Moving The Herd

: Rowdy Of The Cross L

Four thousand weary cattle crawled up the long ridge which divides Chin

Coulee from Quitter Creek. Pink, riding point, opposite the Silent One,

twisted round in his saddle and looked back at the slow-moving river of

horns and backs veiled in a gray dust-cloud. Down the line at intervals

rode the others, humped listlessly in their saddles, their hat brims

pulled low over tired eyes that smarted with dust and wind and burning
r /> heat.

Pink sighed, and wished lonesomely that it was Rowdy riding point with

him, instead of the Silent One, who grew even more silent as the day

dragged leadenly to mid-afternoon; Pink could endure anything better

than being left to his thoughts and to the complaining herd for company.

He took off his hat, pushed back his curls--dripping wet they were and

flattened unbecomingly in pasty, yellow rings on his forehead--and eyed

with disfavor a line-backed, dry cow, with one horn tipped rakishly

toward her speckled nose; she blinked silently at wind and heat, and

forged steadily ahead, up-hill and down coulee, always in the lead,

always walking, walking, like an automaton. Her energy, in the face of

all the dry, dreary days, rasped Pink's nerves unbearably. For nearly a

week he had ridden left point, and always that line-backed cow with the

down-crumpled horn walked and walked and walked, a length ahead of her

most intrepid followers.

He leaned from his saddle, picked up a rock from the barren, yellow

hillside, and threw it at the cow spitefully. The rock bounced off her

lean rump; she blinked and broke into a shuffling trot, her dragging

hoofs kicking up an extra amount of dust, which blew straight into

Pink's face.

"Aw, cut it out!" he shouted petulantly. "You're sure the limit, without

doing any stunts at sprinting up-hill. Ain't yuh got any nerves, yuh

blamed old skate? Yuh act like it was milkin'-time, and yuh was headed

straight for the bars and a bran mash. Can't yuh realize the kind uh

deal you're up against? Here's cattle that's got you skinned for looks,

old girl, and they know it's coming blamed tough; and you just bat your

eyes and peg along like yuh enjoyed it. Bawl, or something, can't yuh?

Drop back a foot and act human!"

The Silent One looked across at him with a tired smile. "Let her go,

Pink, and pray for more like her," he called amusedly. "There'll be

enough of them dropping back presently."

Pink threw one leg over the horn and rode sidewise, made him a

cigarette, and tried to forget the cow--or, at least, to forgive her for

not acting as dog-tired as he felt.

They were on the very peak of the ridge now, and the hill sloped

smoothly down before them to the bluff which bounded Quitter Creek. Far

down, a tiny black speck in the coulee-bottom, they could see Wooden

Shoes riding along the creek-bank, scouting for water. From the way he

rode, and from the fact that camp was nowhere in sight, Pink guessed

shrewdly that his quest was in vain. He shrugged his shoulders at what

that meant, and gave his attention to the herd.

The marching line split at the brow of the bluff. The line-backed

cow lowered her head a bit and went unfaltering down the parched,

gravel-coated hill, followed by a few hundred of the freshest. Then the

stream stopped flowing, and Pink and the Silent One rode back up the

bluff to where the bulk of the footsore herd, their senses dulled by

hunger and weariness and choking thirst, sniffed at the gravel that

promised agony to their bruised feet, and balked at the ordeal. Others

straggled up, bunched against the rebels, and stood stolidly where they


Pink galloped on down the crawling line. "Forward, the Standard Oil

Brigade!" he yelled whimsically as he went.

The cowboys heard--and understood. They left their places and went

forward at a lope, and Pink rode back to the coulee edge, untying

his slicker as he went. The Silent One was already off his horse and

shouting hoarsely as he whacked with his slicker at the sulky mass.

Pink rode in and did the same. It was not the first time this thing had

happened, and from a diversion it was verging closely on the monotonous.

Presently, even a rank tenderfoot must have caught the significance of

Pink's military expression. The Standard Oil Brigade was at the front in


Cowboys, swinging five-gallon oil-cans, picked up from scattered sheep

camps and carried many a weary mile for just such an emergency, were

charging the bunch intrepidly. Others made shift with flat sirup-cans

with pebbles inside. A few, like Pink and the Silent One, flapped their

slickers till their arms ached. Anything, everything that would make

a din and startle the cattle out of their lethargy, was pressed into


But they might have been raised in a barnyard and fed cabbage leaves

from back door-steps, for all the excitement they showed. Cattle that

three months ago--or a month--would run, head and tail high in air, at

sight of a man on foot, backed away from a rattling, banging cube of

gleaming tin, turned and faced the thing dull-eyed and apathetic.

