"Little black bull came down the hillside,Down the hillside, down the hillside,Little black bull came down the hillside,Long time ago."
"Little black bull came down the hillside,Down the hillside, down the hillside,Little black bull came down the hillside,Long time ago."
"I don't call that much of a song," sniffed Chunky contemptuously after a moment of silence on the part of the group. "Even if I can't sing, I can beat that."
"Better not try it out on the range," smiled the foreman.
"Not on the range? Why not?" demanded the boy.
"Bob thinks it might stampede the herd," spoke up Big-foot Sanders.
A loud laugh followed at Chunky's expense.
"When you get to be half as good a man on cows as your friend the Pinto, here, you'll be a full grown man," added Big-foot. "The Pinto rounded up a bunch of stray cows to-night as well as I could do it myself, and he didn't go about it with a brass band either."
The foreman nodded, with an approving glance at Tad.
Tad's eyes were sparkling from the experiences of the evening, as well as from the praise bestowed upon him by the big cowpuncher.
"The pony did most of it," admitted the lad. "I just gave him his head, and that's all there was to it."
"More than most tenderfeet would have done," growled Big-foot.
Walter had gone out with the second guard, and the others had gathered around the camp-fire for their nightly story-telling.
"Now, I don't want you fellows sitting up all night," objected the foreman. "None of you will be fit for duty to-morrow. We've got a hard drive before us, and every man must be fit as a fiddle. You can enjoy yourselves sleeping just as well as sitting up."
"Humph!" grunted Curley Adams. "I'll give it as a horseback opinion that the only way to enjoy such a night as this, is to sit up until you fall asleep with your boots on. That's the way I'm going to do it, to-night."
The cowboy did this very thing, but within an hour he found himself alone, the others having turned in one by one.
"Where are your beds?" asked Stacy after the foreman had urged the boys to get to sleep.
"Beds?" grunted Big-foot. "Anywhere—everywhere. Our beds, on the plains, are wherever we happen to pull our boots off."
"You will find your stuff rolled up under the chuck wagon, boys," said Stallings. "I had Pong get out the blankets for you, seeing that you have only your slickers with you."
The lads found that a pair of blankets had been assigned to each of them, with an ordinary wagon sheet doubled for a tarpaulin. These they spread out on the ground, using boots wrapped in coats for pillows.
Stacy Brown proved the only grumbler in the lot, declaring that he could not sleep a wink on such a bed as that.
In floundering about, making up his bunk, the lad had fallen over two cowboys and stepped full on the face of a third.
Instantly there was a chorus of yells and snarls from the disturbed cowpunchers, accompanied by dire threats as to what they would do to the gopher did he ever disturb their rest in that way again.
This effectually quieted the boy for the night, and the camp settled down to silence and to sleep.
The horses of the outfit, save those that were on night duty and two or three others that had developed a habit of straying, had been turned loose early in the evening, for animals on the trail are seldom staked down. For these, a rope had been strung from a rear wheel of the wagon and another from the end of the tongue, back to a stake driven in the ground, thus forming a triangular corral. Besides holding the untrustworthy horses, it afforded a temporary corral for catching a change of mounts.
In spite of their hard couches the Pony Riders slept soundly, even Professor Zepplin himself never waking the whole night through. Ned Rector had come up smiling when awakened for his trick on the third guard. With Stacy Brown, however, severe measures were necessary when one of the returning guard routed him out at half-past three in the morning.
Stacy grumbled, turned over and went to sleep again.
The guard chanced to be Lumpy Bates, and he administered, what to him, was a gentle kick, to hurry the boy along.
"Ouch!" yelled Chunky, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
"Keep still, you baby!" growled the cowman. "Do you want to wake up the whole outfit? There'll be a lively muss about the time you do, I reckon, and you'll wish you hadn't. If you can't keep shut, the boss'll be for making you sleep under the chuck wagon. If you make a racket there, Pong will dump a pot of boiling water over you. You won't be so fast to wake up hard working cowboys after that, I reckon."
"What do you want?" demanded the boy. "What'd you wake me up for?"
"It's your trick. Get a move on you and keep still. There's the pony ready for you. I wouldn't have saddled it but the boss said I must. I don't take no stock in tenderfoot kids," growled the cowpuncher.
"Is breakfast ready?" asked the boy, tightening his belt and jamming his sombrero down over his head.
"Breakfast?" jeered Lumpy. "You're lucky to be alive in this outfit, let alone filling yourself with grub. Get out!"
Stacy ruefully, and still half asleep, made a wide circle around the sleeping cowmen that he might not make the mistake of again stepping on any of them.
Lumpy watched him with disapproving eyes.
The lad caught the pony that stood moping in the corral, not appearing to be aware that his rider was preparing him for the range, Chunky all the time muttering to himself.
Leading the pony out, the boy gathered up the reins on the right side of the animal and prepared to mount.
Lumpy Bates came running toward him, not daring to call out for fear of waking the camp. The cowman was swinging his arms and seeking to attract the lad's attention. Chunky, however, was too sleepy to see anything so small as a cowman swinging his arms a rod away.
Placing his right foot in the stirrup, the boy prepared to swing up into the saddle.
"Hi, there!" hissed Lumpy, filled with indignation that anyone should attempt to mount a pony from the right side.
His warning came too late. Stacy Brown's left leg swung over the saddle. No sooner had the pony felt the leather over him than he raised his back straight up, his head going down almost to the ground.
Stacy shot up into the air as if he had been propelled from a bow gun. He struck the soft sand several feet in advance of the pony, his face and head ploughing a little furrow as he drove along on his nose.
He had no more than struck, however, before the irate cowboy had him by the collar and had jerked the lad to his feet.
"Youtenderfoot!" he snarled, accenting the words so that they carried a world of meaning with them. "Don't you know any more than to try to get onto a broncho from the off side? Say, don't you?"
He shook the lad violently.
"N-n-n-o," gasped Stacy. "D-d-does it m-m-make any difference w-w-h-i-ch side you get on?"
"Does it make any difference?"
The cowboy jerked his own head up and down as if the words he would utter had wedged fast in his throat.
