In The Saddle

: The Fighting Edge

White winter covered the sage hills and gave the country a bleak and

desolate look. The Slash Lazy D riders wrapped up and went out over the

wind-swept mesas to look after the cattle cowering in draws or drifting

with the storm. When Bob could sleep snugly in the bunkhouse he was

lucky. There were nights when he shivered over a pine-knot fire in the

shelter of a cutbank with the temperature fifteen degrees below zero.

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At this work he won the respect of his fellows. He could set his teeth

and endure discomfort with any of them. It was at sharp danger crises

that he had always quailed. He never shirked work or hardship, and he

never lied to make the way easier or more comfortable. Harshaw watched

him with increasing approval. In Dillon he found all but one of the

essential virtues of the cowboy--good humor, fidelity, truth, tenacity,

and industry. If he lacked courage in the face of peril the reason was no

doubt a constitutional one.



A heavy storm in February tried the riders to capacity. They were in the

saddle day and night. For weeks they appeared at the ranch only at odd

intervals, haggard, unshaven, hungry as wolves. They ate, saddled fresh

mounts, and went out into the drifts again tireless and indomitable.



Except for such food as they could carry in a sack they lived on elk

trapped in the deep snow. The White River country was one of the two or

three best big game districts in the United States.[3] The early settlers

could get a deer whenever they wanted one. Many were shot from the doors

of their cabins.



While Harshaw, Dud, and Bob were working Wolf Creek another heavy snow

fell. A high wind swept the white blanket into deep drifts. All day the

riders ploughed through these to rescue gaunt and hungry cattle. Night

caught them far from the cabin where they had been staying.



They held a consultation. It was bitter weather, the wind still blowing.



"Have to camp, looks like," Harshaw said.



"We'll have a mighty tough night without grub and blankets," Dud said

doubtfully. "She's gettin' colder every minute."



"There's a sheltered draw below here. We'll get a good fire going

anyhow."



In the gulch they found a band of elk.



"Here's our supper an' our beds," Dud said.



They killed three.



While Bob gathered and chopped up a down and dead tree the others skinned

the game. There was dry wood in Harshaw's saddle-bags with which to start

a fire. Soon Dillon had a blaze going which became a crackling, roaring

furnace. They ate a supper of broiled venison without trimmings.



"Might be a heap worse," Dud said while he was smoking afterward before

the glowing pine knots. "I'm plenty warm in front even if I'm about

twenty below up an' down my spine."



Presently they rolled up in the green hides and fell asleep.



None of them slept very comfortably. The night was bitter, and they found

it impossible to keep warm.



Bob woke first. He decided to get up and replenish with fuel the fire. He

could not rise. The hide had frozen stiff about him. He shouted to the

others.



They, too, were helpless in the embrace of their improvised

sleeping-bags.



"Have to roll to the fire an' thaw out," Harshaw suggested.



This turned out to be a ticklish job. They had to get close enough to

scorch their faces and yet not near enough to set fire to the robes. More

than once Bob rolled over swiftly to put out a blaze in the snow.



Dud was the first to step out of his blanket. In a minute or two he had

peeled the hides from the others.



An hour later they were floundering through the drifts toward the cabin

on Wolf Creek. Behind each rider was strapped the carcass of an elk.



"Reminds me of the time Blister went snow blind," Harshaw said. "Up

around Badger Bend it was. He got lost an' wandered around for a coupla

days blind as a bat. Finally old Clint Frazer's wife seen him wallowin'

in the drifts an' the old man brought him in. They was outa grub an' had

to hoof it to town. Clint yoked his bull team an' had it break trail. He

an' the wife followed. But Blister he couldn't see, so he had to hang on

to one o' the bulls by the tail. The boys joshed him about that quite a

while. He ce'tainly was a sight rollin' down Main Street anchored to that

critter's tail."



"I'll bet Blister was glad to put his foot on the rail at Dolan's," Dud

murmured. "I'd be kinda glad to do that same my own se'f right now."



"Blister went to bed and stayed there for a spell. He was a sick man."

Harshaw's eye caught sight of some black specks on a distant hillside.

"Cattle. We'll come back after we've onloaded at the cabin."



They did. It was long after dark before they reached shelter again.



The riders of the Slash Lazy D were glad to see spring come, though it

brought troubles of its own. The weather turned warm and stayed so. The

snow melted faster than the streams could take care of it. There was high

water all over the Blanco country. The swollen creeks poured down into

the overflowing river. Three punchers in the valley were drowned inside

of a week, for that was before the bridges had been built.



While the water was still high Harshaw started a trail herd to Utah.



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[3] According to old-timers the automobile is responsible for the

extermination of the game supply going on so rapidly. The pioneers

at certain seasons provided for their needs by killing blacktail and

salting down the meat. But they were dead shots and expert hunters.

The automobile tourists with high-power rifles rush into the hills

during the open season and kill male and female without distinction.

For every deer killed outright three or four crawl away to die later

from wounds. One ranchman reports finding fifteen dead deer on one

day's travel through the sage.