# Patches (Hawkes)/Chapter 3

FULLY an hour before daylight the following morning Larry was awakened by the cowboys who were up and dressing. The clothes they had thrown upon the chairs so unceremoniously the night before, were as hastily donned by the feeble light of a kerosene lamp and they were ready for the day's work.
"Gracious," ejaculated Larry, jumping out of bed, "do we have to work in the dark out here on the ranch?"
"No, not exactly," said Uncle Henry, "but you see this is the first day of the Spring round-up. It is always a hard day and we like to get an early start. There is nothing like starting the day right. You wait a minute, Larry, I've got some cowboy togs for you."
He went to a large closet at the end of the bunk house and brought out a brand new suit, Stetson, kerchief, chaps, tall boots, and all.
"What, are those for me, Uncle?" cried the boy.
​"Yes," said Mr. Brodie, "I sent down to Wyanne and got them for you just as soon as I received your letter saying you were coming. I want you to be a real cow-puncher from the start. You are going with the round-up men today. I am going to let you ride Old Dobbin. He is a native horse and doesn't know what the word buck means, besides he isn't old either."
Presently Larry found himself seated once more at the long table in the ranch house where several platters of hot sourdough griddle cakes were waiting the cow-punchers. These, with bacon and hot coffee and plenty of maple syrup and butter, were the regulation morning meal at the ranch house. A big crock behind the kitchen stove was always filled with the sourdough.
The morning meal was not eaten as leisurely as supper had been. This was the beginning of the day's work and the cow-punchers went at it in a business-like manner. Soon the griddle cakes and bacon were dispatched and all were off to the corral for their ponies.
To lasso one's favorite pony in the corral with a hundred others, all moving about and restless, was not an easy matter, but to do this in semi-darkness and with the ponies ducking to escape the flying nooses was quite a difficult matter. But one by one the ponies ​were secured and brought outside the corral; then began the process of saddling and bridling.
"What, haven't those horses even been broken?" asked Larry of his uncle in surprise, as the horses pirouetted and snorted and jumped about when the men sought to saddle them. One pony even had to be thrown and his legs hobbled before the cow-puncher could get him saddled.
"Why, sure," returned Mr. Brodie, "most of these are seasoned horses, but they have been running on the range all winter and haven't been worked, so on a morning like this they are full of kinks and have to work off their steam somehow."
If Larry had been surprised at the trouble in saddling the bronchos, he was still more surprised when the first one mounted began to buck. He would put his head down between his knees and then buck straight into the air, three or four feet, and come down stiff-legged giving his rider a terrific jolt.
"Gracious," ejaculated Larry, "I wouldn't want to be on that piece of horse flesh. What is the matter with him? Is he ugly?"
"Oh, no," returned Uncle Henry, "he is just working off steam. We always say that a mustang that won't buck is bad in some other way. We like to have them buck, then we know they're natural. I had a broncho once that never bucked until I had ridden him ​a year and then he tried to slam me into the corral fence and kill me. He nearly broke his own neck and would have broken mine as well if I hadn't slid out of the saddle. Then he 'broke wide open' as we say and the cussedness which he should have worked off a little at a time, came all at once, so in the slang of the cattle land 'let 'em buck'."
When Old Dobbin, as he was called, was brought out Larry was surprised to see a handsome Iowa horse of about ten hundred pounds.
"He's as clever as the day is long," remarked Uncle Henry, as they swung into their saddles, "and he knows the cattle game almost as well as the bronchoes. You just give him his head most of the time and he'll do the rest."
So they galloped after the cow-punchers and the first day of the Spring round-up begun.
"You see," explained Mr. Brodie, riding up close to his nephew, "this Spring round-up used to be a complicated affair before the ranches were all fenced. No one could brand even his own cattle until the day of the round-up was appointed by the superintendent of each district. Then the cow-punchers of several ranches all got together and drove the cattle to one place where they were branded and sorted out by the inspector, with a bookkeeper to note down the stock which belonged to each ranch. The branding practise ​is an old one. The first branding irons were brought from Spain by Cortez and Pizarro. Cattle have always been branded in Spain. We also got our first long-horned stock from the Mexicans, but now it has been bred out, and most of our herds are short-horned Durham and Hereford."
"Where are we headed for?" asked Larry.
"Ultimately we are going to Piñon Valley. This ranch happens to be beautifully located for the round-up. At this time of year all of the cattle are on the lower plateau because the feed is better there. So we cut out a thousand head a day and run them into Piñon Valley and there we hold them until we have branded all the calves and the cows that need it. Then we feed them in through what we call the neck of the bottle that leads to the upper plateau. It takes about ten days to put the entire herd through this process."
sat on their horses and watched the cattle come into the valley. It was a wonderful sight. To Larry they seemed endless.
"My," he said, "what a herd."
