaya, or horse bunch, which containedthe strings of the different riders, six or seven or eight horses to aman, and the work horses that were used on the chuck and bed wagons.Lounging around the camp were the men, apparently waiting for supper,which the cook announced just before Powell and Jack reached the camp.The men hurried up to the tent; each one supplied himself with plate,cup, knife, fork and spoon, and went over to the cook-stove and helpedhimself to food. When Powell and Jack stopped close to the camp, itwas a boisterous crowd of full-mouthed men who shouted and waved theirhats to them. Every one knew Powell, and half a dozen recognized Jack,who as a little fellow had been known to most of them. Jack was gladto see them all, but his eye roved about, looking especially for Hugh,who, after the first outbreak, rose from the ground, where he had beensitting filling his pipe, and walked over to Jack and gave him acordial hand-clasp.

  "Well, son," drawled Hugh, "I'm sure glad to see you again. It's along time since we've met, and I reckon we'll have lots to say to eachother, now that we've got together again."

  "You bet we will, Hugh," cried Jack; "and we can't begin too soon,according to my notion."

  A moment later their talk was interrupted by Charley Powell, who,slapping Jack vigorously on the back, told him to take off his saddleand turn his horse loose, for he was going to take the horses over andturn them into the c?vaya. Jack unsaddled and let his horse go, andthen Hugh said to him:

  "Go get your supper now, and after you've eaten, or while you'reeating, come out here and set down. I want to see you and talk to you,even if your mouth is full and you can't talk to me."

  Jack hurried to the cook's tent and presently returned with a plateheaped high with food, and a cup of coffee brimming over, so that thesteaming fluid dripped from it at every step. He sat down and began toeat, while Hugh, whose pipe was now going well, began to talk.

  "Well, son, you've surely growed a heap since we saw each other last.You're taller now, I reckon, than I am; but you ain't nigh so thick;the fact is, it looks as if it was about time for you to stop growinglong, and begin to grow broad, but then I reckon there's time enoughfor that, maybe. Do you remember that last trip we made, when we wentup over the ice in those high mountains in the main range? Do youremember the time Tony Beaulieu and his partners shot holes in thetent? And do you remember that Indian that stopped us over by thecrossing of St. Mary's River and wanted whisky?"

  "You bet I remember it all, Hugh," said Jack; "but I think what Iremember best of all is the way you held Tony Beaulieu and how he burstout crying when he couldn't get away; and the way old Calf Robe quirtedthose Indians that had stopped us."

  "Yes, that sure was a good trip," replied Hugh; "but, then, I don'tknow as it was better than a whole lot of other trips we made. Thatfirst time, when we went up to the Piegan country, when you counted a_coup_, and you and Joe found that sack of gold; that must have beena dandy trip for you, because you were so much younger, and becauseeverything that you saw was new and strange and exciting.

  "Now this summer you're going to have a mighty quiet time, I reckon,with plenty of hard work; nothing to see, except ride circle, gettingin at night feeling as if your feet belonged a yard apart; then maybegoing out on night herd, and serenading these cattle, if a storm comesup and they get anyways uneasy. No, you can't expect to have muchhappen in a cow camp."

  "Oh, I don't know, Hugh," laughed Jack; "there are lots of things thatcan happen out in this country yet. Of course, there's not much excepthard work and grief that happens in a cow camp, and yet there's someexcitement in riding and roping, and there's always a chance that wemay run across a bear and have some fun with him."

  "Well," Hugh replied, "the country is getting pretty quiet now. Maybeit's because I'm getting old, and maybe it's because I've seen a goodmany things happen, but I certainly don't get excited the way I usedto."

  By this time Jack had finished eating. Putting his things together, hecarried them back to the cook's tent, and then returned to Hugh, andsat down close beside him.

  "Well, Hugh," he said, "there was something happened yesterday that Iwant to tell you about; though I shouldn't say anything about it toanybody else, unless it gets to be talked about. You speak about thecountry being in a bad way and no good any more, and sometimes I thinkyou're right. Now something happened yesterday over at Powell's that Iwouldn't have believed could have taken place in a country where thereare men, and American men at that! It isn't a thing I want to talkabout, but I do want to tell you about it, and to ask you whether youthink what I did was right. I am not doubtful about it myself, but I'dlike to have your opinion, too."

  With that Jack opened his heart and told Hugh all the events of the daybefore.

  The story finished, Hugh sat for some time without speaking, looking athis pipe which had gone out while he listened. At last he raised hiseyes.

  "Well, son, I think that what you did was the wisest possible thingto have done. Of course you didn't have much choice in the matter.You were bound to do whatever Mrs. Powell and little Bess said thatthey wanted done, but as it happens what they wanted done was the bestthing that could have been done. It surely would have been mightyuncomfortable for those two women--as nice women as I ever saw--tohave a man lynched on their account, as you might say, right close tothe house. It was up to you to help them out of that scrape, and youdid it sensibly and well. I'm not a mite surprised at Bessie's killingthat man. She's a mighty smart little girl; thinks quick and actsquick. I expect if she hadn't shot as she did, there's no telling whatamount of deviltry those two men might have been up to."

