Sunday, April 15, 2018

Excerpt from "Horizon Dawn" book


Jeb took the owner of the ranch , Ezra, for what he was; the ramrod did not especially like the tyrant, but, knowing his place and plight in life, wisely kept his mouth shut, going about his own business ,He quietly accepted Ezra’s managerial decision and dutifully fell in under the authority of the newly appointed foreman. He was of affable mannerism, gregarious character; anyway, complaining would garner him no advantage. Outwardly, Jeb accepted the turn of events; still, his private thoughts were his own. In the end, Frazier won the appointment, anyhow, due to Adrian’s unfortunate accident. Sometimes, “Justice” prevails, in its own determined manner.

Keeping the peace in the little cow town proved to be an easy enough responsibility as the only usual trouble to come about came from cowhands from his father’s ranch around the end of each month when payday arrived. After a month on the grasslands with smelly beef, the boys liked to throw a wide loop when they found silver in their generally empty pockets. The Albino Prairie Dog Saloon offered just the opportunity for a bunch of “rough and ready” vaqueros. The high sheriff knew most of the wranglers as he had been their foreman and he held a natural liking for these boys who were very much just like himself.

Once in a while, he might have to bust a head or two, just to keep the peace and to assert his authority; also, Adrian enjoyed free drinks at the saloon and especially liked the bar gals.

Strangers were rare to the tiny burg, save for the monthly whiskey peddler or the odd salesman hawking his wares to the General Mercantile manager. An occasional Otoe Indian might drift through every once in a while, but, Adrian quickly ran them off; looked too much like himself to suit his fancy; he did not care to be reminded of his true heritage.

Rosita took good care of the sheriff keeping a clean house, washing his clothes and cooking his favorite meals. That her husband frequented the saloon gals on a regular basis did not seem to matter, much; the Mexican girl spent a lot of time at the home ranch visiting with Mistress-Adelaide. The young woman had her little secrets, too. Like the fact that Hyatt had once accosted Rosita in the horse barn at the ranch; she suspected that Adelaide knew of the encounter, but, neither ever mentioned the rendezvous. Hyatt was quite the handsome man and young Rosita did not mind his flirtations and further enjoyed their frequent dalliances in the soft hay of the loft.

The young girl enlisted the aid of Adelaide in getting the matron to pen a note to Adrian asking that his bride be allowed to come stay with her for several weeks at a time five or six times a year; the prairie was a lonesome place for a woman and Adelaide enjoyed the extended visits of her female company. They became close friends and Rosita’s secret was kept safe.

Adrian was only too happy to give his blessing to the request; that insured his personal freedom in town with the ladies down at the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon. If he ever suspected his wife’s adulterous relationship with Hyatt, he never let it show. C’est la vie!

Time moved along at a slow pace for a few years as not much of consequence happens out on the lone prairie; people come and go, some just passing through on their way west to the Rockies or on toward Californy or up Oregon-way; babies are born, faces change, along with names, people die. The ceaseless prairie wind blows, waving a green sea of long grass; the seasons pass.

Ezra settled in as the passive patriarch of the empire, content with his simple-needs lifestyle, still managing to keep his hand in the action taking part in spring and fall round-up responsibilities, helping the hands with mundane chores like mending fences, buying cattle and breeding and selling horses. The army became a good customer to the savvy old trader. He and Adelaide grew old together; one fine day, Ezra realized that he enjoyed the old gal’s company.

“Must be getting soft in my old age,” he mused, laughing at his own vacant thoughts, shaking his snow white head at his seeming reluctant satisfaction with life in general. Such “tin-horn” attitudes did not build an empire; still, it might be high time to relax a bit and enjoy the fruits of his many long years of labor. He took to drinking wine, more, and occasionally slept until sunup.

Spring roundup proved to be a particularly busy time around a working ranch and old Ezra delighted in the activity, often getting right in the middle of what had become a “young” man’s game. He was slowing down and the drinking had become excessive. The old pioneer had always brandished a violent temper sparked by the slightest provocation, but, in his age he had managed to control the outbursts.

When Adelaide died of the “fever” in the dead of winter, Ezra took his jug of corn whiskey and retreated to the ranch house; no one saw the old man until March. Whether he had grieved her sudden loss, or not, none knew, but, when spring broke the tiresome freeze-season and snow slowly retreated from the south-facing coulees and green shoots reached for warm sunshine, the old hermit came to the front porch one sunny afternoon and sent for his foreman, Jeb Frazier, and announced that the spring round-up would begin, in earnest, in one week; the men should get their gear in readiness, “Fat John”, the cook was to take the chuck wagon to Van Gangenburg and fill ’er up with supplies. “And, Jeb,” old Ezra added a final comment, “I’ll be riding at the head of the pack!” The foreman nodded understanding and set off to issue the necessary orders.

