The Circle W pleased Hewey on first sight. Most new places did, then gradually lost their luster through familiarity. One point which appealed to him was that the previous owner seemed to have shared Hewey’s aversion to barbed wire. Except for a couple of horse traps, most of the ranch’s hundred square miles were in one large pasture fenced only around its perimeter. It reminded him of the open-range days of recent memory, when hide-ripping wire was scarcer than rain.
Most ranchers claimed that smaller pastures were easier to work, but Hewey saw no reason why everything should be easy. A little physical exertion was good for the soul. He made an exception for opening gates.
As he had heard the story in town, Augie Wilson had put the ranch together in the late 1880s and early ’90s for the eventual benefit of his two sons. Unfortunately, one had died of dysentery serving under Teddy Roosevelt in Cuba. Hewey could relate to that, for the same ailment had caused him to miss the charge up San Juan Hill. He had never so much as shot at a Spaniard. Hindsight had made him grateful for that. The Spaniards were said to have blown up the Maine, but none of them had done him any personal injury. Still, there was a void in his life. He wished he could have enjoyed the excitement of charging up that hill with Teddy. What a bully show it would have been!
The other Wilson son had been a sticky-fingered sort who developed
a bad habit of burning his brand on other people’s calves, earning him a one-way trip to the Huntsville penitentiary. Having no family member to help her run the ranch or to leave it to, Wilson’s widow had chosen to sell it and spend her declining years in the comfort of Fort Davis town.
Wilson’s dislike for barbed wire had been equaled by his love for the Longhorn, so the scattering of cows that retreated ahead of the horses showed the original wild Texas strain. Hewey suspected Old Man Jenkins would not wait long to bring in Hereford or Durham sires, consigning the Longhorn bulls to a packinghouse—as many as his cowboys could catch, anyway. In three or four generations, most of the old blood would be bred out. That was the trend in this new century: throw away whatever was old and traditional, grasp whatever was regarded as modern … fast automobiles, fast trains, electric lights that required no matches and no blowing out.
He had even seen a flying machine set down on a flat stretch of ground outside of Alpine. It looked like a cross between a kite and a prickly-pear burner. If God had intended a man to get that high in the air, He would have put feathers on him.
Tommy seemed favorably impressed by the lack of fences because he’d had to shut so many wire gates on the way here after the horses had gone through. Some were so tight that Skip had to join forces with him to fasten them. Hewey could have done it, but he figured the boys needed the education. A seasoned cowboy knew to stay on horseback and let somebody else do most of the footwork.
Tommy said in admiration, “It’s a wonderful-lookin’ country.”
True, its scenery was more spectacular than Upton County’s. A high gray rimrock towered over the western side of the long valley like a great stone wall built to keep the barbarians out, or perhaps to keep them in, depending upon how you chose to look at it. Some of the mountains ranged from six thousand feet in altitude to more
than eight, and the valley that made up most of the ranch was probably close to four, easily a thousand to fifteen hundred feet higher than the Calloway homestead. It was a high-lonesome country, sure enough.
One good thing about the altitude in Hewey’s view: this region was too high for growing crops. It ought to remain safe from the plow.
A man could freeze the buttons off his shirt here on winter mornings, though that towering wall probably provided shelter against the west and northwest winds. It had been Apache country even to the time of Hewey’s boyhood. He wondered how Indians had made it through January and February in nothing more than breechclout and leggings.
He need not dwell on that because he would probably move on before next winter. For now, the spring sun was pleasantly warm. Grass was turning green at its base, poised to receive the rains that usually began here in June, except in those years when they forgot to come at all. Given decent moisture, it was a great country for cattle in the summer and fall. It was fair enough through winter if the landowner avoided overgrazing and saved back enough summer forage. Spring, usually dry, could be long and challenging, but ranchers hung on to the hope that June would bring rain. Hewey could see a thunderhead building over the rimrock, probably setting the stage for an afternoon drenching.
Tommy would wish he had a tarp to shed water from his bedroll. Well, next time he would know. Life was one hard-learned lesson after another.
Letting the remuda set its own easy pace, Hewey noticed a roadrunner trotting to one side. “Smart little bird,” he told Tommy. “He’s lettin’ the horses scare up dinner for him.”
A tiny lizard, frightened into movement by the passage of the remuda, scurried away from the noise and into the path of a far deadlier hazard. In a startling dash the roadrunner overtook it, spreading
its tail to brake to a quick stop. It threw up its head, and the lizard disappeared down its throat.