"Git out of here before I say something. The boss said the first man he heard using language while you tenderfeet were with us, would get fired on the spot."
Without taking the chance of waiting until Stacy had mounted the pony, Lumpy grabbed the boy and tossed him into the saddle, giving the little animal a sharp slap on the flank as he did so.
At first the pony began to buck; then, evidently thinking the effort was not worth while, settled down to a rough trot which soon shook the boy up and thoroughly awakened him.
The rest of the fourth guard had already gone out, Chunky meeting the returning members of the third coming in.
"Better hurry up, kid," they chuckled. "The cows'll sleep themselves out of sight before you get there, if you don't get a move on."
"Where are they?" asked the boy.
"Keep a-going and if you're lucky you'll run plumb into them," was the jeering answer as the sleepy cowmen spurred their ponies on toward camp, muttering their disapproval of taking along a bunch of boys on a cattle drive.
In a few moments they, too, had turned their ponies adrift and had thrown themselves down beside their companions, pulling their blankets well about them, for the night had grown chill.
Out on the plains the fourth guard were drowsily crooning the lullaby about the bull that "came down the hillside, long time ago."
It seemed as if scarcely a minute had passed since the boys turned in before they were awakened by the strident tones of the foreman.
"Roll out! Roll out!" he roared, bringing the sleepy cowpunchers grumbling to their feet.
Almost before the echoes of his voice had died away, a shrill voice piped up from the tail end of the chuck wagon.
"Grub pi-i-i-le! Grub pi-i-i-le!"
It was the Chinaman, Pong, sounding his call for breakfast, in accordance with the usage of the plains.
"Grub pi-i-i-le!" he finished in a lower tone, after which his head quickly disappeared under the cover of the wagon.
By the time the cowmen and Pony Riders had refreshed themselves at the spring near which the outfit had camped, a steaming hot breakfast had been spread on the ground, with a slicker for a table cloth.
Three cowboys fell to with a will, gulping down their breakfast in a hurry that they might ride out and relieve the fourth guard on the herd.
"You boys don't have to swallow your food whole," smiled the foreman, observing that the Pony Riders seemed to think they were expected to hurry through their meal as well. "Those fellows have to go out. Take your time. The fourth guard has to eat yet, so there is plenty of time. How did you all sleep?"
"Fine," chorused the boys.
"And you, Mr. Professor?"
"Surprisingly well. It is astonishing with how little a man can get along when he has to."
"Who is the wrangler this morning?" asked the foreman, glancing about at his men.
"I am," spoke up Shorty Savage promptly.
"Wrangler? What's a wrangler?" demanded Stacy, delaying the progress of a large slice of bacon, which hung suspended from the fork half-way between plate and mouth.
"A wrangler's a wrangler," answered Big-foot stolidly.
"He's a fellow who's all the time making trouble, isn't he?" asked Stacy innocently.
"Oh, no, this kind of a wrangler isn't," laughed the foreman. "The trouble is usually madeforhim, and it's served up hot off the spider. The horse wrangler is the fellow who goes out and rounds up the ponies. Sometimes he does it in the middle of the night when the thunder and lightning are smashing about him like all possessed, and the cattle are on the rampage. He's a trouble-curer, not a troublemaker, except for himself."
"I guess there are some words that aren't in the dictionary," laughed Tad.
"I think you will find them all there, Master Tad, if you will consult the big book," said the Professor.
The meal was soon finished, Pong having stood rubbing his palms, a happy smile on his face, during the time they were eating.
"A very fine breakfast, sir," announced the Professor, looking up at the Chinaman.
"He knows what would happen to him if he didn't serve good meals," smiled Stallings.
"What do you mean?" asked Ned Rector.
"Pong, tell the young gentlemen what would become of you if you were to serve bad meals to this outfit of cowpunchers."
The Chinaman showed two rows of white teeth in his expansive grin.
"Allee same likee this," he explained.
"How?" asked Tad.
Pong, going through the motions of drawing a gun from his belt, and puffing out his cheeks, uttered an explosive "pouf!"
"Oh, you mean they would shoot you?" asked Walter. "I hardly think they would do that, Pong."
"Allee same," grinned the Chinaman.
"I guess we are pretty sure of having real food to eat, then," laughed Tad, as the boys rose from the table ready for the active work of the day.
"We will now get to work on the herd," announced the foreman. "We had better start the drive this morning. When we make camp at noon we will cut out the strays. I trust none of you will be imprudent and get into trouble, for we shall have other things to look after to-day."
However, the Pony Riders were destined not to pass the day without one or more exciting adventures.
"Getting ready for rain," announced the foreman, glancing up at the gathering clouds. "That will mean water for the stock, anyway."
Already the great herd was up and grazing when the cowboys reached them. But there was no time now for the animals to satisfy their appetites. They were supposed to have eaten amply since daylight.
The trail was to be taken up again and by the time the steers were bedded down at night, they should be all of fifteen miles nearer the Diamond D. Ranch for which they were headed.
The start was a matter of keen interest to the Pony Riders. To set the herd in motion, cowboys galloped along the sides of the line giving vent to their shrill, wolf-keyed yell, while others pressed forward directly in the rear.
As soon as the cattle had gotten under way six men were detailed on each side, and in a short time the herd was strung out over more than a mile of the trail.
Two riders known as "point men" rode well back from the leaders, and by riding forward and closing in occasionally, were able to direct the course of the drive.
Others, known as "swing men," rode well out from the herd, their duty being to see that none of the cattle dropped out or strayed away. Once started, the animals required no driving.
This was a matter of considerable interest to the Pony Riders.
"Don't they ever stop to eat?" asked Tad of the foreman.
"Occasionally. When they do, we have to start them along without their knowing we are doing so. It's a good rule to go by that you never should let your herd know they are under restraint. Yet always keep them going in the proper direction."
The trail wagon, carrying the cooking outfit and supplies, was not forgotten. Drawn by a team of four mules, the party seldom allowed it to get far away from them, and never, under ordinary circumstances, out of their sight. The driver walked beside the mules, while the grinning face of Pong was always to be seen in the front end of the wagon.
