The Ranch on the Beaver

by Andy Adams

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Guests

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'Want passes to Texas?' repeated Major Hunt, greeting the brothers on their arrival at his office.

Joel's answer was evasive. 'We expect to knock around a month or two among the ranches,' he admitted.

'The outlook is promising,' continued the Major. 'Are you sure that this trip is purely social? Nothing else in view?'

'Nothing yet,' replied the boy. 'Why?'

The old factor paced the room. 'Well,' said he finally, 'there's a noticeable turn for the better, a brighter outlook in cattle. Straws tell which way the wind blows, and your sale sheets for last summer show better values than for the previous year. In the boom of '84, cattle values reached their maximum. Since then it has been an ebb tide. You must keep your weather eye open and trim your sail to meet these tides. Flood is setting in; now is the time to buy ranches and cattle. You must admit that the trail is a thing of the past. Nearly every Western State has quarantined against Texas cattle. You must restock your ranges. Where are you going to get your young stuff?'

'We'll have to buy them in Texas and ship them through,' admitted Joel defensively.

'Now you're my witness, proving my point,' declared Major Hunt. 'Why not breed your own, in a country adapted to breeding?'

'We branded over eleven hundred calves last fall,' somewhat boastfully said Dell.

'Of course,' testily admitted the old factor. 'Your calf crop ran about sixty per cent of your mother cows. Why not breed in a country where the percentage of increase runs ninety per cent to your holding of she cattle? Why don't you breed your own?'

Like childish fears, caution arose in Joel Wells. He and the old factor discussed the points at issue. The latter urged the importance of timeliness in action; that time and tide waited for no man; that the experience of the past was the only guide to the future. The elderly man insisted that this was a day for action; that the old order was changing; that the cowman of the future must look ahead; that economy and system must have a place, coupled with a constant vigilance, to wrest success from the calling of the ranchman.

The brothers left by the first train. The trip southward was marked by changing scenes almost panoramic in their nature. Night fell and dawn came like the fall and rise of a stage curtain, revealing the prairies of Texas, vast, boundless to the eye, and dotted with the eternal cattle. Color and atmosphere had changed between darkness and sunrise. The people were marked in stature, in simplicity, in speech, a reflex of the open, having absorbed into their fiber not only the serenity of pastoral life, but the vitality to withstand its storms.

The Lovell Ranch had been advised of their coming, and Forrest met the train at San Antonio. The reunion of the three was simple but manly. Not a silly word was spoken. A handclasp, an arm thrown lovingly over each boy's shoulder, a deep, searching look, eye to eye, and a breach of nearly three years was bridged.

'Mr. Quince, you're getting gray,' said Dell, finding his voice with difficulty.

'I've been worrying about you,' answered Forrest. 'Every time a storm struck us, I knew there was a blizzard on the Beaver.'

'Last winter was a terror,' Joel managed to interject. 'Some of our cattle drifted over a hundred and fifty miles.'

'Let's cut out cattle talk,' said the host, leading off, arm-in-arm, with the boys. 'It'll take a solid week, working until midnight, talking over little things, to take the wire edge off this visit. Besides, I have a big hunt all planned out for you boys.'

'There, I knew we'd forget something,' said the older one. 'We only brought our saddles along. Sargent might have told us that we'd need guns.'

'Don't fret your cattle,' admonished Forrest. 'This hunt calls for more than squirrel and antelope firearms. Nothing short of an old Sharp rifle, throwing five hundred grains of lead, or a fifty caliber repeater has any show in this hunt. Don't worry; we have an arsenal of guns at the ranch.'

The boys looked from one to the other. 'What--? What--?'

'We're going to hunt down a band of outlaw cattle,' said the host, anticipating the question. 'Old beeves, ten or twelve years of age, with a following of young fool steers. It's going to take good shots to drop the beeves and ropers to tie down the fool stuff.'

'That takes your measure,' said Joel to Dell.

'Let me see the ground first,' said the latter to his host.

'That would spoil the hunt. An old Mexican has been studying the lay of the land all winter, is out on scout now, and will report within a day or so. He will plan the hunt, to the last detail, and the rest of us will ask for a rope or a gun and fall in line. Think it out and choose your part.'

The Lovell Ranch was reached before evening. Paul Priest, one of the sponsors of the boys in their first struggles, had met them at the station, and the cup of welcome was filled to overflowing. Mr. Lovell was drawn into the bond of fellowship, showed a marked interest in the brothers, and freely joined the others in entertaining the guests of the ranch.

Tiburcio, the Mexican scout, reported promptly. He had studied, from every angle, the lair of the wild cattle. Their haven and fortress was a chaparral thicket, oval in form and fully forty acres in extent, impassable to horsemen or to other means of approach. The outlaws were thus entrenched, and advantage must be taken of their daily necessity of faring forth for food and drink. Cautious as predatory animals, the lair was left during the early nighttime, and their return, at or before dawn or prior to sunrise, was the nightly custom.

