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.
No comments:
Post a Comment