The Ranch on the Beaver

by Andy Adams

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Frontier Days

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'There's your horses,' said Joel to Sargent, a few days later, as the addition entered the corrals on the Arickaree. 'You asked for them, and there they are. Now, kick.'

'They're not all wintered ones,' observed the foreman at a glance. 'About half and half. How does that come?'

The boy dismounted and gave the reasons. 'We had to make a bluff and buy twenty-five through ones,' he concluded.

'We?' queried Sargent, his eye surveying the two strange lads.

'Don't give me any credit. I had Uncle Dudley with me. All credit is due him for not running our bank account into red ink. Mr. Stoddard's a safe man to travel with.'

'But these unacclimated horses, what are you going to do with them?' tensely inquired the foreman.

'One moment: We had to plot against the whites. You must admit that Uncle Dud is a cowman. He claims, for night-herding a through horse will stand a two hours' guard, night after night, for months on the trail. It's his suggestion that we use these unacclimated horses for night work. I'm going to take twelve head of them down to the Beaver, and bring both your full mount and mine up here. That's what I call mounting an outfit. That will give you a remuda of fifty extra wintered horses. Now, bless your heart, kick!'

'I have no kick coming,' said Sargent, bowing. 'That ties my hands. Give me my old mount and I'll work for nothing, live on land terrapin, and drink creek water. Are you going out with us?'

'Uncle Dudley promised me Manly, and he'll have charge of the Beaver outfit. Yes, I'm going out with you.'

'Good medicine. Come on, boys; let's put a rope on each of these new horses, thin out their tails and trim up their hoofs.'

Late that evening a courier reached the ranch with welcome news. Culbertson, at the forks of the Republican, had announced a celebration for the last three days of July.'

'It's a tournament, a regular hog-killing time,' said the messenger. 'Lashings to eat, barbecued beef 'til school's out, and big doin's every night. Here's one of the bills.'

The foreman took the poster, read it carefully, and passed it on to Joel.

'You're from Addison's ranch, aren't you?' inquired Sargent. The lad nodded. 'Your outfit going?' queried the foreman.

'We aim to enter a man in every contest. Of course, if those Texans come down from Ogalalla--well, they're good horsemen and throw a wicked rope. Still we'll give them a run for their white alley.'

'Ever hear of the Bar Y ranch on the Beaver?'

'No, but our ranch covered that range on the round-up last month. Quite a holding of cattle, so our boys said.'

'And some dick-nailing good horses. If I were back on that ranch. I'd try you Addison fellows once, just to feel you out and see how you ride and rope.'

'That's why Uncle Tim sent you the handbill; wants to get acquainted. He wants you to come down and bring your knittin'.'

'Thanks,' said Sargent, assuming the duties of host. 'You'll stay with us to-night. This is our cook. Speak to him and he'll look after your wants. Awful glad you dropped in. We're strangers on the Arickaree.'

The cook beckoned the guest to follow him, and the others pored over the notice of the coming barbecue. 'Read it, Mac,' urged one of the men.

'Good prizes,' admitted McWilliams. 'They offer a hundred-and-fifty dollar Cheyenne saddle to the best rider of bucking horses; the same to the man who ropes and ties a steer the quickest. And a San José saddle, of the same value, to the winner in a ten-mile relay race, using ten or more horses. Here's a new one: "One hundred dollars, in cash, to any one who rides the pet bull, with or without a saddle." "Pioneer fiddlers' contest every night, &c., &c."

'Mac, did you ever see a San Joée saddle?' inquired Joel.

'Owned one once. Made in California. Use a natural fork. It's mostly in the tree. Fancy leather work, too. Among Western saddles, the San José is a king-pin.'

'Say, fellows,' mused the foreman, 'that San José saddle would look well hanging on the gallery of this ranch house. Suppose we ask the old man for a week off, and drop down to Culbertson. What do you say, old son?'

'There's a cow outfit down on the Beaver that may have the same idea,' replied Joel; 'that this prize saddle would look well in their dug-out. Besides, they have the best horses.'