In time, however, they gave way dogedly before the onslaught. A few were

forced shrinkingly down the hill; others followed gingerly, until the

line lengthened and flowed, a sluggish, brown-red stream, into the

coulee and across to Quitter Creek.

Here the leaders were browsing greedily along the banks. They had

emptied the few holes that had still held a meager store of brackish

water and so the mutinous bulk of the herd snuffed at the trampled,

muddy spots and bellowed their disappointment.

Wooden Shoes rode up and surveyed the half maddened animals gloomily.

"Push 'em on, boys," he said. "They's nothings for 'em here. I've sent

the wagons on to Red Willow; we'll try that next. Push 'em along all yuh

can, while I go on ahead and see."

With tin-cans, slickers, and much vituperation, they forced the herd up

the coulee side and strung them out again on trail. The line-backed

cow walked and walked in the lead before Pink's querulous gaze, and the

others plodded listlessly after. The gray dust-cloud formed anew over

their slowmoving backs, and the cowboys humped over in their saddles

and rode and rode, with the hot sun beating aslant in their dirt-grimed

faces, and with the wind blowing and blowing.

If this had been the first herd to make that dreary trip, things would

not have been quite so disheartening. But it was the third. Seven

thousand lean kine had passed that way before them, eating the scant

grass growth and drinking what water they could find among those barren,

sun-baked coulees.

The Cross L boys, on this third trip, were become a jaded lot of

hollow-eyed men, whose nerves were rasped raw with long hours and longer

days in the saddle. Pink's cheeks no longer made his name appropriate,

and he was not the only one who grew fretful over small things. Rowdy

had been heard, more than once lately, to anathematize viciously the

prairie-dogs for standing on their tails and chipchip-chipping at them

as they went by. And though the Silent One did not swear, he carried

rocks in his pockets, and threw them with venomous precision at every

"dog" that showed his impertinent nose out of a burrow within range. For

Pink, he vented his spleen on the line-backed cow.

So they walked and walked and walked.

The cattle balked at another hill, and all the tincans and slickers in

the crowd could scarcely move them. The wind dropped with the sun, and

the clouds glowed gorgeously above them, getting scant notice, except

that they told eloquently of the coming night; and there were yet

miles--long, rough, heartbreaking miles--to put behind them before

they could hope for the things their tired bodies craved: supper and

dreamless sleep.

When the last of the herd had sidled, under protest, down the long hill

to the flat, dusk was pushing the horizon closer upon them, mile by

mile. When they crawled sinuously out upon the welcome level, the hill

loomed ghostly and black behind them. A mile out, Wooden Shoes rode out

of the gloom and met the point. He turned and rode beside Pink.

"Yuh'll have t' swing 'em north," he greeted.

"Red Willow's dry as hell--all but in the Rockin' R field. No use askin'

ole Mullen to let us in there; we'll just go. I sent the wagons through

the fence, an' yuh'll find camp about a mile up from the mouth uh the

big coulee. You swing 'em round the end uh this bench, an' hit that big

coulee at the head. When you come t' the fence, tear it down. They's

awful good grass in that field!"

"All right," said Pink cheerfully. It was in open defiance of range

etiquette; but their need was desperate. The only thing about it Pink

did not like was the long detour they must make. He called the news

across to the Silent One, after Wooden Shoes had gone on down the line,

and they swung the point gradually to the left.

Before that drive was over, Pink had vowed many times to leave the range

forever and never to turn another cow--besides a good many other foolish

things which would be forgotten, once he had a good sleep. And Rowdy,

plodding half-way down the herd, had grown exceedingly pessimistic

regarding Jessie Conroy, and decided that there was no sense in thinking

about her all the time, the way he had been doing. Also, he told himself

savagely that if Harry ever crossed his trail again, there would be

something doing. This thing of letting a cur like that run roughshod

over a man on account of a girl that didn't care was plumb idiotic. And

beside him the cattle walked and walked and walked, a dim, moving mass

in the quiet July night.