Round-up progressed for three weeks; the old patriarch seemed to become his old self, again, taking the lead in gathering the enormous cattle herd spread over some two hundred square miles; no job was either beneath his position or too tiresome for the man’s attentions. In the evenings around the camp fire Ezra told stories of the frontier when he had first come to the territory, how the Otoe Indians had left him in peace, pretty much so, and how he had traded with them bartering cattle and various vegetables for horses, blankets and, mostly, peace. He even left the corn squeezings jug in the chuck wagon as he enjoyed the work and comradery.

Beginning their re-capture of the herd which had spread near and far over the long winter in its constant and continual forage for food, the wranglers busied themselves with searches for sign to follow and then managed to persuade and cajole the beef out of coulee swales and deep, brushy ravines choked with native cedars and spiny-thorned shrubs and scrubby trees that either stabbed, bit or stung, then pushing the animals to various staging areas near good streams or rivers of adequate water supply. Here, the cattle were given visual inspections for any obvious health issues while also taking a precursory head count of bulls, heifers, cows and calves; once back at the ranch, branding would begin and accurate numbers could more easily be compiled. Each time the crew gathered several hundred head in a holding area, four hands would be designated to push those critters back to the home ranch, then, the camp would be moved to another location where the process would be repeated. The itinerant cow hands would return to the round-up to gather more beef for the move to home base.

Spring proved to be nearly as pleasant a round-up experience as the fall endeavor; the weather warmed nicely during the day and got just chilly enough at night to keep the herd, and the cowboys, satisfied. Each group ate well, found a friendly companionship among the other participants and the wranglers got to spend the entire day in the saddle. One of the boys entertained with a guitar which sounded pretty good considering that somewhere along its harsh life hanging from a saddle it had lost its top string; so long as the cowboy player only hummed along and did not exercise his “froggy” voice with off-key notes, the wranglers enjoyed the show. Two fiddlers managed to drown out the crooner if he got too loud.  Ah! Life is---Good!

As the end of the third week of round-up neared, the cowboys had drawn the noose tight having scoured the hinter lands moving ever-closer to the home ranch. Ezra told Jeb Frazier to choose two of the boys to go back out and check over the area for any beef that might have been missed or had wondered off during the hectic activity of the last several weeks.

“Boss,” Frazier began, “I guess we start the branding and count at sun-up, tomorrow?”

The inquiry was Jeb’s polite way of reminding Ezra that he had given orders.

Standing on the front porch stairs leading to the grand ranch house, Ezra turned, scowling.

“No!” The patriarch stated, flatly. Then, he smiled, saying, “Tell the boys they did a bang-up job on the round-up; I am very pleased. There’ll be a ten dollar bonus for each man come end-of-the-month payday. Also, they can take it easy tomorrow, rest up. We’ll start the next day.”

With that, the old man entered the house; Frazier suspected that Ezra was done-in and needed rest. When he made the announcement, the men cheered; they did not care about the reason.

A flurry of activity greeted the sunrise on branding day; a fire had been laid the evening prior with a good supply of fuel gathered in to feed the flames keeping them hot to receive the irons. Riders lassoed individual critters among the herd dragging the reluctant animals to the pit area. where the flames blazed. Smaller beef, three hundred pounds, or so, were man handled by the hands who threw them onto their sides and then placed a knee in their neck while bending the animal’s head backward to incapacitate its movement and possible escape; another cow hand then applied a red hot branding iron to the cattle’s hide, burning away the thick hair and marking the actual hide of the critter with Ezra Van Gangen’s registered brand. Then, the task completed, the rope was removed and the beef freed to re-join the herd, away from the un-branded stock.

The cattle bawled a load groaning protest at the painful red hot branding, but, once done, quickly shook their heads an ambled off to meet their buddies, all busily grazing on lush prairie freshness of tender new-growth green grass; still, each kept a wary eye on the “fire-iron” wranglers. The “sting” seemed quick enough forgotten as the heard settled into focused foraging.

Old Ezra left the strenuous task of wrestling the stock to the ground for branding; sitting on a corner post of the corral, he kept tally of the progress in a book, numbering the beef by sex and age. Bigger animals had to be neck-roped and dragged to the fire, then, their back legs would be tethered and the brutes would be “helped” to lie on their sides taking two men to restrain them.

