Patches

Front matter

Books by Clarence Hawkes

Silversheene, King of Sled Dogs

Pep, The Story of a Brave Dog

The Romance of the Cattle Land

IF you will examine a map of the United States printed fifty years ago you will find a large tract of land between the Missouri River and California designated as the Great American Desert. If you examine a recent map of the same country you will be surprised to note that this desert has entirely disappeared and that in its place are half a dozen prosperous and populous states.

The truth is that the desert never really existed except in the imagination of the geographer, with the exception of a small portion of Utah where there is still some desert land.

After the Lewis and Clarke expedition up the Missouri, and after the discovery of gold in California in 1849, a goodly number of adventurous spirits flocked across the western plains in search of gold and adventure. These adventurers who were always fickle and restless were shortly followed by a more serious-minded company who were homemakers and settlers. The thing that most vividly impressed these settlers on coming into this new El Dorado was the great herds of bison grazing upon the western prairies.

These bison kept sleek and fat not only in the summer, but in the winter as well, and they subsisted merely upon the bounty of nature.

Thus the question at once arose, if the bison could subsist in this way merely upon the bounty of nature, why could not cattle be raised in the same manner and thus get rid of the first cost of raising them.

So the western emigrant soon had small herds of cattle grazing upon the prairies just as the bison had done before them. These were the nuclei for the mighty herds of cattle in our western grazing land which finally made this nation the greatest beef-raising country in the world.

The root stock however, of this cattle raising industry had already been planted on this continent nearly two hundred years when the original "Texas Longhorn" was imported from Spain into Mexico. These long-horned, tall, gaunt cattle finally drifted across the Rio Grande into Texas, and thence up the Panhandle into New Mexico and what is now Oklahoma and still further north, so when the western settlers first came to the western prairies there were wild cattle grazing on the plains in the same herds with the bison.

From time to time the early cattle men introduced new stock of Durham, Hereford, and other large breeds and crossed them with the Texas Longhorn. The real Texas steer is a tall, rangy animal weighing when fat a thousand pounds.

Since the herds of cattle ran unrestrained upon the prairies the question of identification very early arose, so it was not long before branded cattle and cattle with either one or both ears slit appeared upon the prairies. At first these branding marks were rather simple, but it soon became apparent that they had to be more complicated as the cattle rustler who was the professional cattle thief could easily change simple markings. Thus the letter could be changed into a G or a cipher, I could be easily changed to L, M to N and so on. This necessity for an elaborate mark soon led to a branding iron which was six or seven inches square and cattle were marked either on the shoulder or hind quarters, or both. Also in many cases the ears were slit as well. But even so the professional cattle thief or rustler grew bold and rich as well; this, notwithstanding the fact that the branding irons had been registered at the local county seats as soon as the particular district had a seat of government.

Since there were few sheriffs in the primitive west in those early days, and fewer courts and justice was very tardy, what was called necktie parties were very soon in vogue. This seemed the only way in which to deal with the professional rustler. These parties always took the form of a surprise party. In fact, the surprise of the recipient of such honors was usually beyond words to describe. From the moment that his fellow citizens called upon the rustler he was the very center of the festivity. In fact, all eyes were upon him. For once he was the observed of all observers.

He was speedily conducted to a remote region where the trees grew tall. There being few stores in the region and neckties being hard to procure, an inch rope served instead. The offending rustler was soon given a commanding position above the rest of the company and the party broke up feeling well satisfied because there was one less cattle thief in the world. Of course this was not lawful, but it was a sort of primitive justice.

Not only did the cattle men have to contend with the rustlers but soon very serious differences sprang up between themselves. These were over grazing grounds, water holes, and priority of brands, etc. Here again there were no courts to settle these disputes and once again primitive methods were resorted to.

These cattle feuds became so bad in portions of Texas and New Mexico and even farther north that as a result many scores of cow-punchers finally left their bones bleaching in the sun upon the mesas and tablelands as a result of these disputes. The arbitor in most cases was the renowned Colt's forty-five revolver which the cow-puncher always carried in the holster upon his thigh.

As soon as the homesteaders flocked into the grazing country and began building homes and tilling the land, another quarrel arose. This was between the settler, or nester, as he was often called and the cattle men. These nesters often preempted the water holes which were very important and also fenced off the best grazing lands, so pitched battles ensued between the cattle men and the settlers who were frequently of foreign birth and unacquainted with our laws and customs.

