# Patches (Hawkes)/Chapter 2

FOUR years have now elapsed since that eventful day when Hank Brodie had engaged in that desperate running fight with the Killer, in which through sheer pluck and good shooting he had saved the life of Kentucky Bell's little colt. If one had seen that small horse lashed to Hank's saddle as he toted him home, and could also have seen the eleven hundred pound gelding which now pranced about over the ranch, free as the winds that blew, it would have been another striking reminder of the adage, "Great oaks from little acorns grow."
Never since that day when Hank had unbound the small horse and set him upon his feet before the ranch corral had he been haltered or bridled. A ranch mare which had lost her own colt the day before, had at once adopted the forlorn little horse and everything had gone on just as though he had not lost his own mother.
It is general practice among ranchmen not to break a colt until he is four years old, when he is supposed to have reached his full size and strength. Even the breaking that he gets is not the long painstaking course ​of lessons which an eastern horse gets, but a rather harsh course of object lessons, in which he has to learn, or suffer the consequences. His breaking is always with force and this is force spelt with a capital F. Horses are plenty and cheap upon the western ranches, and time is valuable, so a man cannot spend too much time fussing with a refractory broncho. But most of these wild horses, which in some cases have been crossed with native stock, are very clever, and they learn rapidly, so after several severe lessons they are ready to ride, all but the outlaw, who is never safe or sure.
This refractory animal is naturally full of cussedness, and he may be expected to buck, kick, and bite at any time during his stormy life.
He is usually upon the bad string in the corral, and ultimately finds himself doing bucking stunts at the famous round-ups, or Rodeos which the cowboys hold each autumn at several western centres.
At these spectacular shows there is a premium upon pure cussedness so even the outlaw finds his place in the economy of the cattle country.
It had been as cold and blustery a Spring day as had come to the Wyoming foot-hills in many a year; a day of scudding white clouds and rapidly moving shadows; a day that made one turn up his coat collar and seek shelter if possible.
​Now in the early evening the boisterous north wind was holding high carnival about the ranch house and the out-buildings of the Crooked Creek ranch. He was picking up pieces of old paper, bits of twigs and last year's dead leaves and tossing them about in high glee. The scudding wind clouds partially hid the moon and the stars. Few sounds could be heard above the howling of the wind, only the shrill, tremulous whistle of a screech owl and the diabolical yapping of a pair of coyotes.
If it was cold and blustery outside, warmth and comfort reigned inside the ranch house. The long low room was bright with the light of two lamps and a great log fire which crackled and danced in the huge fire-place. By the long table were seated fourteen cow-punchers, hale and hearty boys and the working force of the Crooked Creek ranch.
At the head of the table sat Mr. Morgan, superintendent of the ranch. At his right was Hank Brodie, the head cow-puncher, and near him his nephew, young Larry Winton, who had come up from Terryville that very afternoon. He had made the trip on a buckboard with his trunk, which contained all his worldly possessions, lashed on behind.
when he was a mere child, this had left him homeless. He was also nearly penniless and the invitation from his uncle in the Wyoming hills to come and live with him had been gladly accepted. Larry had dreamed of finishing high school and going to college but since he had no money and few friends in the East, he temporarily gave up the idea of school and went West.
The West had always had a strong appeal for him. The broad spaces and adventurous life of which he had ​read in books had kindled his imagination so he had entered upon this new adventure with great zest.
He was a tall athletic youth, five feet, ten inches in height and weighing one hundred fifty-five pounds, although he was not quite sixteen years of age. He was muscular and athletic. He had always played baseball and football and camped and tramped, in fact he was a fine product of that great organization, the Boy Scouts. As he sat by his uncle's side looking at the jolly company around the table he wondered what they would think of him. They certainly were a hearty looking company. He had never seen food disappear so fast before. Mrs. Morgan, the wife of the superintendent, and Olga, the Swedish maid, had all they could do to keep the plates well-filled. Such simple fare as potatoes, which the cow-punchers always call spuds, bacon and eggs, brown bread, coffee, and pumpkin pie were disappearing at an alarming rate.
If Larry was curious about the cow-punchers, they were also curious about this young tenderfoot who had just arrived from the East and they immediately began feeling him out in a jovial good-natured manner.
If the cow-punchers were inclined to tease, Larry's Uncle Henry would not interfere for he wanted his nephew to be at once put upon his mettle and to start the new life aright.