He was the only member of the outfit who never seemed to mind the broiling mid-day heat. He was riding there on this hot forenoon, never leaving his seat until the foreman, by a gesture, indicated that the herd was soon to be halted for its noonday meal. While the cattle were grazing, the cowboys would fall to and satisfy their own appetites.
After the cattle had finally been halted, three men were left on guard while the others rode back to the rear of the line. In the meantime Pong had been preparing the dinner, which was ready almost as soon as the men had cast aside their hats.
"When it comes to cooking for an outfit like this, a Chinaman beats anything in the world," laughed Stallings. "At least, this Chinaman does."
Pong was too busy to do more than grin at the compliment, even if he fully grasped the meaning of it.
The meal was nearly half-finished when the cowpunchers were startled by a volley of revolver shots accompanied by a chorus of shrill yells.
"What's up now?" demanded Ned Rector and Tad in one breath.
Every member of the outfit had sprung to his feet.
"Sounds like a stampede," flung back the foreman, making a flying leap for his pony.
The other cowboys were up like a flash and into their saddles, uttering sharp "ki-yis" and driving in the spurs while they laid their quirts mercilessly over the rumps of the ponies.
Tad Butler, Ned Rector and Walter Perkins were not far behind the cowmen in reaching their own ponies and leaping into their saddles.
Not so with Chunky. He only paused in his eating long enough to look his surprise and to direct an inquiring look at the Chinaman, while the others went dashing across the plain toward the herd.
"Allee same likee this," announced Pong, making a succession of violent gestures that Stacy did not understand.
But the boy nodded his head wisely and went on with his eating.
Out where the grazing herd had been peacefully eating its noonday meal all was now excitement and action.
Revolvers were popping, cowboys were yelling and the herd was surging back and forth, bellowing and dashing in and out, a shifting, confused mass of color and noise.
The boys did not know what to make of it.
"Yes; they are stampeding," decided Ned, riding alongside of Tad Butler.
"I don't believe it," answered Tad. "It looks to me as if something else were the trouble."
"What?"
"I don't know. It's an awful mix-up, whatever they may call it."
"Yes; see! They are fighting."
Surely enough, large numbers of the cattle seemed to be arrayed against each other, sending up great clouds of dust as they ran toward each other, locked horns and engaged in desperate conflict. It was noticed, however, that the muleys kept well out of harm's way, standing aloof from the herd and looking on ready to run at the shake of a horn in their direction.
"Now, look there! What are they doing?" asked Walter.
"They seem to be cutting out a bunch of steers," answered Tad. "That's funny. I can't imagine what it is all about." Neither could Professor Zepplin, who had ridden up at a more leisurely pace, explain to the boys the meaning of the scene they were viewing.
"If we knew, we might turn in and help," suggested Walter.
"That's right," replied Tad. "Suppose we ride up there where the men are at work. We may find something to do. Anyway, we'll find out what the trouble is."
Starting up their ponies, the boys galloped up the line, keeping a safe distance from the herd as they did so, and halting only when they had reached the trail leaders, as the cattle at the head of the line are called.
"What's the trouble?" shouted Ned as they came within hailing distance of the perspiring foreman.
"Mixed herd," he called back, curtly, driving his pony into the thick of the fight and yelling out his orders to the men.
"I know almost as much about it as I did before," announced Ned, disgustedly. "Got any idea, Tad?"
"Yes; I have."
"For goodness sake, let's have it, then. If I don't find out what's going on here, pretty soon, I shall jump into the fight in sheer desperation."
"Mr. Stagings said it was a mixed herd. Don't you think that must mean that a lot of cattle who don't belong there have mixed up with ours?" asked the freckle-faced boy.
"I guess that's the answer, Tad. But, if so, how can they tell one from the other?" wondered Walter.
"From the brands. I have learned that much about the business. Every one of our herd is branded with a capital D in the center of a diamond. That is the brand of Mr. Miller's ranch—the Diamond D Ranch. Evidently they are cutting out all that haven't that brand on."
"Hello! There's Chunky. Now, what do you suppose he is up to!" exclaimed Ned.
Stacy Brown had finished his meal, mounted his pony and was now riding toward the herd at what was for him a reckless speed.
All at once they saw him pull his mount sharply to the left and drive straight at a bunch of cattle that the cowboys had separated from the herd a few moments before.
The boy was too far away, the racket too loud, for their voices to reach him in a warning shout.
Stacy, having observed the cattle straying away, and having in mind Tad Butler's achievement in driving back a bunch of stray steers, thought he would do something on his own account.
"I'll show them I can drive steers as well as anybody," he told himself, bringing down the quirt about the pony's legs.
The strong-limbed little beast sprang to his work with a will. He understood perfectly what was wanted of him. A few moments more, and he had headed off the rapidly moving bunch, effectually turning the leaders, sending them on a gallop back toward the vast herd fighting and bellowing in the cloud of dust they had stirred up.
The cowboys were so fully occupied with their task that they had failed to observe Stacy Brown's action, nor would they have known anything about it had not Tad, yelling himself hoarse, managed to attract the attention of the foreman.
Tad pointed off to where Chunky was jumping his pony at the fleeing cattle, forcing them on with horse and quirt.
They had almost reached the main herd before Tad succeeded in informing the foreman.
One look was enough for Stallings.
Before he could act, however, the stray herd had once more mingled and merged with his own. The work of the cowboys had gone for naught.
Stallings fired three shots into the air as a signal to his men to stop their cutting out.
"Will you young men do me a favor?" he asked.
"Certainly, Mr. Stallings," answered Tad.
"Then ride around the herd and tell the boys not to try any more cutting out until the herd has quieted down. The dust is so thick that we can't do anything with the cows, anyway. You have some sense, but that's more than I can say for your friend, Brown. Of all the idiotic—oh, what's the use? Tell him to mind his own business and keep half a mile away from this herd for the rest of the afternoon."
"All right, sir. Where did those cattle come from?"
"I don't know, Tad. They have broken away from some nearby ranch. Probably somebody has cut a wire fence and let them out. That's the worst of the wire fence in the modern cow business. They can get through wire without being seen. But they can't get by a cowpuncher without his seeing them."