There was a challenge in the boy's remark. Sargent languidly looked about at his men. 'Hear that, boys?' he inquired. Turning to young Wells, he continued: 'I have your promise of my old mount on the Beaver and your string extra to fill out the Arickaree remuda. So far, so good. Deliver me those extra horses next week at Culbertson, and my gauntlet's on the ground, defying your other outfit to dust up and trot out its best men.'

'I think your bluff's called,' said the boy. 'Have you the time to spare?'

'Easily. It's a meaty idea to take the remuda and outfit out and swing around the circle, touch at Culbertson, and bring home the prizes, including any loose cash. Is it a go?'

'It's a go. Bear in mind. I'm neutral. I would like to ride one of those new saddles, just once, on a Bar Y horse just the same as on an Arickaree one. Understand, I'm not particular which outfit wins. Just call it a week's holiday, and ride purty.'

There was planning done that night. 'So you Addison men are going to put on the big pot at the tournament, are you?' questioned the foreman of the guest. 'I may swing around that way and enter a few men myself.'

'Come on, the more the merrier. No one seems to know this new Arickaree outfit. Still you may be there with both feet. The ones we fear most are those from Ogalalla, the two Plattes, and from Frenchman's Fork of the Republican. Those boys up on the Middle Fork, when they feel well, can rope a little and ride a little. Some are Texans, and they sure throw a big loop. Fiddlers among them, too.'

'I hear the voice of my own people,' sighed Sargent. 'From the very head of Frenchman's Fork, where all the wild and woolly ones come from. Still, I've heard it thunder all day and never rain a drop. Don't tell me any more about them or I'll be scared witless. Barbecue and tournament, eh? Let me dream of my misspent youth.'

The next morning Joel started for the Beaver, down the Arickaree, accompanied by the courier, and taking one of the new men and twelve horses. Owing to the severity of the previous winter, shipping would hardly begin before August; but there were men to secure for the coming beef harvest.

At noon on the third day, homing leisurely, men and horses reached the Beaver.

'We're going to Culbertson next week,' announced Dell, as if to forestall any orders to the contrary. 'Taking the wagon and remuda; big tournament on. I'm going to ride in the relay race.'

'Why not ride the pet bull?' suggested Joel.

'You know about it, then. Hear about the prizes?'

'Sargent's outfit expects to bring home that San José saddle. When it comes to mounting and dismounting, he has a horse wrangler who will make you sit up and take notice.'

'He lacks the horses.' The remark was authoritative, judicial.

An explanation was due; the Arickaree remuda was to be strengthened. 'The mounts of both Jack Sargent and myself are detailed to go to the upper ranch, delivered in advance of the Culbertson meet. That loses you fifteen horses. Sargent will have the best remuda in Colorado. And he's entitled to it.'

'Do I ride or walk during the beef-shipping season?' inquired Manly, who had arrived only the day before.

'You have your old string of horses, and here are a dozen picked ones for night-herding. I knew you'd kick. Kick freely, Joe. I expected you to cloud up and thunder.'

'If you allowed that varmint, Jack Sargent--'

'Jack says this Beaver outfit is going to have nothing to do, except to drift beeves down to the railroad. He's going out on the beef round-up; away down the Arkansaw below Dodge. I'm sorry, but Sargent don't speak very well of you. He says you don't deserve a good mount of horses. Says you'll ride any make of saddle; ride a cotton mule, and think you were mounted. But kick your head off. It's music to my ear.'

'We're not going to use either of those strings in the relay race,' whispered Dell to Manly. 'Let the Arickaree have them. Just a lot of fat dubs; horses that were never rode out of a walk. These new mounts are cracker-jacks. We're fixed for the beef season.'

Joel's sanction of the week off tempered all strife. His return was unexpected, while his approval was an open question. He also proclaimed his neutrality between the ranches.