Outlaw cattle are worthless. Had it not been for their evil influence on young steers, their reversion to the wild would have been no serious offense. But when they lured innocent ones, animals capable of being matured into marketable beeves, the ranchman resented it and extermination followed.

According to the old vaquero's report, the outcasts numbered ten head, three of whom were old, heavy beeves, designated by Spanish colors, while the remainder were mostly ones and twos, at least young enough to be worth saving. The scout had trailed the cattle to their watering-place, several miles distant, had anticipated their return to the haven at dawn, counted, classified them, and reported every detail to his master, Mr. Lovell. The latter merely authorized his trusty men to blot out the old and save the young. Hence the event had been held in reserve until the expected visit of Joel and Dell Wells.

Nothing now remained except to thrash over the details until they were agreed upon and accepted to the letter. Tiburcio's blood was Aztec, a thorough scout, and his plans seemed feasible. Only the morning before, at daybreak, a full mile to the windward, he had watched the outlaws return to their lair. The exit and entrance to the haven, a beaten path, located during the light of day, was not even approached until midnight, and then only on horseback. The rifle range was even selected, equally distant on either side of the trail, depending on the wind, by breaking, near the entrance, twigs from mesquite bushes. The cattle might return on any angle, but were certain to converge near the entrance to the lair. The border of the thicket would also shelter the mounts of the ropers, who would ride out when the firing ceased, throw and tie the young steers, who always trailed behind.

'Where to place my guests,' said Forrest, nodding to Dell, 'is about the only detail now lacking. Which will it be, a rope or a rifle?'

'Give me that forty-five repeater,' answered Dell, eyeing an array of guns in the corner of the room, 'and I'll throw as much lead as any of you. We have one like it on the Beaver.'

'That makes you and I buddies again. We'll drop the third beef from the lead. Who wants the first shot?'

'Give Joel and myself the second one,' said Priest, knowing that the old Aztec had done his best to make the hunt a success, and was entitled to open the attack. 'That leaves the opening shot to Tiburcio and his buddy.'

With Indian stoicism, the former accepted his task. 'We'll need ten vaqueros to rope,' said he, in Spanish, to his superiors.

'Why so many?' insisted Priest.

'Two chances are better than one. Ropes are the surest,' was the reply, literally interpreted.

'Detail a man to go to the ranch of Don Juan Octavio and borrow five good ropers,' ordered Forrest. 'Have them report here at ten o'clock to-night. We'll furnish the horses. This hunt will move on the stroke of midnight.'

Forrest turned to the others. 'What else?'

'I'd like to try my gun,' insisted Dell. 'Some guns overshoot.'

'By all means, try it. Keep your lead off the ground is also important. Anything to please our guests. Was there anything further?'

'Better take a wagon along and bring home the beef -- if you kill any,' said Mr. Lovell, qualifying his suggestion.

'That's my intention,' admitted Forrest. 'We'll cool it out and bring it home the next day -- if we are good shots. What else?'

'Cartridges will corrode,' suggested Mr. Lovell, deeply interested in the success of the hunt. 'Test your ammunition. Quince, after all the planning you've done, if you don't kill those outlaw cattle, don't ever let me see your face again. Run off, if you want to, but no excuse goes with me. Make it war to the finish.'

'Hear that?' said Forrest, turning to his guests. 'That's like the boy, fishing for the sawmill. If he didn't bring home fish, his mother whipped him. Well, we'll bring home the beef or bust a hame-string trying.'

It was a busy afternoon. The best roping horses on the ranch were brought in, while five of the home vaqueros were detailed to rope and instructed in their duties. Like a veteran dealing with raw recruits, Tiburcio lectured his men to the last detail. There must be no conflict between the rifles and the horsemen; the latter must patiently stand at attention; until the riflemen grounded their arms, in success or despair, not a man must move; unless the heavy outlaws were brought to earth, nothing else mattered; while a single hoof of the outcasts was upstanding, at least two vaqueros were allotted to each beef. It was the will of the master, their good patron, and they, his chosen vaqueros, must not fail.

The detail of ropers from Octavio's ranch arrived early in the evening. With them, it was a gala occasion. Tiburcio failed to impress them with the fact that there was any danger; but finally succeeded in pairing them up with the home men. Each was furnished a saddle horse outbound, while the one chosen for roping would be led until the scene of action was reached.

An hour before midnight the ranch stood at attention. It was twelve miles to the thickety motte in a farther pasture, and the wagon, which left after dark, would await the arrival of the cavalcade at the last gate. The riflemen, confident in their arms and ammunition, took two old vaqueros along to hold, within call of the promised action, their mounts in readiness.

The cavalcade left the ranch on schedule time. Spanish was the language, Spanish were the songs, crooned to the tramp of horses. Outbound, Dell raised a hundred questions. This hunt was different from stalking antelope on the Beaver.