"That's only a fragment," returned Uncle Henry, "some day I will take you to a nearby hill where we ​can see most of the herd through a field glass. That will be a sight worth seeing."
"What is that pink streak way off to the East?" asked Larry.
"I was wondering if you would notice it," returned his uncle. "That is man's reward for getting up early. It is the miracle of the new day. Old Sol is just climbing up over the Sierras. It's a sight to set one right for the entire day. Just watch it, boy."
Larry watched and the pink streak which at first had been small grew in both width and length and also in brightness. The pink became red and then the red was suffused with an unearthly radiance. The snow on the distant mountain tops refracted the sunlight till all the colors of the prism showed. With each passing second the glory grew in brightness until old Sol finally burst into full view, the center of all this splendor. "My!" exclaimed Larry, "it takes one's breath away."
"You bet," returned Uncle Henry. "This is a great country. It's a great place for a young man to grow up in, the wide spaces, bracing air, and the blue sky are good for a man's soul."
"What do you say, Mr. Brodie," cried a cow-puncher, riding up, "have we got enough?" The head cow-puncher looked over the seething mass of cattle in Piñon Valley with an appraising eye, then said, "All right, shut down the gate." ​Then a dozen cow-punchers, including Mr. Brodie and Larry, made a cordon across the lower end of Piñon Valley and the main herd were turned back. When the imprisoned cattle had begun to quiet down and the steers had worked their way to the center of the herd as they always do on such an occasion, the branding began. Soon little fires were seen all about the perimeter of the valley. Presently the cowboys began roping calves. It seemed to Larry like a rather brutal process.
The rope would whiz through the air and fall over a calf's head, then if he were not near enough to the fire for the brand to be applied, he would be dragged unceremoniously into the proper position. Then the branding iron, which was six inches broad and seven inches long, would be thrust against his rump. It did not matter if he thrashed, or kicked, or bleated, the branding process went on. When the hair had been entirely singed off and the trade mark of the Crooked Creek Cattle Company burned into his skin, he was loosed and allowed to go to his excited mother. The brand for this particular ranch was C C R with a strand of barbed wire above and beneath, and also at either end.
"You see," explained Uncle Henry, "we have to make the brand more or less complicated, just C C R would ​not do for some rustler would come along and close up the two C's and then it would read O O R."
"Is that ever done?" inquired Larry.
"Oh, yes," replied his uncle. "The rustler's game is really a very serious menace to the cattle business. In the old days the ranchers used to lose more cattle from rustling than from any other cause. We have to be very careful in selecting the brand."
"How do you keep from getting the same brand?" inquired Larry.
"Well, you see, it is this way, the branding irons are all registered at the county seat. They have to be registered just as a trade mark is patented and the registrar sees to it that no branding iron is duplicated."
Soon Larry's attention was attracted by a cow which objected seriously to having her calf branded. Finally she charged the cow-puncher with the rope so viciously that he had to call another herdsman to rope the cow and hold her while they branded the calf. Soon the air, which had been sweet with the breath of the morning wind when they had first come to Piñon Valley, was filled with the smell of singeing hair and burning flesh, and the steam and reek of a thousand excited cattle. Hour after hour the work went on, cutting out cows and calves, branding the helpless little calves and then driving them forward to the head of Piñon Valley where they were in turn driven through the cul de sac ​or neck of the bottle to the upper plateau. At noon the chuck wagon came up and the cow-punchers by relays ate a hasty lunch.
"You see," explained Uncle Henry, "the chuck wagon has about gone out of business. In the old days when the cattle were often driven even hundreds of miles from the home ranch, the chuck wagon followed after them and the cowboys lived in the open. But today it is what we call a one day stand, that is, most of the riding is done from the home ranch and we can reach any point on the ranch between sunup and sundown."
Soon the cow-punchers were back at their gruesome work.
"I don't see how they manage to go 'way into the center of the herd and get the cows and calves as they do. The pony also seems to know which cow they are after," said Larry.
"That is one of the mysteries of the cattle game," explained his uncle, "the intelligence of some of these cow-ponies. Almost as soon as you spot your cow, no matter where it is, the pony seems to know which one you have picked out and is after it. He is so eager that sometimes, when a cow does not start as quickly as he thinks she ought, he gives her a nip behind."
Feverishly the cow-punchers worked until the sun had traveled through the high heavens and hung low ​on the western Wyoming hills. They had worked fast, so when the shadows began to fall, they were able to drive the last remnant of cattle that had nearly filled Piñon Valley through the neck of the bottle to the upper plateau. Then all hands, except three who had been selected for the purpose, turned home. Those three who were left behind camped in the gorge between Piñon Valley and the upper plateau and held the branded cattle on the upper mesa. The following morning before sunup the force of the Crooked Creek ranch were off again. Once more the little valley was filled with excited, snorting, steaming cattle and once again the gruesome work of putting the Crooked Creek trade mark upon the newly-born calves began.