"How many cattle do you think have got mixed with ours?"
"I should imagine there were all of five hundred of them," answered the foreman.
Tad uttered a long-drawn whistle of astonishment.
"Will—will you ever be able to separate them?" asked Ned.
"We sure will. But it means a hot afternoon's work."
"May we help you, Mr. Stallings?" spoke up Walter.
"Yes; I shall be able to use you boys, some, I guess. It's a wonder to me that those cows didn't stampede our whole herd. Had it been night, our stock would have been spread over a dozen miles of territory by this time. Being day, however, our herd preferred to stay and fight the newcomers. I hope they clean up the bunch for keeps."
Pleased that they had been given a task to perform, the boys rode away, Tad and Walter going in one direction, while Ned Rector galloped off in another, that they might reach the cowmen in the shortest possible time.
The men they found sitting on their horses awaiting orders, though they understood what was in the mind of the foreman almost as well as if he had told them by word of mouth.
They found Big-foot and Lumpy Bates expressing their opinion of the mix-up in voices loud with anger. But, upon discovering the boys, the cowmen quickly checked their flow of language.
"Did you see what that—that——" bellowed Lumpy as Tad rode up to him.
"Yes; I saw it," laughed Tad.
"You think this is some kind of a joke, eh?" roared Lumpy, starting his pony toward Tad.
The boy's smile left his face and clucking to his pony he rode slowly forward toward the angry cowpuncher, meeting the fellow's menacing eyes unflinchingly.
"Is there anything you wish to say to me, Mr. Bates?" asked the lad calmly.
Lumpy's emotions were almost too great for speech. He controlled himself with an effort.
"No—only this. I—I'll forget myself some day, and clean up one of you idiotic tenderfeet."
"Perhaps you would like to begin on me, sir," said Tad steadily. "If you feel that way I should prefer to have you do that rather than to try it on any of my companions. Stacy Brown may be indiscreet, but I'd have you understand he is no idiot."
"What—what——"
"You have determined to get square with us ever since we joined out with you last night, and I knew that you and I would have to have an understanding before long. We might as well have it now, though there's nothing of enough consequence to have a quarrel about——"
"You threaten me?"
"Nothing of the kind, Mr. Bates. I only wish to tell you that my companions are the guests of this outfit, and we propose to act like gentlemen. Every other member of the outfit, not excepting the Chinaman, has given us fine treatment. You have hung back, hoping you would have a chance to get us run off the trail."
The cowpuncher's fingers were opening and closing convulsively.
"You—you run into me. The whole bunch had the laugh on me and——"
"If I remember correctly, it was you who ran me down. But we'll drop that. Will you shake hands and forget your bad temper?" asked the lad, reaching over and offering a hand to the cowboy.
For an instant the fellow glared at him, then with a snarl he jerked his pony about and drove in the rowels of the spurs.
"Lumpy's got on the grouch that won't come off," grinned Big-foot. "Better keep a weather eye on the cayuse. If he gets obstreperous, just you let me know."
"Thank you," smiled Tad. "I thought I had better say something to him before it went too far. I knew he meant mischief to us ever since he ran into me yesterday at San Diego."
Tad then delivered his message and rode on to the next cowpuncher.
For fully an hour the cattle surged and fought, some being killed and trampled under foot, while others were so seriously wounded that they had to be shot later in the day.
After a time the battle dwindled down to individual skirmishes, with two or three animals engaged at a time, until finally the entire herd moved off to the fresher ground that had not been trodden upon, and began grazing together as contentedly as if nothing had occurred to disturb them.
All immediate danger of a stampede having passed, Stallings fired a shot as a signal for the cowmen to join him. This they did on the gallop.
After a conference, during which each man gave his opinion as to whom the stray herd belonged to, none recognizing the brand, Stallings made up his mind what to do.
"You will begin at the lower end and cut out as you go through the herd. Cut the newcomers to the west, which will be starting them back toward where they came from, wherever that may be. At the same time while we cut, we will be moving our cows north, which is the direction in which we want them to go."
In the meantime Stacy Brown had ridden up. He was sitting disconsolately on his pony near where the conference was being held, having been roundly scored by every cowboy in the outfit.
The foreman motioned him to ride over to him.
"Young man, can you carry a message back to camp and get it straight!"
Stacy thought he could.
"Then go back and tell the heathen to pack up his belongings and come on. There will be no more eating done in this outfit till we have cut out that new bunch. Tell the driver to be ready to move when he sees us start. We'll get in a few miles before dark, yet, if we have good luck."
Stacy rode away full of importance to deliver the foreman's order.
Then the cutting out began. Cowboy after cowboy dashed into the herd coming out usually with his pony pressing against the side of an unwilling steer and pushing him along in the right direction by main force.
And here was where the Pony Riders made themselves useful. As an animal was cut out, the boys would ride in behind it and worry the steer along until they had gotten it a safe distance to the west of the main herd.
"There's a Diamond D steer in that bunch," Tad informed one of the cowpunchers as he rushed a big, white steer out.
"Never mind; we'll trim the mixed outfit after we get more of the bunch out," answered the cowboy, riding back into the herd.
While doing the cutting out the men also drove out the few cattle that had strayed into the herd earlier in the journey.
For three hours this grilling work had kept up, the perspiring cowboys yelling, their ponies squealing under the terrific punishment they were getting from both riders and steers.
But in the excitement of their own work, the Pony Riders had had little time in which to observe what the cowmen were doing.
Tad thought of a plan by which he might assist them further. So he galloped his pony over to the edge of the main herd and waited until the foreman dashed out with two red, fighting steers, which he gave a lively start on their way to join the mixed herd.
"Mr. Stallings, may I cut back some of the Diamond D animals in the mixed herd?" he asked.
"Think you can do it, kid?"
"I can try."
"All right. Go ahead. Be careful that you don't turn back any of the other brands, though. Above all, look out for yourself."
Tad galloped back to his companions, his face flushed, the dust standing out on his blue shirt, turning it almost gray.
