Tales from the X-bar Horse Camp Part 25

The wind favored him, and in a short time he had a wide swath burned clear along one side of the meadow and his fire was eating out into the forest and would keep the flames back some distance.

As the main fire line came along he was smothered with the clouds of smoke and waves of heat which swept down as from a furnace. He stood it as long as he could, fighting back the fire at every point where the flames were eating out into the meadow. Burning brands ate holes in his cotton s.h.i.+rt, and the soles of his "teguas," or rawhide moccasins, were burned through and through. As the ma.s.s of fire reached his back-fire line he ran to the little spring in the middle of the meadow and threw himself into it, rolling over and over in the mud and water about it.

The coyotes and wildcat that had taken refuge there hardly noticed his presence in the face of the coming danger.

Half an hour or more of stifling smoke and burning heat and he dared to leave his place in the spring. About the meadow some of the trees were burning clear to their tops, and great logs were blazing everywhere, but the force of the fire was spent and had gone on past him and he was left as on an island in midocean.

It was far past noon. Perhaps the _patron_ would come today. He found the shovel and dug up the buried tent with its precious contents and made a hasty meal of bread and meat. Then, taking a piece of the meat for the faithful Pancho, he struck out into the blackened area about him to find the sheep which he had left to the dog's care that morning.

He was very tired and his almost bare feet were badly cut and burned, causing him to stop and rest frequently, but he finally reached the granite ledge, and there found the sheep, with the dog watching their every movement, and woe unto the ewe or venturesome lamb that attempted to wander too far into the valley, for he was at its heels in a minute to drive it back.

That evening, about dark, two men rode into the upper end of the meadow.

The face of each was black and grimy with smoke and sweat. Their eyes were red and swollen and their horses so tired they stumbled as they moved. As they came out of the blackened area about the meadow and were able to see across it the man in advance stopped his horse.

"Lord, I do hate to think of leaving that poor little devil up here all alone with them sheep," he said to his companion. "Naturally I hate to think of losing the sheep, but to have him burnt up too is awful."

Suddenly he straightened up in his saddle and rubbed his eyes. "Say, Bill," he called, "is that a bunch of sheep there, or are my eyes fooling me?" Before Bill could reply a dog barked and came racing toward them.

"Well, if it ain't Pancho as I'm a sinner," was the man's delighted cry.

Then the tinkle of a sheep bell reached their ears. They spurred their tired horses into a trot and soon reached the spot where once stood the camp tent. In the dim light they saw a freshly dug hole with a tent lying beside it, upon which was piled a miscellaneous a.s.sortment of food and camping utensils, mutely telling the story of how the camp outfit had been saved.

Nearby on a pile of sheep skins and under an old blanket lay a boy sleeping soundly. The eager barking of the dog and the heavy tread of the horses awoke him, and with a start he sprang to his feet. His clothing was a ma.s.s of mud, his face so black and tear-stained that it was almost unrecognizable, but the sheepman sprang from his horse and grabbed him in his arms with a strange choking in his throat he could hardly conquer.

"Why, Pablo boy, _muchacho mio_, how did you pull through this h.e.l.l fire and save yourself and the sheep too?" he asked, patting the dirty cheeks and mud-filled hair.

"The _patron_ told me to stay here till he returned," said the boy, "there are all the sheep, the ten markers, the three _campanas_, and the five _chivos_, that the _patron_ left with me. All are there." The child's eyes glowed with the pride of accomplishment.

"Bill," said the sheepman, "what's that little feller's name what we used to recite about in school, him that did the stunt about standing on the burning deck?"

"You mean Casabianca?"

"That's him, that's the chap. Say, Pablo"--his voice choked and he swallowed hard before the words would come to his lips--"Pablo, you're Casabianca all righty, and then some, for that little feller didn't save his bacon by stayin' where he was tole to. You not only saved yours but twelve hundred of the best ewes and lambs in the state besides. I'll promise you that ole Santa Claus'll bring you somethin' mighty fine next Christmas to pay you for this here job."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE SHOOTING UP OF HORSE HEAD

By permission _The Argonaut_, San Francisco, Cal.

The town of Horse Head had turned over a new leaf. There was to be no more "shooting up" of the village. Patience ceased to be a virtue when the "Cross J" outfit s.h.i.+pped their last train of steers, and everybody in the gang came into town for a big time, which culminated in a general "shooting up" of the place.

The lights in all the saloons were bored full of holes, the solitary street lamp-post, standing in front of the "Apache House"--and the pride of the heart of the old woman who kept the place--was riddled over and over again, and every woman in town scared into a fit of hysterics. Then the town people rose up in their wrath and called on the marshal to put a stop to it, or resign his office.