Skip declared, “Poor little devil didn’t have a chance.”
Hewey said, “It would’ve had better luck if it’d been too big to swallow whole. That paisano bird might’ve just grabbed it by the tail, the tail would’ve broke loose, and the rest of the lizard would’ve gotten away. They can grow a new tail, you know.”
Skip was incredulous. “That story’s too big to swallow whole, too.”
“It’s a fact. Why, I’ve heard the Mexicans tell about paisanos that raised herds of lizards like me and you would raise a herd of cattle. They wouldn’t eat anything but the tails, and pretty soon the tails would grow back. Them birds didn’t have to waste time huntin’. They just laid around gettin’ fat and watchin’ their herd grow new tails over and over, the way sheep grow a new clip of wool every time you shear them.”
Tommy suppressed a grin; he had heard his uncle spin windies before. Hewey took pleasure in the quizzical expression on Skip’s freckled face as the young cowboy floundered between scorn and reluctant belief. It did a green kid good to guess a little, reminding him that he didn’t know everything.
Skip said, “There ain’t no bird that smart.” But he still wavered.
Hewey shrugged. “I never seen it for myself, of course. I’m just tellin’ you what’s been told to me.”
Tommy observed Skip’s confusion as long as he could before he let his grin break free. “Uncle Hewey, you’re still the best liar I ever listened to. Better than Snort Yarnell.”
Hewey smiled. Even backhanded praise was welcome, coming from his nephew.
The farther Hewey rode onto this ranch the better he liked the look of it. He appreciated that many of the cattle hoisted their tails and
took to the breaks in a sturdy lope at first sight of horses and riders. That demonstrated a healthy Texas independence. Most of the calves had been left unbranded because of the probability that their ownership would change.
The long rock wall and the distant blue mountains framed the broad valley like a picture, topped by a crystal-clear sky. Wildflowers in bloom lent their colors to the green of the rising grass, and Hewey breathed deeply of their perfume.
So what if he had to patch the knees of his britches when he got settled, or dig a few thorns from his hide? A lot of folks in town would spend good money to see such as this, and he was being paid thirty dollars a month for the privilege.
For the last part of the drive Hewey freed the half-broken bronc he had been riding and saddled Biscuit, for he knew Old Man Jenkins would be watching the procession roll into ranch headquarters.
As the cottonwood trees and the ranch buildings came into view, Skip said, “Tommy, I’ll bet the corral gate is shut. I’ll race you to see who opens it.”
“On that spavined nag? My bronc can run rings around him.”
Hewey warned, “Mr. Jenkins’ll teach you boys some words you never heard before. You was hired to drive horses, not to race them.”
Skip argued, “A little race never hurt nobody.”
“Don’t come cryin’ to me if you find yourself sittin’ on a street corner in Alpine with your pocket empty and your stomach talkin’ to you.”
He remembered, though he would not tell these boys, that he and Snort Yarnell had run many a horse race together and sometimes had lost everything but their shirts. First the boys should learn the way things ought to be. They would learn soon enough the way things actually were.
The headquarters reminded Hewey of something out of his boyhood, as if little new had been added in thirty or forty years. Though
a stream ran nearby, a windmill tower stood tall to catch the wind coming up the valley or down from the rimrock to turn the wooden Eclipse fan, insurance against drought that might dry up the surface water. Whoever had first settled the place must have imported Mexican artisans, for most of the buildings were of adobe. The main house was constructed low and flat, as was an even longer structure Hewey judged to be a bunkhouse and kitchen for the hands. The main barn was of weathered wood, a stranger to paint. The corrals were of the same brush construction as most of the camps on Jenkins’s J Bar, though the swinging gates were built of sawmill lumber. A couple of small sheds had adobe outer walls and were open in front.
It seemed right and proper that as much as possible be built of materials which existed in nature and close at hand. Thick adobe walls held the heat out in summer and in during winter. Hewey had been in frame houses where cold wind whistled between the boards and he could not haul enough wood to keep the place warm. He had slept outside in July and August rather than lie beneath a sheet-iron roof that trapped enough heat to keep supper biscuits warm all night.
Adobe suited him fine. He would enjoy this place for however long he stayed.
The boys’ race ended prematurely, and the two came back, their horses breathing hard. Skip was looking over his shoulder. Tommy said, “Mr. Jenkins and Bige Saunders have already got the gate open.”
Hewey smiled. The boys dreaded a lecture from either boss about the evils of running their horses unnecessarily. Half the basic training for a cowboy was in learning what not to do.