"Keep this herd up, fellows," he shouted. "I'm going to try my hand at cutting out."
Fortunately, the pony understood what was wanted of it, and, the moment it had located an animal which it was desired to cut out, the pony went at the work with a will. Tad, triumphant and warm, rode out driving a Diamond D steer ahead of him, applying his quirt vigorously to the animal's rump until he had landed it safely in the ranks of the main herd.
Again and again had the boy ridden in among the cattle, seemingly taking no account of the narrow escapes both rider and pony were having from the sharp horns of the long-legged Mexican cattle.
One big, white fellow gave the lad more trouble than all the rest that he had cut out, and when once Tad had run him out into the open the perspiration was dripping from his face.
But his battle was not yet won. The steer, for some reason best known to itself, did not wish to return to its own herd. It fought every inch of the way, wearing down pony and rider until they were almost exhausted.
Tad Butler's blood was up, however. He set his jaw stubbornly and plunged into the work before him.
Bob Stallings, shooting a glance in the boy's direction understood what he had in hand, for the foreman had made the acquaintance of this same steer himself, earlier on the drive.
The lad had worried the animal nearly to its own herd, after half an hour's struggle, when, despite all his efforts, it broke away and dashed back toward the mixed bunch.
"I'll get him if it's the last thing I ever do," vowed the boy.
A rawhide lariat hung from his saddle bow, and though he had practised with the rope on other occasions, he did not consider himself an expert with it. He had watched the cowboys in their use of it and knew how they threw a cow with the rope.
On the spur of the moment Tad decided to use the lariat.
Lifting it in his right hand and swinging the great loop high above his head, he dashed up to the running steer, and when near enough to take a cast, let go of the loop.
It fell over the horns of the white animal as neatly as a cowboy could have placed it there.
The coil ran out in a flash; yet quick as the boy was, he found himself unable to take a hitch around the pommel of his saddle with the free end.
The running steer straightened the rope and Tad shot from his saddle still clinging desperately to the line.
When the freckle-faced boy took his unexpected plunge, it chanced that neither cowboys nor Pony Riders were looking his way.
No one knew of his plight.
As he felt the line running through his hand, Tad Butler had given it a quick hitch around his right wrist, so that when the rope drew taut, and the pony braced itself to meet the shock, the lad fairly flew through the air.
The white steer had been headed for the mixed bunch which the Pony Riders were guarding. With the stubbornness of its kind, it wheeled about the instant it felt the tug on the rope and dashed for the main herd, Tad's body ploughing up the dust as he trailed along at a fearful pace behind the wild animal, whirling over and over in his rapid flight.
The lad's eyes were so full of sand dust that he was unable to see where he was going. He had slight realization of the peril that confronted him.
"Look! Look!" cried Walter Perkins.
"What is it?" cried Ned Rector.
"What's that the steer is dragging?"
"I don't know."
"And there's Tad's pony standing out there alone," added Walter. "You—you don't think Tad——"
"As I'm alive, it is Tad! He is being dragged by the steer. He'll be killed! Watch this herd, I am going after him!" shouted Ned, putting spurs to his pony and dashing toward the main herd.
At that moment the white steer, trailing its human burden, rushed in among the other cattle and was soon lost among them.
Ned did not dare to set up a loud shout of warning for fear of frightening the cattle. However, he was waving his hat and excitedly trying to attract the attention of some of the cowmen.
They were too busy to give any heed to him.
Ned drove his pony in among the struggling cattle with no thought of his own danger.
The cowmen were roping and rushing the stock that did not belong to them. As it chanced, however, most of them were working at the upper end, or head of the herd.
The foreman, for some reason, had galloped down the line, casting his eyes keenly over the herd. Instantly he noticed that something was wrong, though just what it was, he was unable to decide. Then his eyes caught the figure of Ned Rector, the center of a sea of moving backs and tossing horns. The boy was standing in his stirrups still swinging his sombrero above his head.
It took the foreman but an instant to decide what to do. Wheeling his pony, he fairly dived into the mass of cattle, lashing to the right and left of him with his ready quirt, the cattle resentfully shaking threatening heads at pony and rider and making efforts to reach them with their sharp-pointed horns.
"What is it?" shouted Stallings after he had ridden in far enough to make his voice reach Ned Rector.
"It's Tad!"
"What about him?"
"He's in there," answered Ned, pointing.
"Where? What do you mean?"
"I don't know. It's the white steer. He dragged him."
Stallings thought he understood. He had seen the lad working with the unruly animal only a few moments before.
"What's the trouble—did the boy rope him?" shouted the foreman.
Ned nodded.
"He'll be trampled to death!" snapped the foreman, rising high in his stirrups and looking over the herd. There were several white steers in the bunch, but the one in question was so much larger than the others that Stallings thought he would have no difficulty in picking out the animal. Not finding him at once, the foreman fired two shots in the air to attract the attention of the cowboys. Three of them soon were seen working their way in.
"Open up the herd!" he shouted.
"Whereabouts?" asked Reddy Davis.
"Anywhere. Look out for the big, white cow. The boy's roped to him!"
They understood at once.
Big-foot Sanders had heard, and began working like an automatic machine. The way the cattle, big and little, fell away before his plunging pony and ready quirt was an object lesson for those of the Pony Riders who were near enough to see his effort.
In the thick of it was Ned Rector, driving his pony here and there, anxiously watching for the white steer.
"There he is!" shouted Ned, suddenly espying the animal still dashing about.
"Where?"
"There, to the right of you!"
Forcing his mount through the crowded ranks, Stallings in a moment found himself within reach of the white beast. However, there were three or four cattle between himself and the one he wanted.
The foreman's rope circled in the air above his head, then the great loop squirmed out over the backs of the cattle, dropping lightly over the horns of the white one.
The steer felt the touch of the rope and knew the meaning of it. As the animal sprang forward, Stallings took a quick turn about the pommel of his saddle and the pony braced its fore feet. When the shock came, the cattle over whose backs the rope lay felt it even more than did the pony itself. Three of them were forced to their knees bawling with sudden fright and pain.