Now Jenkins, the marshal, who held the position by virtue of his ability to shoot quick and true, was something of a diplomat. He was not anxious to have a row with any of the boys, if it could be avoided, and he was still further anxious not to lose the confidence of the townspeople, a nominating convention being due before long. Jenkins was a candidate for sheriff on the Democratic ticket, and in Colorado County, a nomination on that ticket was equivalent to an election. Accordingly, being of a diplomatic turn of mind, as aforesaid, he decided that a little scheming on his part might work to his advantage. To this end, he rode down to the little cottonwood "bosque" a few miles below town, where the Cross J outfit was camped, busily engaged in shoeing horses for another trip into the mountains, and overhauling the wagon generally.

The result of his visit was that he was authorized by the guilty "punchers" to enter into negotiations with the town justice, and make some sort of terms with him, based upon their pleading guilty and promising good behavior for the future. All this Jenkins successfully accomplished, and about three o'clock the next afternoon the wily marshal rode into town accompanied by eight or ten of the boys.

Being arraigned before the town barber, who upheld the dignity of the law as justice of the peace, they gravely plead guilty to disturbing the peace and dignity of the place, were fined one dollar and costs each, which they promptly paid, with many promises of future good conduct.

But alas for such promises! "Cow punchers is pore weak critters, sh.o.r.e,"

old Dad, the cook, used to say; and before sunset that day every last one of them, unmindful of promises or pledges, was again full of enthusiasm and cheap whiskey.

"Tex," the bartender at the "Bucket of Blood," had all their six-shooters behind the bar, and for safety had slyly removed all the cartridges and inserted empty sh.e.l.ls in their place.

About sunset the gang started for camp, their weapons returned to them with many warnings from Tex not to shoot until clear out of town. They mounted their ponies and struck out on a dead run down the main street, whooping and yelling like a bunch of coyotes, but carefully refraining from firing a shot. About half a mile below town, however, the white "Yard Limit" sign of the railroad company was too good a mark for the crowd to pa.s.s unchallenged. True, the heavy piece of boiler iron, some thirty inches across, was pierced in a hundred places from previous attacks, but a few more wouldn't hurt it, and Baldy Peters, the crack shot of the camp, drew his revolver and, spurring his pony into a dead run, took quick aim at the black spot in the center and pulled the trigger. No answering shot came, and, although he tried all five of the chambers (no true cowboy or frontiersman ever carries six cartridges in his revolver) they were all silent.

Baldy jerked his pony up on its haunches, and carefully examined the cylinder. Sure enough every sh.e.l.l was there, but empty. Jack Gibson, who had followed Baldy, had the same luck, and when the rest came up a general investigation followed. It did not take them long to see that they had been tricked by some one. Their indignation knew no bounds.

"Jes to think," said Big Pete, "s'posin' one of us ud a got inter a row, and some blame town galoot had a drawed a gun on him, wouldn't he 'a'

been in a fine ole fix to 'a' jerked his 'hog-leg,' and nary a bean in the wheel?"

The more they thought about it the madder they got. Revenge they must have. What its form, they scarcely knew, nor cared. Without more talk, they all reloaded the weapons from their well-filled belts and turned their horses' heads toward town, speculating as they rode along as to just what they would do to show the town of Horse Head the danger of monkeying with a cow puncher's weapons. As they rode, they hatched up a plan, suggested from the fertile brain of Mac, the horse-wrangler, which, they thought, if successfully carried out, would give them the requisite amount of satisfaction for their wounded dignity.

It was on Tex, the bartender, and Jenkins, the town marshal, that they poured out the vials of their wrath. Who else than they would have removed the cartridges from all those cylinders and replaced them with empty sh.e.l.ls?

Now, they knew that Tex was the marshal's right-hand man when it came to any trouble, and that, during the s.h.i.+pping season, when the outfits were around town a good deal, each of them kept a horse in the corral back of the "Bucket of Blood," ready for any emergency. Arriving in town, they proceeded to get gloriously full again, while Tex and Jenkins, secure in the knowledge of those empty sh.e.l.ls they had placed in their revolvers, enjoyed the fun and allowed them full play.

Along toward ten o'clock the boys drifted down to the only restaurant in Horse Head that kept open all night as well as all day. It was kept by "Chinese Louie," an almond-eyed celestial who ran a store, restaurant, wash-house, and the village photograph gallery, all under one long roof.

Now, when a puncher gets into a restaurant, the only thing he craves is ham and eggs. Of beef he has a surfeit. The menu of the round-up wagon is coffee, bread, and meat three times a day, with awful regularity.

Therefore, the gang was soon busy, seated on high stools at the long counter. After they had eaten their fill each wadded up his paper napkin and fired it at the cook, lit a cigar from the case at the end of the counter, and paid his bill.

Then the fun opened by some one pulling a revolver and taking a shot at the big kerosene lamp that hung from the ceiling. In an instant twenty shots were fired; every lamp in the place was out and bored full of holes; the fancy water cooler that sat in the corner was riddled; and the coffee and tea pots on the big range behind the counter, as well as a lot more tempting marks in the way of copper cooking utensils that hung overhead on a rack, were turned into sieves.