'Jack Sargent threw his glove in the ring,' said he, 'and I took it up in your behalf. Now, it's up to you. There is no advantage in the horses. If any exists, it's in the men. This ought to be the best outfit. All I ask from either ranch is a flea-bit horse to potter around with. So look to your laurels.'

A programme was adopted. Bob Downs would ride, while Reel Hamlet was selected to rope. Dell Wells was the lightest one, by twenty pounds, which was a decided advantage in a relay race. Since the first word reached the Beaver, Dell had been practicing mounting and dismounting, morning and evening, from a running bareback horse, and making the changes with wonderful rapidity.

'Where will they get the outlaw horses?' insisted Bob Downs. 'I never heard of one in Texas.'

Manly shook his head. 'Neither did I,' said he. 'We never raised one on the Pease River that we didn't break into a useful cow-horse on the Stoddard Ranch. A new lesson every day, it seems.'

'In this upper country,' volunteered Quinlin, 'there's lots of outlaws. They're horses that were half-broken once, and then abandoned. When a rope drops on them they snort like a deer. Nothing to them but bluff. Bob, you can ride one, if you can outwind him.'

'I'm not the lad that never was thrown,' modestly said Downs. 'In fact, no relation to him. Still, ah's honin' fo' Culbe'tson, an' that noo thaddle.'

'You'll get it -- I don't think,' dissentingly said Manly.

The action of every horse on the Beaver was known. Dell had decided on a mount of fifteen horses, the pick of the ranch. Every one was anxious to turn over a horse or two from his string, that the boy might be in the race. Where any question of speed was involved, a test easily decided the matter.

'Manly thinks I ought to have a few horses, good for a mile dash,' Dell explained to his brother. 'In a pinch, I could send five of them a mile. There must be time lost in changing every half-mile. The fraction of a minute saved might win the saddle.'

'Figure it all out,' urged Joel. 'You have the boys here to help you. If you fall down or bungle the race, you're no brother of mine. If you win -- well, I may want to borrow your Sunday saddle some fine day.'

An hour was set to leave for Culbertson. A boy from the settlement down the Beaver was secured to stay at headquarters.

Hamlet refused to practice. 'The first thing I ever learned was to throw a rope,' said he, in defense.

'Later I learned to swim and shoot, all equally easy. My first shot or my first cast of a rope is my best. All I care to know is the rules. Until then, I don't even know which horse I'll ride.'

The outing promised well. The wagon was taken along, well provisioned. With the exception of a few old horses, the entire remuda, bell mare, and colt accompanied the cavalcade.

The first night camp was made on the Republican. At a ranch on the latter river, it was learned that Addison's outfit had passed down the day before; the Reil and Hillerman, from above, were en route, and that a wagon from the Arickaree was coming.

'It's a new outfit,' said the woman, 'under a Texas foreman. No one seems to know them, except it's the folks who took over that busted cattle company. Lord, our boys have been gone three days. The men from Frenchman's Fork are laughing at everybody. Both my girls have gone. One of them is going to ride in a girls' race. It was pa's doing. Think of it!'

Before the Beaver outfit got under way, Sargent rode into their camp. 'I don't mean no harm,' said he, pouring a cup of coffee. 'Not looking for any argument. Not bragging on my outfit. Just out on a little tear. You're all looking well.'

'Your horses are here,' said Manly acidly.

'Keep them, please, but keep your saddles on your own. I'll call for them the morning we start home. Nice country, the Republican.'

Joel suggested that they ride on ahead and select a camp. 'Just as soon as my outfit looms up,' agreed the foreman from the Arickaree. 'I don't want my boys to mix with these Beaver varmints. My outfit is particular who it associates with. We're modest folks, even if we don't care to neighbor with you Jayhawkers.'

Once the Arickaree wagon came up, half a dozen men rode for town. Manly among them. The latter and Sargent sparred along in scathing repartee, the bone, of contention being the rearrangement of the saddle stock.

'We have the supreme court right with us,' asserted the man from Colorado. 'Have you never met Judge Joel Wells, jurisdiction over all this cow country? I appealed my case to him and he decided that I was entitled to the best remuda. If you know of any court of higher resort, take your appeal to it. You can't talk me out of a single horse.'