The head of the white steer was jerked to one side. A swing of the rope and the steer was thrown heavily.
"Get in there!" roared Stallings.
Ned at the moment, chanced to be nearer than were any of the others to the animal, and to him fell the perilous work of holding down the kicking beast.
He knew exactly what was expected of him, having seen a cowboy hold a steer down for a quick branding that morning.
Ned spurred in and leaped to the ground.
Without an instant's hesitation he threw himself on the neck of the struggling animal, whose flying hoofs made the attempt doubly dangerous.
This act of Ned enabled Stallings to jump from his pony and run to the lad's assistance, leaving the pony braced to hold the line taut.
The foreman sprang to the rear, where he observed the form of Tad Butler doubled up, lying half under the body of a big, red steer.
Stallings picked him up, quickly cutting the lariat.
"Slip the loops off his horns!" he commanded. "Look out that you don't get pinked by them."
"Is Tad hurt?" called Ned anxiously.
"Lucky if he ain't dead," answered the foreman, hurrying to his pony, which he mounted taking the boy in his arms. By this time Ned had the ropes and had sprung away from the steer's dangerous horns.
Tad's form hung limp and lifeless over the saddle. His face, with the sand and dust ground into it, was scarcely recognizable.
Ned followed the foreman as soon as he could get his pony. By the time Ned reached them, Stallings had laid Tad down and was making a quick examination.
"Get water! Hurry!" he commanded sharply.
"Where?" asked Ned, glancing about him, undecided which way to turn.
"The chuck wagon. Ride, kid! Ride!"
Ned bounced into his saddle without so much as touching his stirrup. With a sharp yell to the animal he sped away over the plain, urging on the little pony with quirt and spur.
The way Ned Rector rode that day made those of the cowmen who saw him open their eyes.
Ned began shouting for water as soon as he came in sight of the wagon, which, by this time, was packed for the start.
Pong, understanding from the boy's tone that the need was urgent, was filling a jug from the tap barrel by the time Ned rode up beside the wagon. He had less than a minute to wait.
Grabbing the jug from the hands of the grinning Chinaman, and unheeding Pong's chuckled "allee same," Ned whirled about and raced for the herd.
The lad struggled to keep back the tears as he realized that, even with all his haste, it might be too late.
That Tad should come out of that melée of flying hoofs and prodding horns without being at least seriously injured was more than he could hope.
Faster and faster ran the pony, behind him a rising cloud of yellow dust. Ned's fingers were stiff and numb from carrying the heavy jug, and the lump in his throat was growing larger, it seemed to him, with every leap of the animal under him.
Now Ned could see the cowmen galloping in and gazing from their ponies. He knew they were looking at Tad. Stallings was bent over him, pouring something down the boy's throat.
Ned's heart gave a great bound. Tad Butler must be alive or there would be no need for the liquid that the foreman was forcing down his throat.
"Is he—is he——" asked Ned, weakly, after they had taken the jug of water from his hand.
"He's alive, if that's what you mean," answered Stallings. "I'm afraid he's got a slight concussion of the brain. He doesn't come around the way I should like to see him."
"Sure it isn't a fracture!" asked the Professor, who had just arrived on the scene.
"No, I hardly think so."
The foreman washed the unconscious boy's face, soaking Tad's head and neck and searching for the seat of the trouble.
"Huh! Steer kicked him," grunted Stallings. "It was a glancing blow, luckily for the kid."
They worked over the lad for fully half an hour before he began to show signs of returning consciousness. At last his trembling eyelids struggled apart and he smiled up at them weakly.
"Ah! He's all right now, I guess," laughed the foreman, with a world of relief in his tone. "Boys, get busy now and cut out the rest of those cows. If the young man is not able to ride we'll put him in the chuck wagon when it comes up. Feel bad anywhere, now?" he asked.
"My—my head weighs a ton."
"I should think it would. Did the white steer kick you?"
"I—I don't know. Hello, Professor. I roped him all right, didn't I, Mr. Stallings?"
"You did. But you got roped yourself, too, I reckon. Think you'll be able to ride in the trail wagon? If not we'll have to send you back to town."
"That'll be the best place for the tenderfoot," growled Lumpy Bates.
Stallings turned a stern eye upon him.
"Lumpy, when I want your opinion I'll let you know. What are you doing here, anyway? Get into that cut out and be mighty quick about it!"
Lumpy rode away growling.
"I'll ride in no trail wagon," announced Tad Butler, with emphasis.
"I guess you will have to, my boy."
"I'll ride my pony if I have to be tied on," he declared resolutely.
The foreman laughed heartily.
"Well, we'll see about that. You boys all have good stuff in you. I see that Master Walter and the gopher are still out there looking after that bunch of cattle."
"I told them to do so," spoke up Tad.
"And they are obeying orders. That's the first thing to learn in this business."
"May I sit up now?"
"You may try."
Tad's head spun round when he raised himself up. The lad fought his dizziness pluckily, and mastered it. After a little while they helped him to his feet. Finally feeling himself able to walk he started unsteadily away from them.
"Where are you going?" demanded the Professor.
"Pony," answered Tad.
"I protest, Tad. You will come back here at once."
Tad turned obediently.
"Please, Professor. I'm all right."
"Let the boy go. He will be all right in a few moments after he has gotten into the saddle," urged the foreman. "Besides, he's too much of a man to be treated like a weakling. He'll get more bumps than that before he leaves this outfit, if I'm any judge."
The Professor motioned to Tad to go on, which the lad did, petting his pony as he reached him, and then pulling himself into the saddle with considerable effort.
"I'm ready for business now," he smiled, waving a hand to the foreman.
"Better look on and let the rest do the work," advised Stallings, mounting his own tough pony and riding into the thick of the cutting out process.
But Tad Butler could no more sit idly by while the exciting work was going on than could the foreman himself. The first steer that was cut out from the main herd, after Stallings went back, found Tad Butler alongside of it, crowding it toward his own herd farther out. And this work he kept up until all the strangers had been separated from the Diamond D stock.
"There, I'm glad that job is done," exclaimed Stallings, whipping off his hat and drawing a sleeve across his perspiring brow.