They put the horses through the gate, and Bige pushed it shut behind them. Jenkins walked up, broad shoulders hunched like he had rheumatism. Hewey could believe it, him riding all this way over
the rough road in that car. Jenkins eyed Hewey’s mount critically, perhaps with a little suspicion. “You were ridin’ Biscuit when I last seen you, and you’re ridin’ him now. You sure you ain’t pushin’ him too hard?”
“He hardly knows he’s been rode.”
Bias and his swamper had pulled the chuck wagon and hoodlum wagon up close to the long adobe building and were carrying the groceries inside. At least Blas would get to cook indoors for a few days, though Hewey doubted it made much difference to him. The old vaquero enjoyed being outside except when the weather was bad. During his long years, he had probably slept more nights under the sky than under a roof. Even so, it would do his bones good not to have to be out in the rain or the chill night wind.
A couple of strangers approached from the main house. One had the look of an old cowboy. The other bore all the earmarks of a money changer. Jenkins introduced the cowboy first, probably feeling more in common with him than with the other man. “Hewey Calloway, this is Oscar Levitt. He’s Mrs. Wilson’s brother, here to see after her interests while we count the cattle. Mr. Petrie here, he’s her lawyer. Says he don’t know straight up about a cow, but he knows inside and out about transfers and deeds. He’s here to keep me and Mr. Levitt honest.”
“Pleased to meet you fellers,” Hewey said, shaking hands with each in turn. Levitt’s hands were rough as old cowhide, but his eyes were direct and honest. Petrie’s hands were slick as kidskin, and his gaze barely touched Hewey’s face before he turned his attention elsewhere. Hewey wondered why Jenkins even bothered to introduce Levitt and Petrie to him, for he was just a working hand here. He supposed the old man was hoping to butter him up and make him reconsider the foreman’s job. Hewey thought he would enjoy staying on this place awhile, but he didn’t want the weight of being a boss to interfere with his sleep.
Bige said, “Mr. Levitt’s got a ranch of his own in the Guadalupes. He brought some of his crew to help with roundin’ up and countin’ the cows.”
Hewey felt a pleasant glow at the thought of a roundup in this valley. It was the kind of work he had always liked best, for most of it was done a-horseback. He could see Jenkins’s touring car parked in the shade of a big cottonwood near the main house. Peeler lay on his back, his feet extending out from beneath the running board. It seemed he was forever having to fix something on that contraption. Pity, Hewey thought, that a good horseman should waste his time messing around with an automobile. What if he was getting an extra twenty dollars a month? There had to be something wrong with an able-bodied man who would willingly pass up a riding job.
Because most of the ranch was unfenced, the roundup was conducted in the old-fashioned style of the open range. The cowboys rode a daily circle several miles in diameter and picked up all the cattle they came across. Each drive overlapped the previous day’s to catch unworked stock that might have drifted into the cleaned area.
If Augie Wilson had disliked barbed wire, he had had no prejudice against building corrals at strategic intervals to facilitate working his cattle without having to push them the long miles to headquarters. The size and location of each drive was calculated to bring herds to one of these sets of corrals.
A day’s gather might run from a hundred to three hundred cows, given the animals’ natural instinct to graze in clusters rather than disperse evenly over the entire range. As the riders pushed their individual gathers into a larger herd, a cloud of dust hovered over it, twisting and turning in constantly changing patterns like the drifting cumulus clouds overhead. Cows and calves separated in the
move set up a din of anxious bawling as each mother sought reunion with her offspring and each calf frantically searched for the proper udder to relieve its hunger. Calves that could not find their own mothers might try to steal milk from another cow and, more often than not, were kicked or hooked away in a hostile manner. Maternal instincts had their limits.
Congregating cattle in bunches almost always resulted in headbutting, horn-gouging contests between bulls routed from their own individual domains and thrown together into open competition for whatever females might currently be in heat. These fights could be long and savage, for Longhorn bulls were aggressive, ready for war against any male they considered a challenge to their dominance. Hewey had long observed that one major problem in trying to upgrade a herd by the introduction of more productive beef blood was that Hereford or Durham bulls were a poor match for the Longhorns in combat. Any Longhorns allowed to remain in the herd would claim most of the females and fight the other bulls away.
The Longhorns did not bluff. They went into a fight ready and willing to kill any opponent that did not turn tail and run.