About 1892 this tension between the homesteaders and the cattle kings came to a crisis. This was when the cow-punchers assembled two hundred strong, and tried to dispel a settler from his holding in which he had fenced off the best water hole in the region. This force of cattle men were promptly met by an equal body of local deputies which was largely made up of homesteaders. A pitched battle was imminent near Cheyenne, Wyoming, when the United States cavalry appeared, and dispersed both parties, and the despotic power of the cattle men was forever broken. After that, barbed wire fences appeared on many of the great ranches and the cattle business was restricted.

Then there were still other fights between the cattle men and the sheep men, and finally the goat men appeared and cleaned up what the sheep had left. So from the time when the first herds of domestic cattle appeared upon the western prairies the cattle business has been surrounded by romance and glamour, and attended with fighting and many conditions that lent themselves to dramatic action.

The cowboy from the very early days has been a picturesque historic figure, figuring very largely in the literature of the great west. In the very early days his life was a hard one, and many have been the stirring scenes in which he has taken part. He has ranged all the way from the Rio Grande on the south, to the Peace River in the very northern confines of civilization in British America. The cow-puncher also has ridden over the great divide into California, and up into Oregon and Washington. But wherever he has gone he has always been a chivalrous hero doing his work like a man. He might well be called the knight of the plains.

He has always ridden his faithful broncho, or mustang, or cayuse, according to the locality where his range was located. But by all three names this is still the same wirey, devil-may-care, little horse, tough as a pine knot, and doing a day's work that would kill any other horse in the world.

The cowboy's dress had been as picturesque as his wild life, with the broad-brimmed felt hat, the bright kerchief, the oil slicker worn in stormy weather, and the tall riding boots and chaps not to mention the historic forty-five reposing in the holster on his hip. All these are well known characteristics of this knight of the plains.

There are few dull days in the life of a cow-puncher for adventure camps upon his trail, so what with heading off wild stampedes of cattle on dark nights, riding at a headlong pace, God only knows just where, and fighting cattle rustlers and nesters, as well as wolves and grizzly bears, the cow-puncher has always had plenty to test his nerve and keep him fit.

In the old days of the Gilson and Santa Fe trails the cattle used to be driven to the north in the summer time and back south in the winter migrating just as the buffalo did. But today all the large open ranges are gone. Instead the cattle graze over a much smaller range and the riding is all done from a central camp in one day.

All these things have tended to narrow down the once endless range of possibilities in the cowboy's life, so that to-day he is a much more sophisticated creature than of yore. And cannot expect a skulking Indian to take a pot shot at him as he rides over the range, while the grizzly has become much more wary and fearful of repeating rifles.

So with this word picture of the cowboy's arena and the conditions and action which have given him his place in both fiction and history, I leave you to the adventures of this knight of the range, and more espe cially to the heroism of his faithful little horse. He may on occasion buck like a fractious ram and try to pile his rider in a sorry heap on the ground, but when his antics are over he will carry his rider at a pace which would leave the best cavalry horses dead on the trail at the end of twenty-four hours. For this wild horse is a product of nature, toughened by exposure and hard conditions, and he has the fiber and heart of a wind-whipped oak.

Patches

A Running Fight

HANK BRODIE sat easily in his saddle on his favorite mount, Old Baldy, gazing with a rapt expression at the sun-kissed peaks of the distant mountains. It was a scene that he had beheld hundreds of times before in the course of fifteen years upon Crooked Creek ranch, but somehow this scene always drew him with a strange power. It was as though a great hand had been stretched out and with unseen fingers played upon the harp strings of his being sweet low music, for Hank was a dreamer and a poet as well as a cow-puncher.

Of course his name was Henry, but if you had called him that to any of his cow-puncher pals, they would have looked at you quizzically and then replied, "Beggin' your pardon, stranger, we calls him Hank in these here parts."

He was the typical cowboy figure, lean and muscular, and with muscles like rawhide even like the rawhide lariat which he carried by his side. He was quick and alert either with the rope or the six shot Colt's revolver which reposed in the holster on his right hip. His dress was the usual cow-puncher outfit, with the broad brimmed gray felt Stetson, and the bright kerchief about his neck. This handkerchief had a dual usage. It was either a neck piece or mask as occasion required. You may wonder where he would use a disguise, but there were several occasions in the cattleman's warfare with cattle rustlers and homesteaders where a mask might be convenient. Hank wore no coat and his vest was usually unbuttoned, showing the flannel outing shirt underneath. The nearest approach to a coat he had was the slicker which he carried on the back of his saddle.