"Too bad I had to go and upset things so," said Tad.
"Never mind. It's all in a day's work. On a cattle drive if it isn't one thing it's sure to be another. We have been lucky enough not to have a stampede thus far. That isn't saying we won't, however. If you feel like working you can ride up and join the point men. We'll make five or six miles before it is time to bed down the herd."
To Tad's companions was left the task of driving the strange cattle a couple of miles to the west and leaving them there.
The boys could not well lose the main herd; for, no sooner had they started on the trail than a great cloud of dust slowly floated up into the air. Tad, in his position near the head of the line, and well out to one side of it, was free from this annoyance. The longer the lad was in the saddle, the stronger he seemed to feel, and the only trace that was now left of his recent experience among the hoofs of the Mexican steers was a bump on one side of his head almost as large as a hen's egg.
It was near sundown when the foreman, who had ridden on ahead some time before, came back with the information that a broad stream that was not down on his map lay just ahead of them.
"There's not more than thirty feet of swimming water there, and I believe I'll make a crossing before we go into camp," he announced briefly.
"How deep is the water?" asked Big-foot Sanders.
"In the middle, deep enough to drown, but on the edges it's fordable. The cows will be glad of a drink and a swim after the heat of to-day."
With this in mind the cowmen were instructed to urge the cattle along at a little stronger pace, that they might all get well over before the night came on.
The animals seemed to feel the presence of water ahead of them, for they ceased their grazing by the wayside and swung into a rapid pace, such a pace as always gladdens the heart of the cowboy. The steers held it until the rays of the setting sun were reflected on the surface of the broad sluggish stream.
The Pony Riders dashed forward intent upon reaching the stream first. Tad followed them upon receiving permission from the foreman to do so.
The banks on each side were high and steep, making it far from an ideal fording place. Stallings, however, thought it better to cross there than to take the time to work the herd further down. Joining the boys, he cast his glance up and down the stream to decide whether his judgment had been correct.
"I thought we were going to cross the river," said Stacy Brown.
"That's exactly what we are going to do," replied the foreman.
"But where's the bridge? I don't see any?" objected the lad.
"Right there in front of you."
"Where?"
"Chunky, there is no bridge," Tad informed him. "We have to wade, just as the cattle will."
"And swim, too, part of the way," added Stallings.
"But we'll get wet," wailed Chunky.
"No doubt about that," roared the foreman.
"Swim the river with our horses?" exclaimed Ned. "Hurrah! That will be great!"
"I shall be glad to get some of this dust washed off me," laughed Tad. "Besides, the bump on my head will feel better for it, I think."
"Spread out, boys. The cattle are coming up on the run. They will push you into the river before you are ready if you happen to be in their way," warned Stallings.
The riders clucked to their ponies and all galloped up stream some distance that they might be well out of the way of the oncoming herd.
The thirsty animals plunged into the water with a mighty splash. Some forded until their feet could no longer touch the ground, after which they swam to the other side, while others paused to drink until those behind them forced them out into the stream also.
In a few moments the stream was alive with swimming cattle, the herd being spread out for a full quarter of a mile up and down the stream. To the rear, yelling cowboys were urging on the stragglers and forcing the herd into the cool waters.
It was an inspiring sight for the boys.
Here and there a cowman would ride his pony into the water and turn the leaders, who were straying too far up or down the river.
After half an hour of watering, the men began to force the cattle to the opposite bank. There was a great scramble when the steers started to climb the steep bluff. The first ones to try it went half way up on a run.
Losing their footing they came tumbling to the foot of the bluff, knocking a number of the other cattle back into the water.
There was much bellowing and floundering about, but the relentless forcing from the other side swept the unfortunate ones to the crest of the tide and up the steep bank.
Now that the loose dirt had slipped down the footing grew more secure, and the animals soon fell into trails of their own making, up which they crept three and four abreast.
Once on the other side they started to graze as contentedly as if they had not just passed through a most trying experience.
Two of the cowmen who had forded the stream further down, now appeared opposite the main fording place, to take charge of the cattle.
"Get across, boys," shouted the foreman.
With an answering shout Tad and Ned slid their ponies down the sharp bluff, plunging into the water and heading straight across.
"Slip out of your saddles and hang on!" called the foreman.
Without an instant's hesitation the two boys slid into the water with a splash, but keeping tight hold on the pommels of their saddles.
"Let go the reins," directed Stallings. "The ponies know where to go."
Now the lads were being drawn rapidly through the water, and almost before they knew it their feet rested on the bottom of the shallow stream a short distance from the opposite bank.
"Hooray!" shouted Tad, waving his water-soaked sombrero. "Come in. The water's great!"
"Come on, Chunky," called Ned.
"I'll wait and go over in the wagon," decided Chunky.
"You'll do nothing of the sort," snapped the foreman. "You will swim, if you get over at all."
Professor Zepplin, not to be outdone by his young charges, bravely rode his animal into the stream.
The boys set up a shout of glee when he, too, finally dropped into the river with a great splash. Instead, however, of allowing the pony to tow him, the Professor propelled himself along with long powerful strokes of his left hand, while with the right he clung to the saddle pommel.
"Three cheers for Professor Zepplin!" cried Tad as the German, dripping but smiling, emerged from the water and scrambled up the bank, leaving his pony to follow along after him.
The cheers were given with a will.
Stacy Brown, however, was still on the other side with the straggling cattle which were coming along in small bunches.
"Young man, if you expect to get in for supper, you'd better be fording the stream," suggested Big-foot Sanders.
The mention of supper was all that Stacy needed to start him.
"Gid-ap!"
The pony slid down the bank on its haunches, Stacy leaning far back in the saddle that he might not pitch over the animal's head.
"Chunky would make a good side hill rider, wouldn't he?" jeered Ned.
"Depends upon whether he were going up or down," decided Tad.
"Look out! There he goes!" exclaimed Walter.
The boy's mount had mired one foot in a quicksand pocket and had gone down on its knees. But Chunky kept right on going.
He hit the water flat on his stomach, arms and legs outspread, clawing and kicking desperately.