The branding crew, which comprised all the hands not sent to re-search the hinterlands for additional strays, split into two groups for lunch; such left the branding unimpeded, save for a slight slow-down in the efficiency. The cowboys ate quickly enough, returning in about twenty minutes, or so. Most of them survived on strong black coffee and self-rolled tobacco, anyway.

Cowboys were, for the most part, young men; an “old” vaquero might still be punching cows at thirty-five, a very few, maybe, with a lot of luck, sup to the four decade mark. Very unusual.

Most were single and had never been married; they were intelligent, to a degree, and satisfied, pretty much, with their lot in life. A few held ambition with dreams of their own spread, some, even, set their sights set on a wife and kids at some time in their future. Most seemed contented.

Boys will be boys! As the old saying goes. Somebody always has to challenge the “fun”.

Gentle rivalries existed among the men as in any group thrown together for whatever reason.

A sense of “pride” just has to be part of the competition; maybe it’s who has the best looks, the finest horse, a new hat, leather vest, hand-tooled boots, silver saddle, riding ability. A few even resorted to guns displaying “quick-draw” ability or accurate shooting skills. Once in a while, the teasing taunts centered around one or another garnering the attentions of some fair eligible gal in town, since these were few and far between on the frontier, the competition generally erupted over some saloon girl who probably did not know, or, care, if her “fantasy” admirer even existed, or, not. Always: Something to crow about insuring “friendly” arguments which easily led to heated confrontations. Most participants took the insults good-naturedly; a few were always spoiling for any reason to become embroiled in a fight for any reason, even, one fabricated for a purpose. Occasionally, verbal jabs from one at the expense of another let to physical altercations; usually, though, just vacant words of bravado soon forgotten. Boys!

“Bow-leg” Rob Pelham, a sandy-haired jovial youth of twenty-five was already a top hand, eager to work and to do the job “right” the first time; with an affable personality and easy smile, he took the kidding jabs about his wide knees with a forgiving laugh. His five year older brother, Curly, sported a crop of red-orange, wild hair, always looking like a flaming bush; his temper flared easily and, unlike his kid brother, he laughed seldom and fought often; just plain mean.

Once, in the Albino prairie Dog Saloon, Curly had gotten into an altercation with a travelling whiskey drummer over one of the saloon gals. Curly had bought her a drink and thought that gave him privilege over the girl. When the salesman sidled up to the gal with a fancy champagne bottle offering her a drink of the “improper” sounding French wine name, at least to Curly, the cowboy took immediate offense, glaring at the interloper into his personal territory.

When the gal opted to accept the drummer’s invite, Curly loudly voiced his objection.

“Well, now,” the champagne hustler calmly stated, “looks like the ‘school-boy’ with a carrot-top has something to say about who little Betty Lynnette chooses to drink with.” He slid his right hand, surreptitiously, into the inside of his fancy suit coat, smiling broadly, daring Curly.

The cowboy’s face turned beet-red as several of the town bar-flies laughed out load.

Curly’s hand flashed to his six gun; Gus, the bar keep, leveled his twelve gauge double barreled shotgun at the youth, cocking both hammers in a cracking metallic announcement.

“Hold on, Curly.” Gus said, not smiling. “You don’t own Betty Lynnette. She can drink with whoever she pleases. There’ll be no fireworks in my saloon, not today; not as long as I have this scattergun.” He paused, glancing at the drummer. “And, Mr. Sullivan, don’t draw that shoulder pistol. I like your whiskey well enough; I’d sure hate to  shoot you but, be damn sure that I will.”

The episode ended in a draw; actually, Gus came out on top; the pair believed his threat. Curly groused under his breath as he nursed his warm beer while Betty Lynnette retired to a private table with the charming Mr. Sullivan. Curly finally left the establishment with a final insult loudly stated as he went through the bat wings, “I’ll put a knife in that bastard’s heart.”

Within the year, word came to the Van Gangen ranch that the whiskey drummer who used to call on the Albino prairie Dog Saloon and who had managed to abscond with the pretty Betty Lynnette after the verbal altercation with Curly, had married the girl, taking her with him on his circuit peddling spirits on the frontier. The story went that the girl worked with Sullivan in garnering business from the saloon proprietors across the settlements and that the man treated her very badly. One fine day in Bill Hickok’s town of Deadwood, Sullivan slapped his wife in front of witnesses; they hog tied the brute and threatened to hang him on the spot when Hickok intervened, saving the drummer and ordering the pair out of his town. Next morning, the whiskey salesman was found in an alley with a bowie knife sticking in his black heart.

