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At Home At Cross L








From: Rowdy Of The Cross L

In two days Rowdy was quite at home with the Cross L. In a month he
found himself transplanted from the smoke-laden air of the bunk-house,
and set off from the world in a line camp, with nothing to do but patrol
the boggy banks of Milk River, where it was still unfenced and unclaimed
by small farmers. The only mitigation of his exile, so far as he could
see, lay in the fact that he had Pink and the Silent One for companions.

It developed that when he would speak to the Silent One, he must say
Jim, or wait long for a reply. Also, the Silent One was not always
silent, and he was quick to observe the weak points in those around him,
and keen at repartee. When it pleased him so to do, he could handle the
English language in a way that was perfectly amazing--and not always
intelligible to the unschooled. At such times Pink frankly made no
attempt to understand him; Rowdy, having been hustled through grammar
school and two-thirds through high school before he ran away from a
brand new stepmother, rather enjoyed the outbreaks and Pink's consequent
disgust.

Not one of them loved particularly the line camp, and Rowdy least of
all, since it put an extra ten miles between Miss Conroy and himself.
Rowdy had got to that point where his mind dwelt much upon matters
domestic, and he made many secret calculations on the cost of
housekeeping for two. More than that, he put himself upon a rigid
allowance for pocket-money--an allowance barely sufficient to keep
him in tobacco and papers. All this without consulting Miss Conroy's
wishes--which only goes to show that Rowdy Vaughan was a born optimist.

The Silent One complained that he could not keep supplied with
reading-matter, and Pink bewailed the monotony of inaction. For, beyond
watching the river to keep the cattle from miring in the mud lately
released from frost grip, there was nothing to do.

According to the calendar, spring was well upon them, and the prairies
would soon be flaunting new dresses of green. The calendar, however, had
neglected to record the rainless heat of the summer gone before, or
the searing winds that burned the grass brown as it grew, or the winter
which forgot its part and permitted prairie-dogs to chip-chip-chip above
ground in January, when they should be sleeping decently in their cellar
homes.

Apart from the brief storm which Rowdy had brought with him, there had
been no snow worth considering. Always the chill winds shaved the barren
land from the north, or veered unexpectedly, and blew dry warmth from
the southwest; but never the snow for which the land yearned. Wind, and
bright sunlight, and more wind, and hypocritical, drifting clouds, and
more sun; lean cattle walking, walking, up-hill and down coulee, nose to
the dry ground, snipping the stray tufts where should be a woolly carpet
of sweet, ripened grasses, eating wildrose bushes level with the sod,
and wishing there was only an abundance even of them; drifting uneasily
from hilltop to farther hilltop, hunger-driven and gaunt, where should
be sleek content. When they sought to continue their quest beyond the
river, and the weaker bogged at its muddy edge, Rowdy and Pink and
the Silent One would ride out, and with their ropes drag them back
ignominiously to solid ground and the very doubtful joy of living.

May Day found the grass-land brown and lifeless, with a chill wind
blowing over it. The cattle wandered as before except that knock-kneed
little calves trailed beside their lean mothers and clamored for full
stomachs.

The Cross L cattle bore the brunt of the range famine, because Eagle
Creek Smith was a stockman of the old school. His cattle must live on
the open range, because they always had done so. Other men bought or
leased large tracts of grass-land, and fenced them for just such an
emergency, but not he. It is true that he had two or three large fields,
as Miss Conroy had told Rowdy, but it was his boast that all the hay he
raised was eaten by his saddlehorses, and that all the fields he owned
were used solely for horse pastures. The open range was the place for
cattle and no Cross L critter ever fed inside a wire fence.

Through the dry summer before, when other men read the ominous signs
and hurriedly leased pasture-land and cut down their herds to what the
fields would feed, Eagle Creek went calmly on as he had done always.
He shipped what beef was fit--and that, of a truth, was not much!--and
settled down for the winter, trusting to winter snows and spring rains
to refill the long-dry lakes and waterholes, and coat the levels anew
with grass.

But the winter snows had failed to appear, and with the spring came
no rain. "April showers" became a hideously ironical joke at nature's
expense. Always the wind blew, and sometimes great flocks of clouds
would drift superciliously up from the far sky-line, play with men's
hopes, and sail disdainfully on to some more favored land.

It is all very well for a man to cling stubbornly to precedent, but if
he clings long enough, there comes a time when to cling becomes akin to
crime. Eagle Creek Smith still stubbornly held that rangecattle should
be kept to the range. He waited until May was fast merging to June,
watching, from sheer habit, for the spring transformation of brown
prairies into green. When it did not come, and only the coulee sides and
bottoms showed green among the brown, he accepted ruefully the unusual
conditions which nature had thrust upon him, and started "Wooden Shoes"
out with the wagons on the horse round-up, which is a preliminary to the
roundup proper, as every one knows.





Next: A Shot From The Dark

Previous: Pink As Chappyrone



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