Hewey had always found it interesting to watch these jarring contests of will, trying to guess which bull would come out victorious. Usually, but not always, it was the largest and oldest, the most experienced, though there came a point in life when the older bull’s strength and reflexes began to fail, and it was forced to yield to the younger and more vigorous. Whipped down, the older bull would eventually have to break free and run lest the younger one pierce its vitals with a sharp horn. These whipped males usually found a place at the edge of the herd, away from the others, and continued muttering empty threats to vent their frustration.
Skip Harkness took particular enjoyment in watching these bawling, bellowing battles, taking sides with one or the other of the combatants.
“Hey, Hewey, bet you a dollar Old Spot yonder makes that black one run like a scalded cat.”
“You better give them bulls some room. They’d knock over a locomotive if it got in their way while they’re fightin’.”
The most dangerous place to be was in the path of the loser when he decided to quit the battle, for usually he was in a blind panic to escape an opponent’s horns. Hewey had seen them knock down full-grown cows and trample calves to death in their haste.
The daily procedure was for both Bige Saunders and Oscar Levitt to count the cattle, Bige representing the buyer and Levitt watching out for his sister’s interests. Because both were experienced cattlemen, their counts never differed by more than one or two head. Only cows and bulls were tallied; the calves were thrown in with the deal. Once the day’s count was finished and any differences reconciled, the cattle would be driven through a narrow chute where Hewey would use a pocketknife to bob off the long hair at the ends of their tails so they would not be counted a second time if they got caught up in another gather. As the last of the day’s cows trailed out of the chute, the ground was littered with short tufts of hair, easily lifted by any breeze that swept through. The square-ended tails looked awkward, but the hair would grow out again after a while.
It came as no surprise that Jenkins ordered the Longhorn bulls to be separated from the herd and driven into a holding trap. When the counting was done, he would ship them to a Fort Worth packinghouse and replace them with whiteface bulls.
Driving them to the trap was like a foretaste of glory for Skip Harkness because every mile was punctuated by fights as the animals struggled to establish an order of dominance. The strongest might have to combat half a dozen before he proved himself the cock of the walk. Then, bloody but triumphant, he would assume his place at the head of the line. The others would fall in behind him, more
or less in the order of the ranking they had won or lost in battle.
People who preached disparagingly about the violence of man in comparison to the tranquility of the animal kingdom had never watched cattle sort out the intricacies of their social structure.
When the fighting died down and the trip became dull, Skip contrived to throw together a couple of bulls that had already demonstrated their combative natures but had not yet fought each other. More often than not he was able to stir up a rousing fight.
Halfway through the roundup, Skip precipitated one of these contests as a small herd of bulls neared the ranch headquarters and the gate to the holding trap.
“Hewey,” the farm boy said, “you pick your bull. I’ll bet you a dollar on the other one.”
Hewey declined. “Better save your money.”
Skip turned to Tommy. “How about you?”
“I ain’t got a dollar to spare. Bet you a quarter, though.”
Hewey thought about reminding Tommy that his mother regarded gambling as the devil’s snare, but there were some lessons a boy had to learn for himself. One of the young vaqueros declared, “I bet you too, Skip.” Tommy and the vaquero went into whispering consultation and chose a red bull with white spots that had whipped every challenger so far.
Skip said, “My money’s on the lineback. Help me throw the two of them together, Tommy.”
Hewey warned, “Tommy, give them bulls plenty of room. They can hurt you.”
Tommy heeded Hewey’s advice, but Skip rode in among the bulls and pushed the red one up to the lead position, where the lineback, drooling, lumbered along in an ill humor, angry noises rumbling from its throat. It did not take long for the lineback to take umbrage and ram a horn against the interloper’s ribs. The red bull bellowed in anger, pawed dirt and rushed the lineback. The two
butted heads with a thud like a clap of thunder, then scrambled for footing while their horns locked together. One pushed as the other gave way, then stumbled and went off balance, giving ground while its opponent pushed. The rest of the bulls seemed to ignore the pair except in yielding them space.
Hewey said, “Skip, this is a fool’s game. If one of them gets crippled or killed and Mr. Jenkins finds out you set up the fight …”
Skip said, “They’d fight anyway. They didn’t need me to get them started.”
The fight began going against the lineback. The pleasure in Skip’s face gave way to disappointment. He moved in closer and shouted encouragement to his champion. “Get in there! You can whip him!”
Hewey yelled, “Skip, get the hell out of the way!”
The warning was too late. The lineback abruptly wheeled and broke into a dead run to escape the red bull, blind to anything in its path. And in its path was Skip Harkness.
