Man of the Family (24 page)

“Yes, I know, but you came home every week end then. And you were never so far away that they couldn't have brought you home in a few hours.”

“But I never get sick,” I told her. “When have I ever been sick—except when I had the measles?”

“Suppose you let me finish,” Mother said. “As I was saying, a twelve-year-old boy is too young for such an undertaking. But I do realize that circumstances have given you a great deal more experience than most boys of your age. And I am sure that you are enough like your father, that you will not be influenced by the roughness of the men you will be with, so I have told Mr. Batchlett that you may go. However, I have told him that you can't go until after your school is out for the summer, and that you must be home when school opens in the fall.”

If she hadn't dropped it so quick, I could have acted more like a grown-up man. I didn't, though. I hugged my arms around her like a little kid. And then I ran downstairs and hugged Grace. Philip and Muriel were both in the kitchen. They looked at me as if they thought I'd gone loco.

I was just about as busy as I could be for the next few days. I got the last things planted in our garden, cut a load of early hay, and hauled home three sacks of grain for Ducklegs and the hens.

Philip was going to take as much care as he could of Ducklegs and my rabbits. Of course, he wasn't old enough to do any trading, or to know when to put the does in to visit their husbands, so Grace was going to help him. We made a deal that each of them would get one bunny out of each new litter. And Grace made me say she could keep anything she got over sixty-five cents for any grown rabbits she sold.

School didn't let out till June second, and Mr. Batchlett was starting south on the morning of the first. He was taking three men and fifty head of dry milk cows they'd picked up in Denver. Lots of people who lived on the outskirts kept a cow. Not very many of them kept their cow after she went dry, but traded her for a fresh one and paid five or ten dollars to boot. Mr. Batchlett had a five-thousand-acre ranch, just a little way north of Colorado Springs. He usually kept the dry cows there till nearly time for them to have their calves, then brought them to his yards in Littleton, and traded them after the calves were weaned. That way, he got the calf as well as the boot money.

I went to see him the night before he left, and he told me they were taking the dry cows to his ranch. He said they weren't going to hurry them and that, if I started as soon as school was out, I'd probably catch up with them halfway between Castle Rock and the Springs. He knew as well as I did that on the last day of school we only went long enough to get our report cards.

I'd put my valise and saddle in the chuckwagon before it left, so I wouldn't have anything to lug. Lady was in good shape, and could travel at a pretty fair clip if she only had me to carry. I wanted to get started the minute school was out, but Mother wouldn't let me. She said I might not catch up with Mr. Batchlett by nightfall, and she wouldn't have me sleeping out alone. “You may go just as early as you want in the morning,” she told me, “but you can't start off in the middle of the day.”

I said good-by to the younger children when they went to bed, and to Grace and Mother when I went upstairs myself. I went early and I took the alarm clock, but I didn't bother to set the trigger. Mother had said I could go as early as I wanted to in the morning, and after midnight it would be morning.

I only woke up twice before twelve, but I woke up again at five minutes after. I had my overalls—with a dollar in the pocket—my jumper, and my shirt all laid out beside the bed. I didn't have to fuss about shoes, because I'd tied them to my saddle before I put it in the chuck wagon. As soon as I'd pulled my clothes on, I crawled out the window and slid down the woodshed roof. King came out when he heard me jump to the ground. I stopped long enough to tell him he was a good dog and that I'd see him in September. Then I put him in the woodshed and shut the door quietly.

Lady didn't make a sound as I slipped the bridle on her and led her out through the gate. Then I walked her on the grass at the side of our lane till we were up to the Colorado Springs highroad.

I didn't run Lady hard, but let her take an easy lope for a mile, then walk till she'd had plenty of time to get her wind, and lope again. The general store was open when we got to Castle Rock. I was hungry myself, and Lady needed grain unless I stopped for an hour or two to graze her. So I went in and got two quarts of oats, a loaf of bread, and a can of deviled ham. I talked to the storekeeper while I was eating it, and he told me Mr. Batchlett's outfit had gone through town the day before, somewhere about noon.