Poor Chinese Louie and his a.s.sistant lost no time in making themselves scarce; and, after it got too dark, for want of lamp-light, to see to shoot anything more, the now hilarious punchers swaggered out to their ponies, standing quietly at the "snorting post" in front of the restaurant, and with a parting volley up the main street toward the "Bucket of Blood," rode furiously out of town.

Instead of going straight on down the railroad track they turned sharp to the left, at the first corner, and headed for the county bridge which spanned the river at Horse Head, a wooden structure with huge beams overhead, and some six or seven spans long.

Just as they turned the corner out of the main street a couple of shots whistled past the bunch, proving that Tex and the marshal were alive and in pursuit. This was what the boys wanted, and they gave shrill yells of defiance as they pounded through the heavy sand that covered the road to the bridge. They slowed down a little along here to give their pursuers a chance to catch up a little; and when the officers announced their coming, by more shots, some of which came rather close to the bunch of riders, they fired a few in reply, and thundered across the bridge at full speed, in spite of the warning sign that promised all sorts of fines and imprisonment for any one "riding across the bridge faster than a walk."

Along about the center span four of the boys, Baldy Peters, Jack Gibson, Dutch Henry, and Long Jim, dropped from their saddles, their ropes in their hands, and two on each side of the roadway, in the shelter of the huge beams, hastily made loops in their ropes, and awaited the coming of the two men. The rest of the gang clattered across the bridge with shrill whoops, and out on to the hard rocky road beyond, with the four loose horses following them, as if their riders were still on their backs.

Now, the four men on the bridge were the most skillful rope-t.o.s.s.e.rs in all that range. Rope-t.o.s.s.e.rs, instead of swinging the rope around their heads before throwing, spread it out behind and to one side of them, and with a quick, graceful throw, or toss, launch it with unerring aim over the head of the animal at which they throw. This method is used almost entirely in catching horses out of the "cavyyard," and also in catching calves out of a herd, as it is done so quietly and easily that the animal is snared before it has a chance to dodge or move.

Tex and the marshal were not quite so foolhardy or ignorant as to feel that they could capture and arrest the crowd they were after, but the marshal wanted that nomination in the fall, and felt it was a good chance to make a "rep" for himself. Tex was to be his chief deputy, if elected, so he was also eager to do something to prove his valor. Their idea, therefore, was to make a sort of grandstand play, follow the boys out a ways, fire a few shots after them at parting, and come back to town. Hearing them rattle across the bridge and out over the rocky road beyond, they feared no trap or ambush, and so kept riding in their wake, firing a shot every few seconds, as much to show the townspeople what they were up to, as anything else.

As they pa.s.sed the spot where the four boys were awaiting them, four silent ropes settled down over the heads and shoulders of the luckless officers of the law. Going at full speed as they were, there was no chance to throw off those snakelike coils, and the two riders were jerked backward over their horses' hips and landed heavily upon the hard plank flooring of the bridge.

The marshal's six-shooter went off into the air as he wildly threw up his arms to clear his body of that python-like embrace, while the one Tex held in his hands flew off into s.p.a.ce and dropped into the muddy waters below. Both men were stunned by the force of the fall, and lay as if dead on the bridge; but no sooner had they struck than they were promptly covered by the four men.

The avengers first took their small "hogging ropes" (a short piece of rope about six feet long, which every well regulated puncher carries, either in his saddle pocket, or around his waist, to be used in tying together the feet of any cow or steer he might have to tie down on the ranges), and secured their prisoners' wrists firmly behind their backs; then they took a lariat rope and wound it round and round the men's bodies from shoulders to heels, so that moving their feet or arms was an impossibility. To do this was not hard, for both men were stunned from their fearful fall, and lay like logs, while the boys worked on them.

The end of another lariat was pa.s.sed through under their arms, around the body, and tied in a "bow-line hitch" behind the back. The two luckless officers were by this time regaining consciousness, and began to curse and struggle, but to no avail. At first they feared they were to be hung, and begged for their lives like good fellows; but as they were swung off the edge of the bridge and found how they were lashed with ropes, they pleaded even more fervently, for it looked as if the boys meant to drown them like rats in a cage. All to no avail. The boys never answered a word, but went ahead with their work, in the most matter-of-fact way imaginable. The ropes, tied as they were, suspended the men by the arms in such a way that they hung fairly upright, and without any particular pain or suffering from them.

Now, the water of the Puerco is about as vile-smelling and oleaginous stuff as any one ever saw, tasted, or smelled; indeed, the offensiveness of the water suggested the name of the river--"Nasty." Especially in time of floods does it deserve its name. The water then is more like thin gruel of a yellowish red color, and smells to Heaven. Into this mess the conspirators slowly lowered the two officers of the law, regardless of their prayers, entreaties, threats, or curses, of which each of the two men poured out a liberal supply in tones to wake the dead.