Struck before it could react, Skip’s bay bronc was bowled over by the bull’s strength and weight. Skip had time only for a grunt of surprise before the lowered head slammed into him, driving a horn deep into his stomach. The lineback flung the youngster aside as if he were a rag doll.
Hewey could only murmur, “My God!”
Tommy shouted, “Skip! Look out!” But the damage was already done. The red bull trampled Skip as it raced in close pursuit of its opponent. Skip lay on his back, trembling in shock. His shirt reddened around a large hole ripped through its front.
Hewey leaped from the saddle and hit the ground running, Tommy close behind.
Tommy cried, “Skip, are you all right?”
It was obvious he was not. Hewey brushed Tommy aside and ripped the shirt open, popping buttons. A hole in Skip’s belly bubbled
blood. Hewey’s stomach turned over in fleeting nausea. Tommy turned away, trying not to gag.
The bay bronc rose unsteadily to its feet and staggered off, shaking itself like a dog coming out of water. It did not seem injured. Hewey saw no blood except Skip’s.
In Spanish, Aparicio upbraided the vaquero who had participated in the bet. Hewey said, “That won’t do any good now. Lope to the house and bring a wagon. Better still, send Mr. Jenkins’s car if that driver is around.”
Aparicio looked down at Skip, confirming all his fears, and spurred off in a long lope. Hewey pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. It was not clean, but this was no time to worry about niceties. He wadded it and shoved it partway into the wound, hoping to stanch the flow of blood. He wished he had a handful of flour from Blas’s kitchen.
Tears trailed down Tommy’s paled cheeks. “We’ve got to do somethin’.”
“Ain’t much we can do here except try to keep him from bleedin’ to death.” Hewey pressed down upon the handkerchief. He did not like Skip’s ashen look or the way he trembled.
Tommy insisted, “Is he goin’ to die?”
Hewey feared he was, but he did not want to betray that feeling to his nephew. Best to keep him hoping so long as there was any hope. There would be time enough later for grief. “Tommy, I wisht you and the boys would go on and put these bulls in the trap before they scatter. I’ll stay here ’til Aparicio gets back.”
Tommy’s voice broke. “I oughtn’t’ve bet with him. If he dies, it’s my fault.”
“You’re not doin’ him any good standin’ here cryin’. There’s a job to get done. And I don’t want to hear any more about whose fault it is.”
Reluctantly Tommy mounted. The Mexican hands who had gathered
around Skip backed away and joined him after two made the sign of the cross. Hewey heard them discussing Skip’s poor chances and was glad Tommy understood little Spanish.
Skip groaned. Hewey gently squeezed his shoulder. “You just hang and rattle, kid. Help’ll be comin’.”
Under his breath, he whispered a prayer for mercy on a foolish boy.
Pity and anger clashed, the anger because Skip had recklessly put himself into this predicament. It bothered Hewey’s conscience that such a feeling should come upon him at a moment like this, but damn it, he had tried to teach the boys better, Skip and Tommy both. Part of the anger was at himself for not being a better teacher. Skip should not have been his responsibility, but somehow he was. Just by being around and being older, Hewey had owed him guidance that would have avoided a wreck like this.
He would acknowledge that his own life had been reckless. Too many times he had yielded to the urges of the moment without regard for what might follow. Too often he had followed impulse rather than reason, bringing grief to himself and to others around him. He could not really blame this youngster all that much. To some extent, recklessness was a trait common in the cowboy trade. It took a reckless man to get on a bronc that had every intention of throwing him off and stomping him into the ground. It took a reckless an to put a loop around a pair of sharp horns that with the least turn of bad luck could end up goring him.
He gripped Skip’s hand and felt his eyes burn. “You’re a good boy. Don’t you be turnin’ your horses back to the outfit.”
Skip’s hand went limp.
Hewey heard an engine. The Jenkins touring car raced across the valley toward him, bouncing over ruts and clumps of bunchgrass. It braked to a stop in a swirl of dust. Leaving the motor running, Peeler jumped from behind the steering wheel. Old Man Jenkins
was slower getting out, but he moved with more alacrity than Hewey would have expected for a large man of his years.
Jenkins said, “We’ll take him to town in the car. It’s a lot faster than a wagon.”
Skip’s features were relaxed, the pain gone. Hewey covered the cowboy’s face with his hat.
He had to try twice before he could bring himself to speak. “There’s no use bein’ in a hurry now. The kid is gone.”