'Court stands adjourned until fall,' announced Joel. 'I love to hear you fellows whine. You remind me of those trail foremen, driving for Don Lovell, nagging each other. Now, for the next few days, chew each other's manes freely. You're Texans, cousins more than likely.'

Near town, both sides of the main Republican were occupied by camps. Saddle horses, under herd, were in sight on every hand. There was no object in camping near town, and a camp was selected fully five miles out, it being the intention of camping the wagons together.

Leaving two men to pitch camp, the others rode for town. 'We have the details,' announced Sargent, on their return. 'Our outfits registered thirty-nine and forty. All entries must be in by noon tomorrow. Here are the rules governing the contests.'

'Twelve outfits from the North and South Platte here already,' added Manly. 'The town's full of lads from the Solomon and Smoky, boys that we met on the round-up this spring. Every one's dragging his rope. Oh, it's going to be some tournament!'

'Did you see the saddles, the prizes?' demanded Dell.

'Say, old pard,' answered the Arickaree foreman, 'if my man can't win that San José saddle, I want my old bunkie, my old side-kick, to win it. It's worth riding for; an illustrated saddle with pictures on it. Honest, I wish my wrangler had your horses.'

The remudas were thrown together and put under night-herd. Neither of the outfits would compete the first day, due to late registration. This was a gain, as a pace would be set in the different contests.

Save for a lone man on day-herd, both outfits left for town. In common, they rode over the unfenced field. A rude grand-stand flanked the arena, a sandbar the center, while a half-mile track was marked only by a furrow inside and a circle of fluttering flags outside. As befitting the epoch, the appointments were new and crude.

The entry numbers were in accordance with the registration. In the relay race, the Wells ranches, save one, came last, in a total of eighteen. In riding and roping both ranches would be called the second day.

The barbecue was a success; thousands were fed. The crowd was impatient for the programme to begin, which was announced for one o'clock. In advance of the hour, the grand-stand filled, while hundreds of horsemen took the field or rode leisurely about. Every one was there, all in gala spirits.

The marshal of the day announced the opening event as the riding of the pet bull, and calling for the first rider entered. A country boy led the animal back and forth before the impatient audience, stopping occasionally to dole out a lump of sugar, which was ravenously enjoyed by a rather small red bovine.

The rider swaggered forth, accompanied by a friend. The boy handed the halter to the first man up, and began scratching toro around the ears, until he closed his eyes in serene contentment. The rider lifted himself cautiously to a seat, and the boy ran. There was an awakening, an indistinct blur, and the rider was whipped off. The boy ran to the bull and gave him an apple.

'I claim another trial,' sputtered the defeated entry.

'You were thrown,' announced the marshal, who laughed until he shook like a fat woman. The audience howled with delight.

The next rider was from the North Platte. The rules permitted a saddle. One was adjusted. 'Bud, blindfold him a moment until I catch the stirrup,' requested the second man.

The boy obliged. The blur following looked like an immense top in a whirlwind. The rider landed safely in the sand. Toro merited and received a second apple.

'Give that rider another chance,' some one shouted.

'No, thanks,' good-naturedly answered the boy from the Platte, uncinching his saddle. 'I'm no hog. I know when I have enough.'

The marshal called an even half-dozen names, without a man answering. The red bovine had bluffed the field remaining for that afternoon, and was led away.

A race for cowmen, fifty years of age or over, followed. A field of five got away, a half-mile dash, and was won by a ranchman from the Solomon River, due to his superior horse. A Stetson hat was the prize.

Roping and riding followed alternately. The arena teemed with action. A corral had been built to hold the cattle, which were freed singly through a chute. An animal was given a sixty-foot start. The roper must await the word of a judge to release his horse, and then ride to his task. There were ample mounted men to hedge the outer flank and stage the cast and tie in plain view on the chosen sand-bar. Any animal that escaped, or when freed, was absorbed into a herd at hand.

