“Git along, little dogies, git along!”
He sang in a cracked voice as his horse patiently followed the drags.
And sothey found him that day in the Spring of ’87. Horace and the little man with the white beard and puckered, sky blue eyes who owned the Circle C. Horace and the Old Gent.
They did not know him. Their eyes were dim with the miracle that lay before them. Cattle. Hundreds of cattle, grazing hungrily. And behind them a snow blind man who was all hair and rags, who sang in a crazy voice, the words of “Sam Bass.”
A phantom herd followed by a ghost. It was impossible to believe that so many cattle could have lived, while so many thousands of others had died. Buck’s herd filled the coulees and covered the ridges. The chain harness rattled on the work team that was hooked to a bull hide which held Buck’s bed and two young calves hog tied.
A dozen brands were represented in that gaunt herd. One of those calves belonged to the Widow Brown’s Jersey milk cow. Its father was the prize Circle Diamond bull that had strayed down from its Canadian range. Half of Dick Powell’s herd was there.
“Sam Bass was born in Indiana...”
Between them, the Old Gent and Horace got Buck Bell to the ranch. Somebody went for Doc Steele, fifty miles away. For Buck was blind and one foot so badly frozen that three toes had to come off.
“He’ll see again in ten days,” said the doctor. “Let him sleep. Give him warm food. Go slow on the whisky. He has a barb wire constitution and a rawhide carcass.” He was a little puzzled at Buck’s delirious babbling.
“He’s been worrying about something.”
Horace and the Old Gent exchanged glances. The owner of the Circle C thoughtfully stroked his whiskers and smiled down at the sleeping Buck Bell. Then he handed the doctor the note that Horace had found on the table at the deserted line camp at Rocky Point. Doc Steele knew cowboys. He understood. He handed back the note and blew his nose like a trumpet. The Old Gent fetched glasses and the bottle.
“Cotton Eye got here about New Year’s, Doc. He had five thousand dollars and said he’d stole it. Wanted to plead guilty and take his medicine. His story didn’t hold water. He’d been sitting in a poker game when the money was stolen at the depot. Horace knew Buck was the thief because the melting snow on Buck’s hat and clothes showed he’d been out in the storm about the time that depot man was robbed. Cotton Eye finally admitted he’d stolen the money from Buck. Buck had kept him awake nights, talking about the robbery in his sleep like a man gone loco. Buck saved Cotton Eye’s life and he wanted to return the favor.”
Doc Steele chuckled deep down in his muscular throat.
“Couple of sentimental old sage hens. It’s a damn’ shame, sir, that we haven’t more of such outlaws in this world.”
He lifted his glass.
“Here’s to ’em.”
“May their breed never die out.”
When they had set down their glasses, Doc Steele looked quizzically at the cowman.
“How is this thing going to be squared with the mining people?”
The sky blue eyes of the old cattleman twinkled. Doc Steele was somehow reminded of the sun shining through summer rain.
“I bought the damn’ mine, Doc. Last fall. I don’t think that anything more need be said about that fool holdup. Buck Bell saved what cattle I have left. God and Buck Bell alone know how he managed. You should have seen what I saw. The whole range spotted with dead critters. Like a boneyard a hundred miles square. We’d rode all day across a cow country graveyard. When I heard cattle bawling, I thought I was dreaming. That herd trailing up out of the breaks. A man too weak to walk, riding behind ’em, singing— It was something, Doc, that a man won’t ever forget.”
They filled their glasses and drank in silence. Then they tiptoed out and Buck Bell slept on, a smile of peace on his frost cracked lips.
Outside, the chinook wind whispered its promise to the cow country.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 1, 1928 issue ofAdventuremagazine.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 1, 1928 issue ofAdventuremagazine.