"Your Uncle Hank says you can ride," said Big ​Bill, turning to Larry during a pause in the conversation.
"Why, yes," said Larry, eager to get into their good graces. "Major Winterby, our riding master, says I can ride anything that stands on four legs."
The moment the words were out of his mouth he regretted such a sweeping assertion, but every cow-puncher at the table immediately drew on his poker face. This was a serious, non-committal expression as blank as a bare wall, but if Larry had known, they exchanged sly pokes under the table.
"He wasn't a-referring to feather beds or rocking chairs, was he?" put in Long Tom.
"Mebbe he was thinking of saw-horses," interjected Pony Perkins.
At these sallies Larry grew hot with indignation, but at a warning look from his uncle he returned a good-natured answer, "Well, gentlemen, perhaps I did overstate it."
"Here, here, kid," called an old cow-puncher from across the table, "don't you gentlemen us. We don't have any sech out here in the Wyoming hills. We are all gents. If you call a chap a gentlemen out here, that is next to calling him a hoss thief, a cattle rustler, or a gambler who don't pay his bills. Gentlemen is a fighting word out here and it usually precedes bullets."
​"Excuse me, gentlemen, I mean gents," corrected Larry. "You see I don't know your customs and I will have to learn them."
"Why, of course," put in Big Bill, "you will learn in no time. We are kind of different out here, we has our ways and we sticks by them."
"What kind of hosses did this air major of your'n ride?" inquired Texas Pete. "Was they bronchos or was they high-bred stock?"
"They surely were not bronchos," replied Larry. "The most of them were saddle horses, but some were polo ponies and they were often good jumpers. Major Winterby usually got first prize at the great Eastern States Exposition."
"How high could one of them fancy hosses jump?" asked Long Tom. "I've seen some high jumping myself among the wild hosses."
"I think the Major's record with Comet was seven feet, four inches."
At this announcement a low whistle escaped several of the cowboys and Larry followed up this good impression.
"But the world's record is eight feet, six inches," he continued.
"Well," said Pony Perkins, "that's some jump but I've seen one of the fuzzy tails beat that. One time me and Arizona Tom was up in the big Pine River ​country catching fuzzy tails. We built a big trap around a water-hole and Tom and me hid in a pit nearby to watch it. We watched for two nights and nothing came along. Then a big bunch of fuzzy tails went into our trap and we sprung the trigger. One of them was a black stallion, the finest wild hoss I ever saw. He ran around the enclosure for a minute or two, then going to one side of it, he took two quick jumps and then a big spring and went over the top slick as a sliver. I jumped on my hoss and put after him but he was out of sight in two shakes of a lamb's tail, making about fourteen feet at a stride. When I measured that fence, it was nine feet high."
"Well," said Larry, "I guess that beats the world's record for high jumping, but you must remember that those horses jumped with a man on their back while this horse was riderless."
"That's true," said Pony.
"How are your Eastern saddles rigged?" inquired Big Bill. "Are they single shot or double shot?"
Larry looked inquiringly at his uncle. "He means, are they rigged with one cinch or two."
"That's still dark to me," said Larry. "I don't even know what a cinch is."
"That isn't strange," said his uncle, "here we say cinches, but in the East we say saddle girt."
"Oh," said Larry, "We have one girt."
​"Single shot," chorused the cow-punchers.
"Be they center fire or three quarters rigged?" inquired Long Tom.
"That's another on me," said Larry.
"I see I shall have to explain again," said Uncle Henry. "On our Western saddles we have two straps coming down from the tree. At the angle where they meet there is a ring and the cinch is lashed into that ring. If these straps are of equal length it is center fire, but if the forward one is shorter than the other it is three quarters."
"I see," said Larry, "we have one strap coming down from the saddle tree."
"I dunno," said Long Tom, "but I'm afeared that a single rigged wouldn't hold a thousand pound steer when you brung him up short. I'm afeared you would lose steer, rider, and saddle."
"I am wondering," put in Pony Perkins, "what your Major would think if he was on a wild hoss, one that would crowhop, and sunfish, and swap ends. I guess he would think there was something doing."
"Perhaps he would," said Larry, "but he is a good hurdle rider and a fine polo player."
"That air polo game is some game," said Big Bill. "Me and California Joe usen to play it for the moving picter folks down at Los Angeles."
​"That's so," said Long Tom. "Why, Big Bill's middle name is polo."
"That's fine," said Larry. "We will have to have a team this summer."