The first outlaw horse threw his man. The first roper's cast fell short, a faulty estimate of distance. The second caught a horn and the rope slipped. The second horse proved a false alarm, unworthy of entry. The third outlaw made up for every disappointment. All the old tricks came into play, and at the end of the struggle, both man and horse were bleeding at the nose. It was the best exhibition of the day. Seven contestants in all; forty-five seconds was the best time in roping and tying a steer. Current clatter said it would be lowered.

The relay race, with six entries, closed the day.

Two of the contestants lost their chance by horses bolting the course. The sun was setting when the last race ended. The fastest time was made by the Addison entry, a fraction under thirty minutes.

Around the camps that night speculation was rife for the morrow. The ranches of the brothers would appear in the arena.

'Suppose a rider draws a worthless mount,' protested Bob Downs, 'what show has he? Two short horses showed up to-day.'

'That's hard luck,' answered Sargent; 'that's all. They ride them as they come.'

With the exception of a herder and the two who were to rope, all were off early for town. The pick of two hundred horses was left to the men who were chosen to do the roping, and who reported in good time, leading their choice of mounts.

The clatter of the morning hours was typical of the occasion. 'If that old man from Frenchman's Fork had played "Hogs in the Corn,'' he'd 'a' walked off with first prize. But he plays "The Lost Indian," and there's a dozen men here who can play circles around him on that tune, can give him cards and spades in making a fiddle talk. Honest, who told him he could play?'

'That shows what little you know about good fiddlin'. Tobe, where were you raised?'

'Who owns the little bull?' some one repeated. 'Why, he belongs to a settler down on the main Republican,' some one replied. 'The children rode him when he was a yearling, back and forth, to the grazing. The next summer he throwed them all. Now, no one can ride him. Talk about your action! Boys, that hundred dollars will not be called for. Not at this tournament. Say, I would love to own that red rascal.'

As on the day before, riding the pet bovine was the first number. The audience was restless; it mellowed the crowd to see a rider thrown. The marshal called the entries in order. Hisses and cat-calls greeted the name of every man who failed to respond.

The fifth man summoned stepped forth. 'Could he use a circingle?' he inquired.

'If it will help any, use two,' answered a judge. 'We want some lad to ride this red calf.'

The same boy, wearing a new hat and pockets bulging with goodies, humored his pet. The latter nosed his master, impatient for the reward, which he evidently scented.

A rope was fastened loosely around the animal's body. A din of greetings followed. 'Ride him, Tom!' and, 'Say, Tom, I aim to write your pa Sunday. Shall I tell him you rode the red steer? Any word you want sent your folks?'

Result, the same. The rider was thrown as a boy would snap water off his fingers. Strangers slapped each other on the back. Toro munched sweetmeats, careless of fame. Three others tried and failed.

The next card called for a girls' race. The starter's flag was met by seven entries. It was the best race staged during the tourney. It was won by a nose; a blanket would have covered the heads of both horses. There was intense rivalry; every girl had hundreds of friends. The prize, a violin, fell to a little girl from the Smoky River.

In the riding, both the Beaver and Arickaree men drew blanks, spoiled horses. One ran backward, reared, and fell. The other sullenly crow-hopped a rod or two, and threw himself.

The roping was different. The pick of the ranches was under saddle. Hamlet made a perfect cast, threw his steer, tied him with a short rope, and lifted his hat to the judges. The animal had struggled in tying, and a few seconds were lost. Time announced, a fraction over thirty-two seconds. No loss of action. Snappy work.

Hughie St. John roped for Sargent's outfit. He had a better horse, foaled on the Arickaree, caught his steer on the margin of the sand-bar, a full rod nearer than Hamlet, his mount lent a perfect assistance, and a tie was made and a hat doffed. A hundred watches covered the incident. The judges consulted only a moment and announced the time: Twenty-seven seconds, flat!

The grand-stand arose, man, woman, and child. A thousand hats were waved in the air. If one before had ever been established on the Republican, that record was now lowered. No one doubted it. It was perfect teamwork of man and horse.

Nothing now remained except the relay race on the last day. The roping record of St. John would stand, unless a better man on a better horse lowered it. The mark was high. Eight other entries were entitled to a trial.

Between the rival outfits of the brothers, camped together, interest became intense. The foremen sparred continually. Sargent, with one saddle as good as won, was riding a high horse, a feather in his hat.

'If my outfit really needed another saddle,' said he to Manly, 'I'd drift back to that tournament and bring home that San José leather. But what's the use? We're from the Arickaree, and just want to be neighborly. We just came down to get a meat-rind to grease the griddle, anyhow. Wasn't looking for much.'

'Really, what does he want?' inquired Manly, of Dell.

'He wants to pick five of my relay horses. Wants to brace up his string. He asks too much, even of a friend.'

The last day of the tourney was nearing its end. It had been an afternoon of thrills. Between the munching of apples and candy, the once pet of a settler's children rolled man after man, full five in number, on the sand. The riding was splendid, though no one even approached the roping of the previous day.

The relay race would end the meet. It was necessary to begin it before the other contests were over in the main arena. The first man called was ruled off; he represented no known ranch, and nearly all his horses were unbranded. This was frontier sport, and hence clean. The race was typical of the pony express. It would be so kept. The second and third entries were contested with spirit. The fifth horse in Sargent's entry ruined the chance by bolting into the field, fouled on a rope, between a thrown steer and the pommel of a saddle, was thrown, scrambled to his feet, and ran away. The rider was unhurt.

Hope now centered in Dell Wells. Both outfits rallied to his support. The two foremen were brothers again. Joel even held a watch on the race.

The boy wore moccasins and rode hatless, his red hair glistening in the sun. The horses were stripped to the bridle. Dell led off with a mile dash. He transferred to a relay horse, and changed again at the half-mile. The watch showed no loss of time in relaying. The change from horse to horse was made with perfect rapidity. A firm clutch in a mount's mane, a running start, and they were off.

'Give us the time,' insisted Sargent, at the end of the fifth mile.

'Fourteen minutes, flat,' came the answer.

'Bring on a mile horse,' ordered the Arickaree foreman. 'Save the boy's wind. Tell the management to sack that San José saddle. We expect to take it to camp to-night. Hear the bells ring! Where's Tim Addison?'

'Right here. Jack. Where did you find the red-haired jockey?'

'He's a cowhand; these are cow-horses!'

A horse, good for a mile, shot away. Addison's entry was the nearest. The race was narrowing to an end, with time to spare. The pace was again called at the end of the eighth mile. The margin was safe, barring accident.

'Ride right through, old son,' whispered Sargent to Dell. 'I can see you right now looking at your shadow in that new saddle. Ride purty, and it's yours.'

The ninth lap was made on a mile horse. The two best half-mile horses were saved for the finish. When the relay was made on the last half-mile, the crowd came to its feet, cheering lustily. Pandemonium reigned, as a horse shot away on the last lap. Opposite the grand-stand, the final score, horsemen ranked up ten deep. Each watch on the race realized the record of the tournament would be lowered. Time was on the safe side.

It was lowered. The judges announced the time as twenty-eight minutes and ten seconds!

Tim Addison fairly hugged Dell Wells. 'It's the horses!' he shouted. 'The Wells ranches have the horses!'

Only one more entry remained. Twenty minutes were used in the first five miles, when the owner of the horses conceded the race.

The first tourney on the Republican River was a marked success. It was an outpouring of a primitive day, a reflex of pastoral life, typical of a frontier epoch. The last number on the programme was a triumphant march of the winners. A boy, leading a red bull, trimmed with black ribbons, led the procession. A lad from the North Platte, a young Texan, had deservingly won the riding contest. Hughie St. John, from the Arickaree, in Colorado, and Dell Wells, both wreathed in smiles, rode together. The minor contestants formed a happy group. Save for the night festivities, the tournament had ended.