Forrest quieted every fear. 'Shucks, Dell, this is just like shooting fish in a rain-barrel. If your nerve is as cool as it was this afternoon -- well, I'll give you a clean kill. Simply couldn't miss the bull's-eye, could you? I may not fire a shot.'

'Suppose we wound an outlaw,' queried the boy, 'and he charges us, afoot that way, what will we do? '

'Stand up to him while you have a cartridge left, then throw your gun and take to a mesquite bush. Run your best; don't try and throw the race. A sure-enough matador would kill one of these beeves with a two-foot sword. You'll be hid behind a blind.'

'Did Tiburcio notice the color of the three big ones?'

'Two are hybrid Spanish, one blue or crane-colored, one a sunburnt brown, and the third is a pinto.'

'I hope that spotted fellow comes last. He ought to make a good target.'

'Let's not ask any favors. The chances are, if Tiburcio drops the leader, the others will turn, which will give us an easy shot. Let them come as they will. We're enlisted men, regular veterans, and subject to Tiburcio's orders.'

The thicket was reached in good time. The wagon was camped a full mile from the scene, saddles were shifted, and during the dark hour before dawn, the men took up their positions. The wind was from the north, and the rifles took up their stand fully one hundred yards south of the trail, where the latter came over the rim or swell of ground and gradually dipped down to the chaparral in which the ropers were hidden.

A twittering of birds heralded the coming dawn. Tiburcio, sheltered under the rim of the ledge, scanned the horizon in the uncertain light of morning. The delay was tense, with every moment gained in favor of the rifles. Not an animal in sight and the sun had nearly risen, when the scout tiptoed back to the impromptu blind, whispering, 'They're coming. Let them come over the rim.'

The blue outlaw led the way. On being first sighted beyond the swell, the sweep of his horns, majestic as the branches of an oak, bespoke a mature animal, yet a condemned outcast to pastoral life. The pinto followed at the leader's heels, both with lowered heads, and within a hundred yards of the entrance to their lair. The brown came over the rim, a space between, lumbering like a buffalo, apparently in no hurry to reach his haven.

The moment had come. Two rifles, fired in unison on the count of three, merely dropped the leader to his fore knees. Four more guns spoke, and the pinto fell in his tracks, but the brown beef bolted back over the rim and halted. The ropers emerged from their shelter, fairly astride the trail, and reined in. Never relenting, Tiburcio and his pal, as opportunity offered, poured in shot after shot, without effect. Disgusted, the old Aztec forsook his blind, ran into the open and signaled up the ropers. The latter dashed forward, with ropes in the air, and the blue beef was promptly caught, while the others swept over the ledge, two of whom singled out the brown beef, the others turning their attention to the younger members of the band. Meanwhile the horses of the riflemen came up with a dash, and, once in the saddle, the men afoot breathed easier.

The pace was fast and furious. Before mounting. Priest and Joel Wells threw hats and coats, discarded their rifles, unlashed their ropes, and rode to the aid of the free lances. The blue beef outmatched the horse in strength and was fighting his way to the chaparral, the assistant roper unable to heel him, when Tiburcio, from horseback, attempted a shot at the brain. Like a knife, the bullet cut the rope around the horns, and the big fellow made a dash for his lair. But the second roper was onto him in a flash, the noose settled perfectly over the horns and ends were reversed. As the beef made the circle, the first vaquero, with a new noose in the only rope he carried, dexterously caught the heels, and the crane-colored outlaw lay stretched like a dog in the sun. Tiburcio dismounted, fired a bullet into his brain and cut his throat. The vaqueros relaxed, slackened cinches, threw themselves on the ground, speechless through sheer weakness.

In the mean time, over the ridge, the fight went merrily on. In as many minutes seven young outlaws lay hog-tied.

'Let them rest an hour,' said Priest, mounting, when the last animal was securely tied. 'Let them tire out, when we'll free them and send them to another pasture. Seems like I heard shooting over in the mesquite flats. Come on, every one.'

A short gallop brought the ropers up to the last act of the morning. Loose horses, under saddle, located the scene and assured a safe approach. The sun was not even up, but the men lay sprawled on the grass, as if asleep.

'Where's your outlaw?' insisted Priest, as the horsemen reined in, to Forrest, who barely lifted his head.

'He broke every rope that we dropped onto him,' gasped Forrest. 'One of Octavio's vaqueros had to cut his rope to save his horse. Mr. Brown's lying in that little motte of mesquite, right there, quite dead. An accidental shot did the work. Dell nor I couldn't hit a flock of red barns. Some one dismount and take the boy's pulse. There he lays.'

'Don't worry about me,' sighed Dell, sitting erect. 'I'm not the only one that had buck ague. It was my shot that dropped him.'

'Possibly,' admitted Forrest, rising. 'Anyhow, the brown beef didn't die of fright or old age. Outlaw cattle, it seems, are not raised on sour milk. They carry lead like a grizzly bear.'