The fat boy opened his mouth to cry out for help.
As a result Stacy swallowed all the water that came his way. Floundering about like a drowning steer, choking and coughing, he disappeared from sight.
"He's gone down!" cried a voice from the other side of the stream.
Tad sprang down the bank and leaped in, striking out for the spot where Stacy had last been seen.
Cattle were scattered here and there and the boy had to keep his eyes open to prevent being run down. He had almost reached the place where he had made up his mind to dive, should Stacy not rise to the surface, when a great shout from the bluff caused Tad to turn.
"Wha—what is it?" he called.
"Look! Look!" cried Ned Rector.
"I don't see anything. Is it Chunky? Is he all right?"
"Yes. He's driving oxen just now," answered Ned.
By this time the cowpunchers had joined in the shouting. Tad could see, however, that they were shouting with merriment, though for the life of him he could not understand what there was to laugh about.
Several steers were between him and the spot on which the glances of the others were fixed.
"Come on in," called Ned.
The lad swam shoreward with slow, easy strokes. Then he discovered what they were laughing at.
Stacy, grasping desperately as he went down, had caught the tail of a swimming steer. He had been quickly drawn to the surface, and out through an opening between the treading animals, appeared the fat boy's head.
Chunky was not swimming. He was allowing the steer to do that for him, clinging to its tail with all his strength. The lad's eyes were blinded for the moment by the water that was in them. He did not release his hold of the tail when they had reached the shore, but hung on desperately while the steer, dragging him along through the mire, scrambled up the bank.
There was no telling how long Stacy might have hung to the animal's tail, had not Stallings grabbed him by the collar as he rose over the crest of the bank. Stallings shook him until the water-soaked clothes sent out a miniature rain storm and the boy had coughed himself back to his normal condition.
"Well, you are a nice sort of cowboy," laughed the foreman. "When you are unable to do anything else to interest your friends, you try to drown yourself. Go, shake yourself!"
Stacy rubbed the water from his eyes.
"I—I fell in, didn't I?" he grinned.
After having ferried the trail wagon over, everybody was ready for supper. No one seemed to mind the wetting he had gotten. Professor Zepplin made a joke of his own bedraggled condition, and the boys gave slight heed to theirs.
The cattle were quickly bedded down and guards placed around them almost immediately, for the clouds were threatening. Stallings' watchful eyes told him that a bad night was before them. How bad, perhaps he did not even dream.
Supper was ready a short time after the arrival of the wagon, and, laughing and joking, the boys gathered about the spread with a keen zest for the good things that had been placed before them.
"Do you boys feel like going out on guard to-night?" asked the foreman while they were eating.
"I do for one," answered Tad.
"And I," chorused the rest of the lads.
"I see your recent wetting has not dampened your spirits any," laughed Stallings.
"Conditions make a lot of difference in the lives of all of us," announced the Professor. "Now, were these boys at home they'd all catch cold after what they have been through this afternoon. Their clothes, as it is, will not be dry much before sunrise."
"And perhaps not even then," added the foreman, with an apprehensive glance at the sky.
"What did you say, Mr. Stallings?"
"I am thinking that it looks like rain."
"What do we do when it rains?" asked Stacy Brown.
"Same as any other time, kid," growled Big-foot Sanders.
"I know; but what do you do?" persisted Chunky.
"Young feller, we usually git wet," snapped Curley Adams, his mouth so full of potatoes that they could scarcely understand him.
"He means where do we sleep?" spoke up Tad.
"Oh, in the usual place," answered the foreman. "The only difference is that the bed is not quite so hard as at other times."
"How's that, Mr. Stallings?" inquired Walter.
"Because there's usually a puddle of water under you. I've woke up many a morning on the plains with only my head out of water. I'd a' been drowned if I hadn't had the saddle under my head for a pillow. However, it doesn't matter a great sight. After it has been raining a little while a fellow can't get any wetter, so what's the odds?"
"That's what I say," added Ned Rector.
Stacy Brown shook his head, disapproval plainly written on his face.
"I don't agree with you. I have never been so wet that I couldn't be wetter."
"How about when you came out of the river at the end of a cow's tail this afternoon? Think you could have been any more wet?" jeered Ned.
"Sure thing. I might have drowned; then I'd been wet on the inside as well as the outside," answered the fat boy, wisely, his reply causing a ripple of merriment all around the party.
"I guess the gopher scored that time, eh?" grinned Big-foot.
That night Stacy was sent out on the second guard from ten-thirty to one o'clock. They had found him asleep under the chuck wagon, whence he was hauled out, feet first, by one of the returning guards.
Tad had turned in early, as he was to be called shortly before one to go out with the third guard and to remain on duty till half-past three.
For reasons of his own the foreman had given orders that all the ponies not on actual duty, that night, were to be staked down instead of being hobbled and turned out to graze.
Tad heard the order given, and noting the foreman's questioning glances at the heavens, imagined that it had something to do with weather conditions.
"Do you think Mr. Stallings is worried about the weather?" asked the lad of Big-foot Sanders, as he rode along beside the big cowman on the way to the bedding place of the herd.
"I reckon he is," was the brief answer.
"Then you think we are going to have a storm?"
"Ever been through a Texas storm?" asked Big-foot by way of answering the boy's question.
"No."
"Well, you won't call it a storm after you have. There ain't no name in the dictionary that exactly fits that kind of a critter. A stampede is a Sunday in a country village as compared with one of them Texas howlers. You'll be wishing you had a place to hide, in about a minute after that kind of a ruction starts."
"Are they so bad as that?"
"Well, almost," answered the cowman. "I've heard tell," he continued, "that they've been known to blow the horns off a Mexican cow. Why, you couldn't check one of them things with a three inch rope and a snubbing post."
Tad laughed at the quaintness of his companion's words. The sky near the horizon was a dull, leaden hue, though above their heads the stars twinkled reassuringly.
"It doesn't look very threatening to me," decided Tad Butler, gazing intently toward the heavens.
"Well, here's where we split," announced the cowboy, riding off to the left of the herd, Tad taking the right. Shortly after the lad heard the big cowman break out in song: