Cow-Country by B. M. Bower (ink book reader TXT) 📕

the gun's so I can shoot. And a feller don't shoot up in the air—and if an Injun is hunting trouble he oughta expect that maybe he might get shot sometime. You—you wouldn't want me to just run and let them catch me, would you?”

Mother's hand slipped up to his head and pressed it against her breast so that Buddy heard her heart beating steady and sweet and true. Mother wasn't afraid—never, never!

“I know—it's the dreadful necessity of defending our lives. But you're so young—just mother's baby man!”

Buddy looked up at her then, a laugh twinkling in his eyes. After all, mother understood.

“I'm going to be your baby man always if you want me to, mother,” He whispered, closing his arms around her neck in a sturdy hug. “But I'm father's horse-wrangler, too. And a horse-wrangler has got to hold up his end. I—I didn't want to kill anybody, honest. But Injuns are different. You kill rattlers, and they ain't as mean as Injuns. That one I shot at was shooting at me before I even so much as knew there was one around. I just shot back. Father would, or anybody else.”

“I know—I know,” she conceded, the tender womanliness of her sighing over the need. In the next moment she was all mother, ready to fight for her young. “Buddy, never, never ride ANYWHERE without your rifle! And a revolver, too—be sure that it is in perfect condition. And—have you a knife? You're so LITTLE!” she wailed. “But father will need you, and he'll take care of you—and Colorou would not let you be hurt if he knew. But—Buddy, you must be careful, and always watching—never let them catch you off your guard. I shall be in Laramie before you and father and the boys, I suppose, if the Indians really do break out. And you must promise me—”

“I'll promise, mother. And don't you go and trust old Colorou an inch. He was jumping higher than any of 'em, and shaking his tomahawk and yelling—he'd have scalped me right there if he'd seen me watching 'em. Mother, I'm going to find father and tell him. And you may as well be packing up, and—don't leave my guitar for them to smash, will you, mother?”

His mother laughed then and pushed him toward the door. She had an idea of her own and she did not want to be hindered now in putting it into action. Up the creek, in the bank behind a clump of willows, was a small cave—or a large niche, one might call it—where many household treasures might be safely hidden, if one went carefully, wading in the creek to hide the tracks. She followed Buddy out, and called to Ezra who was chopping wood with a grunt for every fall of the axe and many rest—periods in the shade of the cottonwood tree.

At the stable, Buddy looked back and saw her talking earnestly to Ezra, who stood nodding his head in complete approval. Buddy's knowledge of women began and ended with his mother. Therefore, to him all women were wonderful creatures whom men worshipped ardently because they were created for the adoration of lesser souls. Buddy did not know what his mother was going to do, but he was sure that whatever she did would be right; so he hoisted his saddle on the handiest fresh horse, and loped off to drive in the remuda, feeling certain that his father would move swiftly to save his cattle that ranged back in the foothills, and that the saddle horses would be wanted at a moment's notice.

Also, he reasoned, the range horses (mares and colts and the unbroken geldings) would not be left to the mercy of the Indians. He did not quite know how his father would manage it, but he decided that he would corral the REMUDA first, and then drive in the other horses, that fed scattered in undisturbed possession of a favorite grassy creek-bottom farther up the Platte.

The saddle horses, accustomed to Buddy's driving, were easily corralled. The other horses were fat and “sassy” and resented his coming among them with the shrill whoop of authority. They gave him a hot hour's riding before they finally bunched and went tearing down the river bottom toward the ranch. Even so, Buddy left two of the wildest careening up a narrow gulch. He had not attempted to ride after them; not because he was afraid of Indians, for he was not. The war-dance held every young buck and every old one in camp beyond the Pass. But the margin of safety might be narrow, and Buddy was taking no chances that day.

When he was convinced that it was impossible for one boy to be in half a dozen places at once, and that the cowboys would be needed to corral the range bunch, Buddy whooped them all down the creek below the home ranch and let them go just as his father came riding up to the corral.

“They're war-dancing, father,” Buddy shouted eagerly, slipping off his horse and wiping away the trickles of perspiration with a handkerchief not much redder than his face. “I drove all the horses down, so they'd be handy. Them range horses are pretty wild. There was two I couldn't get. What'll I do now?”

Bob Birnie looked at his youngest rider and smoothed his beard with one hand. “You're an ambitious lad, Buddy. It's the Utes you're meaning—or is it the horses?”

Buddy lifted his head and stared at his father disapprovingly.

“Colorou is going to break out. I know. They've got their war paint all on and they're dancing. I saw them myself. I was going after the gloves Colorou s squaw was making for me,—but I didn't get 'em. I laid in the brush and watched 'em dance.” He stopped and looked again doubtfully at his father. “I thought you might want to get the cattle outa the way,” he added. “I thought I could save some time—”

“You're sure about the paint?”

“Yes, I'm sure. And Colorou was just a-going it with his war bonnet on and shaking his tomahawk and yelling—”

“Ye did well, lad. We'll be leaving for Big Creek to-night, so run away now and rest yourself.”

“Oh, and can I go?” Buddy's voice was shrill with eagerness.

“I'll need you, lad, to look after the horses. It will give me one more hand with the cattle. Now go tell Step-and-a-Half to make ready for a week on the trail, and to have supper early so he can make his start with the rest.”

Buddy walked stiffly away to the cook's cabin where Step-and-a-Half sat leisurely gouging the worst blemishes out of soft, old potatoes with a chronic tendency to grow sprouts, before he peeled them for supper His crippled leg was thrust out straight, his hat was perched precariously over one ear because of the slanting sun rays through the window, and a half-smoked cigarette waggled uncertainly in the corner of his mouth while he sang dolefully a most optimistic ditty of the West:

“O give me a home where the buff-alo roam, Where the deer and the antelope play, Where never is heard a discouraging word And the sky is not cloudy all day.”

“You're going to hear a discouraging word right now,” Buddy broke in ruthlessly upon the song. Whereupon, with a bit of importance in his voice and in his manner, he proceeded to spoil Step-and-a-Half's disposition and to deepen,