"See that little chap who is wandering around among the herd?" asked Uncle Henry, pointing to a small red calf. "That is a maverick, which means a calf without a mother. Either his mother was a heifer and has disowned him, or he was the smaller one of twins and got crowded out, or possibly his mother died. Anyway he is a maverick. In the old days when branding was done under inspection it was a criminal offense to brand such a calf before his ownership had been determined by the inspector."
"Is the rustling business really a serious thing now?" inquired Larry. "I have read lots about it in novels but have never felt quite sure that it was all real."
​"I am sorry to say it is," returned his uncle. "There are lots of men in this world that would rather live by thieving than by getting a living honestly. The cattle business which is done on such a large scale and out in the open is especially vulnerable to such practices. It is not an unheard of thing to find your fences cut and forty or fifty fat steers missing. They always take the best ones."
"But what do they do with them?" inquired Larry.
"Why, they drive them away for a long distance and keep them for a while until the theft has been forgotten, then they sell them.
"The government has done what it could to help detect such sales for, in every county, the railroads must keep books with a list of all cattle shipped out and these figures are open for inspection any time by anybody.
"The cattle business is much more civilized today than it was twenty-five years ago, then the cattle men, the sheep men, and the goat men fought many desperate battles over the ranch land and especially the water-holes. Water, in this ranch game, is very important."
"What are the water-holes?" inquired the tenderfoot.
"You see," said his uncle, "the sub-soil in this country is clay and in all the little hollows it holds the water almost as effectively as a man-made reservoir. So, long after the spring rains have passed, water remains in ​these holes and the cattle come to these places to drink. It was a common thing in the old days when the cattle man had driven his herd a hundred miles to a favorite water-hole, to find it was full of drowned sheep. Even the cattle themselves sometimes push each other into the water till some are drowned.
"But the exciting thing in the cattle game in the old days was the great drive over the Santa Fe trail from New Mexico to Montana. Every spring the great herds were started from the south and driven northward for nearly a thousand miles and in the fall they were turned back southward and driven to their winter quarters. As the cowboys say, 'Them was the days'; days of rustling, of stampedes, of fights with other herdsmen, and the sheep and goat men. No cow-puncher ever complained in those days that he lacked for excitement. The days were full of it, full of excitement and danger and the hardest kind of hard work from sunup to sundown, and also through the night. For in those days they always set what they called the night watch. Then the herdsman rode round and round the cattle all night long singing his cow-puncher songs. There is something about the human voice which seems to soothe the cattle and this was the cow-puncher's easiest way to keep them quiet. Thus it is that the hundreds of cow-puncher's songs have come into existence, many of them very beautiful and full of local color."
​On the tenth day after the beginning of the spring round-up, the last bunch of cattle had been driven from Piñon Valley to the upper plateau and the spring round-up was over. This work would not be done again until September when the autumn round-up would begin.
"Now," said Uncle Henry, when the last small herd had disappeared, "I am going to take you to the top of a small mountain nearby and show you a sight which cannot be duplicated anywhere east of the Mississippi River."
So they picketed their horses and climbed up through the piñons and junipers to a small mountain.
"The piñon," said Uncle Henry, "is a small nut-bearing pine and the juniper is a small cedar. You usually find them on very barren land."
They climbed up and up through more cedars and piñons and then through lodge-pole pines and aspens. Finally they came out into an open spot near the top of the mountain. Larry who had thought himself a good mountain climber was in a dripping sweat.
"Now," said his uncle, taking a small field glass from his pocket, "I am going to show you one of the sights of the cattle land." He gave Larry the glass and pointed towards the small plateau into which they had been driving the cattle for the past ten days.
Larry looked and was amazed at the sight, for as ​far as he could see in every direction away to the mountains, the plateau was covered with cattle; steers, cows, and calves, one mighty mass. He had not imagined there were so many cattle in the entire state of Wyoming.
He looked for at least a minute in perfect silence, then lowered the glass. "Uncle," he said, "this is like what it says in the Bible, 'the cattle upon a thousand hills.'"
"I have often thought of that," returned his uncle, "it is the fiftieth Psalm and the tenth verse, 'For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills.'"
But even as they watched, the sun touched the western hilltops and the cold night winds swept across the mountain top. They hastened down to their ponies and galloped home to the ranch house, for this long low building with its dull gray exterior and its homely outline, did really begin to seem like home to Larry. It was always so warm and cozy inside and the cow-punchers were such a good-natured company. They all tried to make it pleasant for Larry and help him to forget the recent loss of his own home in the East and his mother.
"Byer since I came out here," said Larry to his uncle one day, "I have been wondering why all the cow-​punchers tote a .45. So far as I can see there seems to be no use for it."
"You might think so," returned his uncle, "but it is one of the most useful aids we have on the ranch. We use it in many ways in this country. You never can tell when some danger, which has to be met with force, will sweep down on you, so one always ought to be ready."
About two weeks after this conversation Larry was riding with his uncle on the ranch when he had a very forcible demonstration of what his uncle had told him about the .45.
They had ridden clear across the big plateau to the foothillsf to the east when they came upon Big Bill who was out with three or four other cow-punchers inspecting the fences.
"There's a steer over here in the draw," said Bill, "which acts mighty ugly. I can't make out what is the matter with him. He seems so full of cussedness that I don't dare go very near him."
"All right," said Mr. Brodie, "let's go over and take a look at him." So he and Bill galloped away, closely followed by Larry. They soon located the steer which was a large vicious-looking animal with longer horns than most of the Crooked Creek stock.
"Looks as though he had some of the old Long Horn about him," said Bill. "He is full of gunpowder."
​"Larry," said Uncle Henry, "you and old Dobbin go over there in those piñons. You keep an eye on the steer and be ready to beat it if he comes after you. Bill and I will see if we can rope him and find out what is the matter."
So the head cow-puncher and Bill approached the steer from opposite directions, each with his lariat coiled and ready. As they drew near, the steer lowered his head, pawed the ground, and bellowed almost continuously. First he would face one man, then turn and face the other. When Uncle Henry and Baldy were within about one hundred feet of him, he wheeled about and faced Bill and seemed about to charge. Then the head cow-puncher touched Baldy with the spur and galloped forward. At the same time the lasso rose gracefully in air and the noose fell over the steer's head. Immediately Baldy wheeled and started in the opposite direction. But the wary old steer was not to be caught napping and he wheeled before the rope had tightened and made after Baldy, head down like an avenging fury. Big Bill gave his horse the quirt and went after the steer, trying to get a second rope on him. But they were too fast for him. Although Baldy ran at his best pace, yet the steer gained steadily on him. Hank Brodie, looking over his shoulder, saw him bearing down on his horse like destruction incarnate.
With a sharp pull of his left hand on the reins, he ​wheeled Baldy to the left while his right hand went to the holster for the .45. As the steer passed the revolver cracked. But, even so, the head-long flight of the deranged steer was not stopped. Again he turned and charged straight at the cow-puncher. Two more shots were fired and the steer fell head-long on the ground, almost between Baldy's knees.
"It was a close call," said Big Bill, riding up, "he mighty near ripped Baldy's flank open that time he went by. Lucky you had the gun along."
"It is never safe to ride a rod on the ranch without it. You see now," he continued to Larry, who had just ridden up, "that a .45 is sometimes indispensable."
"That is so," said Larry. "It is a lesson I never will forget. I had thought it was just nonsense, all you cow-punchers toting guns, but I see now it is necessary for the day's work."
"What made that steer act so like a demon?" inquired Larry as they jogged homeward. "I have never seen one behave like that before."
"Well," returned his uncle, "I should say for a guess without having looked him over that he was locoed, but Bill will examine him before they bury him and make a report to me.
"The loco weed is a serious menace to stock here on the western ranches. Of course, cattle do not make a business of eating it but they do get hold of it occa​sionally. There are two varieties, the Purple and the White, but the Purple is the most dangerous.
"The loco weed is to horses and cattle what opium and hashish are to men. First it intoxicates and enthralls them, but finally it masters them and takes away their reason. Your locoed horse or cow is a very dangerous animal and we shoot them on sight and count the cost later."
"Is a herd of cattle really dangerous?" asked Larry, after another pause. "They seem placid enough."
"Yes and no," returned his uncle. "A herd of cattle is treacherous like the sea. The sea will smooth out sts billows with silver wavelets until it seems to be the most placid and harmless thing in all creation, but let a big wind strike it and soon it will kick up big billows that will smash the largest ship that floats and even beat down cliffs that have been cons in building. And so it is with herds of cattle. When they are feeding they are the most harmless looking creatures in the world. They are never hurried and occasionally stop to look about in a friendly manner. As long as man is on horse-back he is all right among them. I sometimes think they consider him a part of the horse, but let them discover him anywhere on the open plain afoot and it is quite another matter. First they will look at him inquiringly, then walk toward him slowly, soon the walk becomes a trot, and that in turn a mad gallop. ​until it would seem each is trying to outdo the other and be the first to the victim. If the unfortunate pedestrian cannot reach a friendly tree or some other shelter, he is good as dead and the chances are that when the herd has passed there won't be enough of him left for a respectable funeral. I have seen three men, first and last, who have been killed in this way and I never want to see another. It is a gruesome sight. Always remember, Larry, that you are perfectly safe in the presence of a herd as long as you are on horse-back, but never let them discover you afoot if you value your life."