The hands listened to the tale wondering what Curly might say. “Good!” was his only reply.

The hot headed red head carried a Bowie knife; all present took note that it was safely housed in it leather sheath secured with a tight thong. Anyhow, Curly had not been off the ranch, other than his occasional monthly payday trip to town and the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon, in years. Also, the vaqueros knew it was not his style to way-lay a foe; he’d meet his enemy face to face.

When the end of the month rolled around, about two weeks after the knifing up Dogwood-way, the hands stormed Van Gangenburg’s solitary saloon with plenty of jingle in their pockets set on raising a little thunder whooping it up with the gals; that they would relinquish an entire month’s pay to the saloon girls in one Saturday night flash? Well! Just part of the cost!

Before the dust had a chance to settle on the nearly vacant street in front of the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon, the boys were through the bat wings, howling for action. They came to an abrupt halt. Three gals stood chatting at the far end of the bar. Sure enough, Betty Lynette was there.

At first, Curly refused to even dare a glance her direction, still stinging from her rebuff when she took up so blatantly with the whiskey drummer, Sullivan. When the gal strolled down the bar to sidle up beside Curly, the rough riders moved aside, giving the girl a wide berth; Curly scowled, keeping his eyes averted as he slowly sipped his beer.

“Hi! Curly!” The gal opened. He ignored her.

When she laid her fingertips on his bare neck at the base of his carrot-red hair, he recoiled like a hot iron had branded his skin; his hand pushed her paw aside.

“Come on!” Curly!” Betty Lynette cajoled demurely. She chortled. “Curly,” she said, moving her discarded hand back to his bare neck to tussle his longish red hair tail. “You know I could only ever love you; don’t you? Curly?” She lightly kissed his cheek; he did not refuse her effort.

After a few more warm beers and his purchase of a whiskey for the bar gal, they retired to a private table where, very soon, the hands observed the pair kissing and getting pretty chummy.

“I don’t believe ole Curly will make it back to the bunkhouse tonight,” some wisenheimer remarked to the knowing approving quiet laughter of the crew. And, they were right.  He didn’t!

The boys teased ole Curly about his “romance” with the little saloon girl, Betty Lynette, deriving a curious “fun” as the man turned beet red at almost any provocation; the truth of the matter, however, was that some jealousy existed as none of the others garnered much feminine company of any sort of a steady persuasion. Their humorous conclusion: Must be the red hair!?

Cowboys found easy entertainment among their contemporaries; most were easy going, much of the time, worked hard and did not complain at long hours, sometimes poor vittles and did not worry about much of anything. They enjoyed a free life of some adventure, had a roof over their heads, a lot of the time and liked the comradery of their peer group. Always, one or two of any crew could spin a teasing yarn about some famous mountain man or law dog or outlaw they claimed to have known, or, been acquainted with, some time in their past travels. Around the nightly campfire when out on the range or at the cozy wood stove in the bunkhouse on chilly evenings, these storytellers often interrupted a boring poker game or the guitar and fiddle playing of the same tunes over and over, again. Silence always ensued, each wondering who might become the butt of the tale for the night’s entertainment. Not always was there a point to be made, either at someone’s expense or just in general; often the stories were just plain---Good!...in their own right. Sometimes, though, not often, real offense at the needling was taken.

Ole Timmy O’Shawnessy, in his late twenties, was close with “Carrot-top” Curly; they tried to ride herd together, sat side by side at the bunkhouse supper meal, bandied verbal insults and teasing back and forth between each other and spent time together at the saloon on payday. Being shy, Timmy-boy envied Curly’s “romance” with Betty Lynette though he managed to keep his jealousy pretty well hidden, making  sometimes pointed and not-too-funny jokes.

Once, in a campfire setting after a hard, long day and a nice beef steak dinner out on the range, Timmy-boy took charge of the nightly entertainment festivities; he could spin some yarn!

Motioning for the guitar solo player and the pair of fiddle sawers to quiet down, Timmy-boy took a seat on a bleached white log, rolled a smoke and began the deliberations; the crew settled in, relaxing, enjoying the pleasant comradery, knowing a “fun” time coming.

“Seems this here outfit reminds me of my time down on the Cimarron with old Abe Abernathy and his brother, Kid “the cook” Antelope-killer,” Tim began, his eyes soft, looking far off into some distant time as though reliving the great experience.
 

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