His riding breeches were just ordinary pants supplemented by ornamental chaps, but his long-legged boots were quite exceptional, with their tall slim heels and their thin soles. The tall heels were to keep the foot from catching in the stirrups and the thin soles to enable the rider to better feel the stirrup. In the pockets of his vest he always carried matches and Durham tobacco cigarettes.

For training and life background Hank was not the usual puncher, for he had been born in the east and had seen two years at Harvard University. Because of this background his fellow punchers sometimes called him Doe, but he was a thorough cattle man for all that.

For the past three days he had been out on what he termed a "fool chase." He was looking for a blooded mare named Kentucky Bell, the property of the Crooked Creek ranch owner. This fine mare had been lured away the summer before by some one of the outlaw mustang stallions that sometimes came through the mountains to the west and frequented the range, in fact she had been seen recently consorting with a notorious outlaw stallion known as the Black Killer and Mr. Morgan, the manager, was most anxious to recover her.

The Black Killer was a devilish outlaw mustang who had killed more than one man and several domestic horses on the ranches. He was only an occasional visitor to the Crooked Creek ranch, but even so he was a menace to both man and beast. There is among the wild horses one out of a thousand, or perhaps ten thousand, known as a killer. They are the most dangerous animal upon the western ranges, more cunning than any bear or wolf and much more to be feared.

Such a horse will often permit himself to be caught along with a score of other wild horses, and never show the killing tendency until he gets his prey at his mercy and then he strikes like lightning. The cow-puncher's mount is much quicker to sense the presence of a killer than is his rider, so when a horse begins to champ his bit nervously and to drool with excitement and fear and draw away from an unseen danger, the cow-puncher always reaches for his trusty six shooter.

Hank had told Mr. Morgan that it was like looking for a needle in a haymow to try to find the mare on the range of several hundred thousand acres and as for the Black Killer he was more wary than a grizzly, but Mr. Morgan had insisted and Hank had gone on this "wild goose chase" as he styled it.

Obedience is one of the ranch's first laws and Hank, as the head cow-puncher, had to obey. So, for the past three days he and Baldy had been scouring the country, but had not seen a sign of either the mare or the killer.

Hank was so engrossed with his day dream of watching the sunset that his usually alert senses were for the moment off guard, so it was Old Baldy who first discovered that all was not well in the landscape about them, for without a moment's warning he threw up his head and snorted and then pulled restively at the bit.

"Whoa, whoa, old scout," said Hank soothingly. "What is it, old chap?"

Again Baldy snorted and pulled at the bit. He had either heard or scented something that his master had missed. What in the dickens could it be? But Hank was immediately informed, for a terrified, agonized squeal from a horse in distress cut the stillness like a knife. It was some distance away, but there was no mistaking the sound.

Hank turned partly around in his saddle and looked up the canyon behind them. Baldy had been standing where a branch creek emptied into Crooked Creek. In midsummer this small creek would be entirely dry, but now there was a little water in the river bed. What Hank saw filled him with astonishment and anxiety, for the objects of his double quest were in full sight, about an eighth of a mile up the canyon where it narrowed down between the walls.

A small colt perhaps two months old was in the foreground. He was running like a jackrabbit and his mother, who was none other than Kentucky Bell, was following close behind him trying desperately to ward off the fiendish effort of a coal black stallion who was springing and biting at the colt with deadly intent. The mare was putting up a desperate running fight, but the colt seemed doomed although he ran like an antelope and doubled and twisted as the old fury came close to him.

Now the ill fame of the killer had travelled all over that portion of the state. There was not a cow-puncher in the region that had not much rather meet a grizzly bear than the killer, but his duty was plain so Hank reined Baldy sharply about and galloped rapidly towards that desperate running fight. He knew full well that he ran some risk in so doing, but a cowboy's life is full of adventure and he was enured to danger of every sort.

Again and again the little horse seemed lost, for the black stallion would swoop down upon him, his teeth snapping like a bear trap, but just in time the colt would jump aside or the mare would intervene, receiving ugly bites herself.

So intent was the killer with the object in view that he did not notice Hank and Old Baldy until they were about fifty yards away. Then he spotted them and immediately the colt was forgotten and the black fury charged straight down the canyon at this new foe. The battle would have been a short one but for the nervousness of Baldy who sensed even more fully than his master the deadly character of the oncoming horse.

Hank had just raised his Colt's to shoot when the sight of the charging fury overwhelmed Baldy and he wheeled like a flash and galloped towards Crooked Creek while the bullet which would certainly have struck the stallion went whizzing over his head.

Hank sawed away upon the bit and did his best to quiet Baldy, but his panic was complete, so the best Hank could do was to fire over his shoulder at his pursuer. This was at best very inaccurate shooting and he saw his revolver being rapidly emptied to no purpose.

If he could only stop Baldy long enough for a good shot he would at least wound the fury, but Baldy had no mind to come to grips with this black devil.

Closer and closer the fury came. Baldy could probably have run away from him had Hank plied the quirt, but he had no such intentions so he and his mount were working at cross purposes. When they reached Crooked Creek, Hank guided Baldy down stream where the bank was smooth and finally after desperate sawing upon the bit managed to bring him to a partial stop for just a second. Just long enough to turn in the saddle and get a good shot. At the crack of the revolver Hank heard the stallion squeal. He had scored. But to his great surprise the outlaw turned and disappeared among some piñons to the south and Hank saw no more of him.

The cow-puncher now had time to reload his revolver, for this good shot had been his last cartridge, and keeping a good sharp watch for the stallion, he went to look for the mare and colt.

He found Kentucky Bell near the spot where he had last seen her, and she seemed glad to see him and allowed herself to be roped without much difficulty.

The colt who had been badly scared by the outlaw was at first rather shy, but it kept close to the mare's flank and when Hank started on the long journey to the ranch house the colt followed obediently.

Half a mile up the creek it occurred to Hank that he should not have let the outlaw get away so easily, so after some deliberation he hitched the mare securely to a small piñon and went back to look for the Black Killer. He had now accomplished half the object of his quest and he wished to accomplish the other half.

He scoured the canyon, where he had last seen him, for an hour, but could not get a sight of him. Finally, as it was getting late in the afternoon, Hank retraced his steps, back to the colt and mare.

He had hidden them in a narrow draw and at first he thought he had not remembered the place rightly, for the mare did not seem to be where he had left her. Finally after some searching he found the identical piñon to which he had tied the mare, but she was gone.

Yet, that was not all, the tree was broken down and there were signs of a desperate struggle. With a sense of foreboding Hank began searching the draw and soon came upon the mare. She was quite dead and the colt was nowhere to be seen.

Then the full purport of the tragedy came home to Hank. The old outlaw had been following him at a distance all the time. He had followed just as a grizzly will sometimes trail a man and when he was out of sight he had fallen upon the helpless mare. She had broken away in the course of the struggle, but had finally been killed.

At the sight of the broken bushes and trampled ferns Hank looked at his six gun to see that every chamber was full and that it was in readiness. They were not done with this business yet. As he hurried back to Baldy whom he had tied near that fatal piñon, he was aroused to a new danger by seeing Baldy pulling at his picket line. Then Baldy broke away and galloped madly towards the creek leaving Hank alone in the draw.

"Well, I guess the devil is somewhere near," thought Hank. "Baldy wouldn't have bolted like that unless the old Satan was snooking about. I guess I am in for it now."

Baldy's hoof beats had barely died away when other hoofs were heard and the killer trotted out of the draw from a clump of cedars where he had been hiding all the time.

Hank's first impulse was to run for a small tree nearby or to climb to the top of a pile of boulders fifty feet away, but he had hardly time for either maneuver for the fury charged upon him like a cyclone, snapping his teeth and raging like a veritable demon.

Then the words of Colonel Roosevelt came to Hank and they helped to steady his hand and steel his heart. "If any wild animal ever charges you, do not run away, but stand perfectly still and keep shooting. There is not an animal living that can kill a man if he keeps his nerve."

Well, Hank would do just that. There was no other alternative. When the fury was sixty feet away the six shooter cracked for the first shot and a wisp of the black horse's mane dropped to the ground. The wound was a bad one in the neck, but not fatal and the killer went mad at the pain. After that he did not mind bullets or pain. His only object was to get at his foe. Twice the revolver cracked again before he had covered half the remaining distance. Each time he was badly wounded, but thus far Hank had not hit a vital spot.

Then the killer did a foolish thing for he reared upon his hind legs and walked forward, striking with his forefeet and gnashing his teeth. Hank afterward said it was the most terrifying sight he had ever seen. To miss now was sure death, but the stallion had made the wrong move for this maneuver slowed up his charge and the cowboy sent two shots into his body and one into his head, and with a last desperate effort the killer charged forward and fell dead almost at Hank's feet. Coolness and the good Colt's revolver had won.

The stallion had barely ceased to struggle and Hank had hardly recovered from the great excitement of the few dramatic moments when he was treated to another surprise for his attention was attracted by some moving object at the very top of the pile of stones where he had thought of taking refuge when the stallion charged.

His first thought was that it was a skulking coyote, but on circling about the pile of stones he soon discovered that it was a small colt, and as he climbed up close to the terrified little horse he saw to his great surprise that it was Kentucky Bell's foal, the very one that the old killer had been trying to destroy when he had first caught sight of them.

The colt was very fearful of the cow-puncher, but he was perched up so high that he did not dare jump and Hank had purposely cut off the only good way of descent. So Hank got his rope which fortunately he had thrown on the ground when he hitched Baldy and lassoed the small horse and brought him plunging and very much afraid to the level ground. But now that he had him safely down, Hank was in a quandary to know how to get the colt home. Mr. Morgan, he knew, would never forgive him if he abandoned the colt now. So with great patience the cow-puncher started to halter break the colt to see if he would lead.

The small horse acted just like all colts and immediately sulked and threw himself and had to be dragged to his feet. Finally after an hour's hard work Hank got the colt so he would stand and not pull on the rope, but he did not think he would lead. In fact, as soon as he had secured Baldy and mounted and pulled on the rope, the colt again flopped to the ground. Finally the cow-puncher bound his legs with some thongs with which his saddle bags were always generously supplied and threw him across the saddle just as he would have done a dead deer and started to walk the five miles to Crooked Creek ranch. He stopped several times to change the position of the colt and to readjust the slicker and piñon boughs under him. The colt thought his lot was very hard, judging from his sighs and occasional groans, but Hank assured him it was much better than being eaten up by the stallion.

About nine o'clock that night the cow-puncher arrived at the ranch, footsore and tired, but well pleased with his part in the expedition. For he had killed the killer and earned the reward of five hundred dollars, and had also rescued Kentucky Bell's colt which Mr. Morgan would prize very highly. It was an exploit that would give the cow-puncher something to talk about for several days so Hank was well pleased with the outcome.

The Tenderfoot

FOUR years have now elapsed since that eventful day when Hank Brodie had engaged in that desperate running fight with the Killer, in which through sheer pluck and good shooting he had saved the life of Kentucky Bell's little colt. If one had seen that small horse lashed to Hank's saddle as he toted him home, and could also have seen the eleven hundred pound gelding which now pranced about over the ranch, free as the winds that blew, it would have been another striking reminder of the adage, "Great oaks from little acorns grow."

Never since that day when Hank had unbound the small horse and set him upon his feet before the ranch corral had he been haltered or bridled. A ranch mare which had lost her own colt the day before, had at once adopted the forlorn little horse and everything had gone on just as though he had not lost his own mother.

It is general practice among ranchmen not to break a colt until he is four years old, when he is supposed to have reached his full size and strength. Even the breaking that he gets is not the long painstaking course of lessons which an eastern horse gets, but a rather harsh course of object lessons, in which he has to learn, or suffer the consequences. His breaking is always with force and this is force spelt with a capital F. Horses are plenty and cheap upon the western ranches, and time is valuable, so a man cannot spend too much time fussing with a refractory broncho. But most of these wild horses, which in some cases have been crossed with native stock, are very clever, and they learn rapidly, so after several severe lessons they are ready to ride, all but the outlaw, who is never safe or sure.

This refractory animal is naturally full of cussedness, and he may be expected to buck, kick, and bite at any time during his stormy life.

He is usually upon the bad string in the corral, and ultimately finds himself doing bucking stunts at the famous round-ups, or Rodeos which the cowboys hold each autumn at several western centres.

At these spectacular shows there is a premium upon pure cussedness so even the outlaw finds his place in the economy of the cattle country.

It had been as cold and blustery a Spring day as had come to the Wyoming in many a year; a day of scudding white clouds and rapidly moving shadows; a day that made one turn up his coat collar and seek shelter if possible.