This suggestion was received with great enthusiasm and they entered into a discussion of the game of polo with much zest.
By this time the table had been cleared off and the men had pushed back their chairs and many of them had lit their cigarettes. But Pony Perkins had gone over to one of the windows where he stood looking out into the darkness. Noticing Pony's posture and his quiet manner a hush had fallen over the cowboys. Big Bill leaned over to Larry and whispered, "You jest watch Pony. I s'pect he will break forth in a minute. He has got a touch of religion coming on. He experienced religion down at a camp meeting at Wyanne last summer."
Larry looked over his shoulder at Pony. He was a small man and his attitude indicated deep concentration. Presently he turned and faced his fellow cowboys. His face was bright with a wonderful smile and his eyes had a gleam in them like the light of the stars.
"Gents," he said, raising his right hand for silence, "I feel the spirit of the Lord acoming down out of Heaven upon me. Yes, I feel it acoming, gents, and ​it is like Chinook, the south wind, when he breathes over the brown ranches in the Spring. For the spirit of the Lord is full of life and gentleness and it is acoming to me, gents."
"I see the Lord acoming down from Heaven on a white hoss. He is agalloping on the clouds. On His saddle horn is a new rope and He is acoming to rope all you onery old steers. Now, gents, when the Lord rides by don't put down your heads and paw the dirt, and bellow, and kick up a fuss. But jest hold up your heads and let the Lord rope ye. Then when He has roped ye. He will get out His branding iron and put His name on your foreheads and you will be His'n forever. Hallelujah, I see the Lord acoming. He is looking for all His onery old ranch steers, and all the cattle hear His voice and they are acoming. Down from the broad plateau they are acoming, from the high mesa they are acoming, from the deep canyons they are acoming, rejoicing at the call of the Lord. And, gents, you may think the Lord is fer off but He is right here among us jest ropin' cow-punchers. It won't be so long until the great round-up, the day when the Lord drives us all home on the Heavenly trail to live forever in His green pasture. And, oh, cowboys, the feed will be sweet on the Lord's ranch and the pools of water will be so fresh that when you have drunk of them you never will be thirsty again. O, cow-​punchers, make ready, tighten up your belts and be smiling when the Lord comes."
As Pony finished it was so still in the room that one could have heard a pin drop. The cow-punchers who had been grinning when he began were all looking solemn. Long Tom had copied Pony's heavenly smile and Big Bill was surreptitiously wiping away tears.
"That's some sermon, Pony," said Big Bill.
"You gin it to us good," ejaculated Long Tom.
"That was fine, Pony," said Mr. Morgan. "I guess we all know what you meant and I can see the boys all took it to heart."
"Now, gents," continued Pony, "don't you fellers get to thinking that I am spouting jest to hear myself spout. I couldn't help it; it was the spirit of the Lord came down on me and I jest bust out like a geyser. Now, gents, let us all conclude this evening by singing the cow-puncher's hymn, When We Are Rounded Up in Glory."
They began the old cowboy hymn rather quietly, but the verses gathered volume as they went on until finally they were singing at the top of their voices and the rafters of the low room fairly rang. Presently they were swinging to and fro and keeping time upon the table with their fists or stamping their feet. It was a great religious marching song, Rounded Up in Glory, ​for every man at the rude table entered into it with all his soul.
When the sound of the last vigorous verse had died away, the company slowly dispersed and the cow-punchers made their way to the bunk house, two or three of the older men stopping to slap Pony on the back and to tell him that he was a good old sky pilot and they would rather hear him preach than any of the sky pilots down at Wyanne.
The bunk house was very much like the ranch house in construction, a long low building with a row of army cots on either side and an aisle in the middle. At the head of each cot was a chair that had seen better days.
Laughing and joking about the weather and the day's work ahead, the cow-punchers stripped off coats, breeches, and chaps and piled them upon the chairs and stood their tall boots by the cots, then shot into their cots like prairie dogs into their holes. In five minutes time the entire company were between the sheets.
It seemed to Larry that the men fell asleep as soon as their heads touched the pillows, for soon nearly the entire crowd was snoring prodigiously. It seemed to the young tenderfoot that he had never heard such snores before.
He lay awake for several minutes listening to the ​sleeping men and the howling wind outside with an occasional whistle from a screech owl or a howl from a coyote. Then he, too, fell asleep and dreamed of the Lord coming down from Heaven on a white horse, coming for the great round-up to bring home his cow-punchers to the Heavenly ranch to be with Him forever.