  "You're right, Hugh, she's plucky and a good shot, and she must havebeen mighty quick to think what to do; but, I tell you, it made herfeel mighty bad to be obliged to do it, and for a while after she hadshot she looked as white as a ghost."

  "Davis?" reflected Hugh. "I am trying to see if I can't recollect thatname. What sort of looking fellow was the one that got killed?"

  "He looked like 'most anybody else, except that he had a more or lesshooked nose, and a black mustache. Mrs. Powell said that his eyeslooked sharp and snappy, and sort of cruel; but of course I didn't seehis eyes."

  "I was wondering," said Hugh. "Years ago, down in old Nebraska, I usedto know a cow puncher named Bill Davis, and he might have been thisman. The description fits him well enough, but I don't know as it makesmuch difference, seeing he's dead. You say you didn't find any lettersor papers on him."

  "Nothing; nothing except a pipe and tobacco and matches, and a littlesmall change."

  "Of course, you don't know anything of what become of the other fellow?"

  "Nothing more than what I have told you," said Jack. "He started forthe railroad, and that's the last I saw of him."

  "I don't believe you ever will see him; unless he writes you for thefifteen dollars you owe him. He may do that; but, somehow, I thinklikely he'll be too scared even to do that."

  "I don't know," replied Jack; "he seemed mightily afraid of thebusiness end of the six-shooter, but he didn't seem very much afraidof me; he seemed kind of sorry rather than afraid. Well, it's Powell'sbusiness, and not mine, and I am not going to say anything about it. Ifhe wants to speak of it, all right."

  "I've heard of mighty few people getting into trouble by keeping theirmouths shut," said Hugh, "but of a whole lot that have come to grieffrom talking too much. You'll be all right, I think, to keep quiet."

  Jack stood up.

  "I guess I'll go over and speak to Mr. McIntyre, and get my work laidout for the next two or three days," he said. "He may want me to
go onnight herd to-night. I suppose there are plenty of fellows who will bemighty glad to get off."

  Jack's guess was a good one. The round-up foreman was glad to see him,of course--glad to get a new hand, and a fresh hand. He told Jackthat the best thing he could do now would be to go out and catch up ahorse and take his turn at night herd until 10 o'clock. Then he couldcome in and get five or six hours' sleep before they started to ridein the morning. The c?vaya had just been brought in; and Jack, takinghis rope, went out and caught one of his string and brought it in andsaddled it. Pawnee would have been the horse chosen, but Pawnee hadalready carried him from Powell's to the round-up, and Jack thoughtthe horse entitled to a little rest.

  The night was calm and pleasant, and there seemed no reason to supposethat anything would disturb the cattle, so only two boys were sent outto ride around them at present, relieving the four or five who had hadcharge of them during the latter part of the day, who had now broughtthem together and waited until they had finally lain down and werepeacefully chewing the cud under the stars, just then coming out.

  Tulare Joe was Jack's companion: a new acquaintance, but a nice lookingfellow, whose name suggested that he came from somewhere in California.He was a man eight or ten years older than Jack, quiet, pleasant,soft-voiced, and apparently a rider. As the two approached the cattlethey separated and began to ride around them; and one by one the otherriders, as they met them, exchanged a word or two and turned theirhorses in the direction of the camp. Presently from the other side ofthe herd, Jack caught the sound of Joe's voice droning out a song, thewords of which he could not hear; but later, when they were relieved byother boys, and were riding back to camp, he asked Joe to teach him thesong. Joe said that he knew only one verse, which ran like this:

  "Oh! the cowboy's life is a dreary one, He works from dawn till the setting of the sun, And then his work is left undone, For his night herding then comes on.

  "Sing, who-o, who-o, whoop; cows away; He works all night and he works all day. Whoop-i-wo; whoop-i-way; For very poor chuck and darned poor pay; Sing, whoop-i-whoa who-ay."

  After a few days Jack caught the air of this, and thereafter often sangit when on night herd.

  "I don't know why it keeps the cattle quiet," said Joe, "it certainlyain't the sentiment; and I don't believe it's the tune. I supposelike as not it gives them something to think about and keeps themfrom looking around, hunting for things to get scared at. Maybe, too,it gives them confidence when they think that the men and the horsesare right close to 'em all the time. Anyhow, I've always heard aboutsinging to the cattle ever since I first forked a horse, and I've seensometimes, when cattle were mighty nervous and uneasy, when the singingseemed to keep them from breaking away."

  Jack slept soundly that night and the call to grub came all too soonthe next morning.