Neither Lady nor I took very long to eat our breakfasts. In less than half an hour we were on the road again. And by noon we'd caught up with Mr. Batchlett's outfit.

That summer we made dozens of trips through the country south of the Springs, all up through the mountain, and as far east as the Kansas border. There were six of us in the crew. When we were out trading, we generally split up and worked in pairs. I usually worked with Mr. Batchlett.

26

Mrs. Callahan

T
HE MONDAY
before Labor Day, we all came in to the ranch with whatever stock we'd picked up. On Tuesday we started the roundup of the cows we were going to move down to Littleton. It was terribly slow work. Steers are just cattle. If there are enough of them together, there won't be more than three or four out of a hundred that you really remember. But cows are a lot like people in some ways—particularly milk cows. Every one is as different from the next one as women at a sewing circle.

There were six or seven hundred cows on Batchlett's ranch by that Tuesday in August. And by that time, I must have known nearly half of them. I had one named for just about every woman in Littleton. There were some that were quiet and gentle, and that just looked at you with their big, soft eyes as you rode past. There were some that made a low, whispered moo when you came onto them in a scrub oak thicket. And there were others that would stand up on a hill and bellow about how bad they felt, when you knew there was nothing wrong with them.

There were curious ones and jealous ones; timid ones and bold ones. You'd always find some of the oldest cows grazing with the young bulls, and the prettiest heifers with the oldest bulls. There were nice fat old grandmothers that liked to lie together all day long and chew their cuds. And there were skinny old ones that just snatched up a wisp of grass here or there, and were always on the go. There were some that always hooked their way through the circle at the water hole, took two swallows, and muddied up the water with their feet; and there were others that let themselves be hooked aside.

It had been fun for me to watch them when a new bunch came in. There'd always be some slab-sided old cow that would come running to meet us, bellowing as if she was trying to holler that she'd just found a scandal in the hills.

Others would run for the scrub oak thickets as though they thought the new bunch was a pack of wolves. And some would just stand, empty-faced, and stare.

With a herd of a thousand steers, a fellow could be pretty sure that he'd find most of them grazing in bunches. There might be half a dozen bunches, and they might be grazing as much as a mile apart, but they were never hard to find. With cows that were heavy with calf, it was just the opposite—particularly if they'd come from lots of different herds. As their time came nearer, they liked to get away by themselves. Range with lots of scrub oak, sagebrush, and alder thickets is the kind they like best. They can hide in it as easy as a rabbit under a tumbleweed. And six hundred of them can spread out over five thousand acres of range like a handful of salt scattered over a haystack.

Of course, you can't run cows that are about to freshen. And it's awfully hard to bunch and drive more than a dozen of them if the range is bushy. It's like trying to juggle a dozen apples all at the same time: if you keep your eye on any one of them the rest all get away from you.

From Tuesday morning through Friday night, we were hardly out of the saddle in daylight. If we were, it was only long enough to put the wet saddle on a fresh horse or to get a drink at a water hole. By sunset Friday, we had less than a hundred head of the right cows in the corrals. And some of them looked as though their time was awfully close.

Mr. Batchlett needed every one of us until the freshening herd was ready to be moved to Littleton. But he'd promised Mother he'd have me home in time to start school the day after Labor Day. And, if there was any way to do it, Mr. Batchlett always kept his promises.

It was nearly ten o'clock before we sat down to supper—and everybody was too tired to say anything more than, “Pass the beans.” As we started to push our chairs back from the table, Mr. Batchlett looked up and said, “Sit tight a minute, boys. I promised Little Britches' mother I'd have him home Labor Day. Way things are stackin' up, might be a week before we're ready to move.”

He gulped down the last swallow of his coffee, and went on, “Looks to me like we got a dozen head that might calve inside a fortnight if they're not moved daggone slow, and I don't hanker to pull in with a chuck wagon full of calves. I'm figurin' on lettin' the kid take 'em along before they get too close to time. Drift 'em easy—long hours and slow.”

Then he looked at me, and asked, “That all right with you, Little Britches? You'll have to lug a blanket and camp where night finds you.”

Of course it was all right with me. I'd rather be moving stock than riding empty, so I just nodded.

“All right, boys; that's it,” Mr. Batchlett told us. “We'll have to cull 'em out by lantern light. I reckon to have him on the road by the crack of daylight.”

We were on the road by the crack of daylight. And I had thirteen cows instead of a dozen. It had been just light enough to tell one cow from another when I was ready to start. Mr. Batchlett came over to the gate when I was taking up the slack in my saddle cinches. He'd just given me a five-dollar gold piece, to buy grain for Lady and grub for myself, when Mrs. Callahan hummed.

Mrs. Callahan was the fattest cow on the place, and she always walked as though she had corns that hurt her. But I liked her just the same. I never heard her bellow out loud, but every time I went near her, she'd hum a deep, soft drone in her throat.

That's what she did when Mr. Batchlett and I were there by the gate. She was resting her chin on one of the gate bars, and sort of crooned, as if she were asking me to take her with me. I think she probably was, and I think Mr. Batchlett knew it. He stepped over to the gate, leaned from side to side as he looked at her girth, then called to Sid Fulker, “Bring the big Durham out, Sid; she'll travel best with the slow bunch.”

“Aw for Pete's sake, Batch,” Sid called back. “You ain't goin' to give the kid a jinx thirteener?”

I think Mr. Batchlett would have said to let it go, but I hollered, “Bring her on out, Sid. If Mrs. Callahan's a jinx, I'm a jack rabbit. And I'll like having her along to sing to me nights.”

For the first couple of hours, there wasn't much for me to do but sing. Every cow in the bunch was fat and a little old. And every one of them moved as though the step she was taking was going to be her last. The morning was cool, and there was dust enough in the wheel tracks that it made a cushion for Mrs. Callahan's feet. I lolled in the saddle and watched the little puffs of dust that squirted up between her cleft hoofs when she put her feet down.

By the end of those two hours, we'd gone a little more than three miles, and I felt pretty good about it. I knew it was fifty-five miles from Batchlett's ranch to Littleton, so eighteen miles a day was all we'd have to make. If we could do three miles every two hours, we'd have plenty of time for grazing, and I still wouldn't have to drive in the dark. I planned to do all the grazing in the early afternoons, when it would be the hottest and the hardest for the cows to travel.

Mrs. Callahan hadn't planned that way, though. By the time the sun was two hours high, she wanted to stop in the shade of every scrub oak we passed. Then, when I'd pop her with the line end, she'd look around at me and hum. It wasn't really a hum, either. It was almost a groan. I should have known enough to take her back right then, but I didn't.

I'm sure cows can't talk to each other. But it seemed as if Mrs. Callahan's humming really spread a lot of trouble for me. Within half an hour, every cow in the bunch was looking for shade. And, slow as they were moving, I had to work Lady into a sweat to keep them on the road. Of course, there weren't any fences. And by the time I got one old hippopotamus back on the road, each one of the other twelve would be heading off in a different direction. And then Mrs. Callahan decided to lie down.

I didn't want to hurt her, and I couldn't get her up without it. She must have weighed at least a thousand pounds, and I didn't weigh three-quarters of a hundred. There was only one thing to do, so I had to let the rest of them graze while Mrs. Callahan took a nap. I think she'd have stayed there all day, but after half an hour I twisted her tail, and we went on. In our second two hours, we didn't go more than a mile and a half.

All the rest of the day was the same. And by twilight we were just in sight of Palmer Lake, so I knew we'd only covered fourteen miles. We had to keep going if we were to get to Littleton by Monday night. I ate the last of the biscuits and bacon in my saddlebag, and put the cows back onto the road. Mr. Batchlett had told me to stop at Palmer Lake for grub and grain, but the general store was closed by the time we got there, so I drove right on through town.

There was no moon, but it was a nice, cool, starlit night. And the cows moved better than they did in the daytime. I think some of them were a little lonesome. Once in a while one would raise her head and low. There was no wind, and the hills would catch the sound and echo it back again. Every now and again, a coyote would howl from a ridge, and another would answer. I was happy, and I wasn't homesick, but I knew I'd be glad when we got back to Littleton. I kept pushing the cows ahead till I was sure we'd covered a good eighteen miles.

The stars were bright enough so that I could see pretty well, and I found us a good camp site. It was in a little green meadow by a creek bed. The creek was nearly dry, but there was driftwood, so I could have made a fire if I'd wanted one.

Most of the cows bedded down while I was unsaddling Lady and putting her hobbles on. I thought Mrs. Callahan would be the first one down. All through the evening, I'd had to pop her with the line end to keep her from stopping in her tracks. But she was still on her feet when I had my blanket spread and the saddle laid out for a pillow. I thought maybe she was afraid of something. She kept moving around the herd, and there was a good deal more groan than hum in the drone she was making. It almost seemed as if she were telling each of the other cows that she didn't like the place. Before I lay down, I went over and stroked her neck for a few minutes, and told her there wasn't anything to be afraid of.

I didn't go right to sleep when I turned in. I'd slept out a lot before—not ever alone with a herd, but I wasn't a bit afraid. Coyotes won't bother grown stock or people, unless they're starving and running in a pack. And they won't sing at the stars if there's a mountain lion or anything really dangerous around. I lay and listened to them for probably half an hour. I guess I was thinking all the time, but just in little drifty pieces that floated away like summer clouds. And then I realized I hadn't been hearing Mrs. Callahan's hum. I tried to tell myself she'd gone to sleep, but I couldn't make myself believe it.

I sat up to look. She wasn't standing, but it was too dark to see if she was lying with the others. I pulled my boots on, so I wouldn't step on any cactus in the dark, and went around to count the cows. Mrs. Callahan wasn't there.

There was no scrub oak or sagebrush within a hundred yards of our camp. Beyond that, it was thick. Cottonwood and alder grew along the creek bed, and there were a thousand places she might be hiding. She might even have started back to the ranch on the highroad. I didn't stop to saddle Lady, but ran toward the cottonwoods down the creek. I knew Mrs. Callahan would hum every once in a while if she were awake, and thought I'd find her when I got close enough. I didn't go into the brush, but walked all around the edge of the meadow, stopping every few yards to listen. There wasn't a sound, and I was sure she'd gone back down the road.

With her sore feet, I knew she couldn't have gone very far, but I unhobbled Lady and saddled her. Then I cantered her more than a mile in each direction on the road. There was no sign of Mrs. Callahan anywhere. Next, I started making circles through the brush around the camp—making each one a little wider than the last, and stopping every fifty yards to listen. It must have been close to midnight when I heard her. And it was nearly half a mile from camp. She was lying in a little circle of scrub oak; wide awake, and making that groaning sound every minute or two.

I should have known what the trouble was, but I didn't think of it. And I was a little bit peeved at her. I ran Lady almost against her, but she didn't offer to get up. So I slid out of the saddle and twisted her tail. Of course, I didn't try to run her any, but I kept popping her with the line end. And I didn't let her stop to rest till we were back in camp. “Now, old girl,” I told her, “we'll see if you're tired enough to sleep with the family.”

I didn't unsaddle Lady till after Mrs. Callahan had lain down with the other cows. Then I put the hobbles on again and fixed my bed. I told myself I'd just lie there and listen till Mrs. Callahan stopped humming and went to sleep. But I went before she did. There was a little gray in the east when I woke up again. And Mrs. Callahan was gone.

That time, I didn't have to go so far to find her. I expected her to be back in the same circle of scrub oak, so I saddled Lady and headed that way. We'd only got as far as the edge of the brush when I heard Mrs. Callahan's voice. It was close by, and it was altogether different than it had been earlier in the night.

With dawn coming, it was darker than it had been when the stars were bright. I didn't want Lady to stumble over a root with me—or over Mrs. Callahan, either—so I slid down, dropped the reins, and listened for the next hum. When it came, I walked toward it through the clumps of brush.