The History of the Old American West – 4 Books in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Emerson Hough
as the boy gathered up his horses into the rope corral made by two or three cow ponies and a couple of men as supports, the round-up boss looked on at his businesslike movements with approval, and remarked aside to one of the men, "That's a d — n good kid all right." To which the other replied with an approving grunt. The Kid rounded up his charges swiftly, and got them into a many-coloured mass of mingling heads and tossing manes within the confines of the rope corral, after which the work of roping the mounts followed. The Kid begged of the foreman the privilege of doing the roping, and the latter, smiling in rough fashion, gave him what he asked, not laughing at his failures, but giving him a bit of advice about his work now and then when he had a specially wily pony to capture from out the moving and plunging bunch of wild range horses. It was a good instance of the chivalry sometimes shown by stronger natures to ones weaker or less skilled, and it afforded also a good example of the development of the cowboy from youth to manhood, from inexperience to skill.
Presently each man had out his mount, and had saddled the grunting and complaining beast in the effective fashion of the plains. There was a little mild pitching, but not enough to interest the tired cow-punchers. In a trice the rope corral was down and the ropes coiled at the saddle horns of their owners. The cook had his mess wagon slapped shut, and the teamster his team "hooked up." The men rode away as silent as they came, the foreman and some of those passing most closely to us saying as they rode by, "So long, fellers." No one looked back as he rods away, for this would have been a bit of curiosity not in good form on the range. They passed away into the edge of the rim of hills, and we saw them no more. Such is one picture of the range, and it shows the cowboy not as a devil-may-care, roistering fellow, full of strange oaths and uncouth conduct, but, as he should perhaps better be seen, as a steady, hard-working, methodical man, able in his calling, faithful in his duties, and prompt in their fulfilment. These men were grimy with toil of a most exacting sort. Their fare was coarse and common, and even the first necessary of comfort was denied them. They were rudely clad, and all armed to the last item, for that was a country where arms were at times needful. Yet hard as was their apparent lot, and rude as they who shared it, their simple and uncomplaining hardihood and self-control, their dignity, and their generous conduct to the younger member of the party left a lasting impression — perhaps a good one of its kind — of the cowboy as he is in actual life upon the range.
CHAPTER X
DRIFTS AND STAMPEDES
The life of the cowboy in the early days of the West was a series of pictures of unusual and striking themes. The panorama of the plains dealt with no small things for subjects,, not the turn of a gown nor the poise of a fan nor the cast of a gesture, but with things of gravity and import. The wars of man with brute, of brute with Nature, of man with brute and Nature both, such were the topics of that vivid canvas. It was a time of large actions, large pictures.
One can see it now, the great cold landscape of the cattle range in winter. It is a picture of scant lighting and low values. The monochrome of winter, the blue-gray of cold desolation, oppresses it all. The white hills set on the farther edge are cold and bluish. The sky above is forbidding with its sunless gray. The dust-grimed snow in the coulees is gray, and the uncovered soil of the wind-swept hill is gray and cheerless. Not a rift of light falls anywhere, not a touch of sun to soften the hard, metallic composition. All the greens were gone long ago. The ragged and clutching hand of a sagebush reaches up in despair from the uncompromising desert, but it, too, is gray — gray with the withered spirit of the iron earth and icy air. The sky is even in its colours, except that now and then there scuds across it a strange and ominous thing, a wisp of flying white, misplaced and unregulated. For the air is altogether still. No breath waves the mane of this pony which stands on the little ridge, its head up and its gaze bent fixedly upon the far horizon. There is something strange in the air. It is not so extremely cold, but the silence is so deep, so startling. Back of the very silence there is something, something of portent, of warning. Now and again a long shivering moan goes across the plain, borne from no one knows what origin. The image of dread is stalking forth this day. All animate nature feels it. Whither are going these great gray wolves, slouching along, their tails low, their heads over their shoulders, looking backward at this unseen pursuing thing? They do not trouble the cattle now, nor do the cattle fear them as they pass through. What, then, is it that the cattle dread, so that they sniff and snort and toss their heads, looking wildly toward the north as did this pony now? Written on this inscrutable dull sky there must be some awful sight invisible to human eyes. These wild creatures of the plains see it. They feel the dread. They know their weakness to meet this coming thing. They moan, the note of despair in their voices. They start now and then and run swiftly for a short distance, then turn and come back, pitching their heads high and bellowing. They lower their heads and shake them, and mutter hoarsely, with their muzzles near the ground, emitting their breath in sharp puffs.
Look! The breath of the cattle has grown white. It shines like fresh steam in the air. A moment ago the air was warm. And now that weird white scud flitted again across the sky, across the earth rather, low down, flying like some wraith of the mountains. Back there, upon the horizon where the cattle have looked so long, there arises a tiny cloud of white, soft, fleecy, innocent as the garb of a babe. Alas! it is the shroud of the range. It is the vestment of death for thousands of these creatures here!
It comes, this little cloud, rising and growing and spreading as though it were some vast curtain drawn quickly up and forward. Before it run long, ragged hissings in the air, and on the edge of these hissings fly always these scuds of the sky, little venomous spirits of fury, as they may now plainly be seen to be. With the mutterings of the gathering cattle, which now crowd together in the blind wish for aid and comfort, there blends the first low voice of the storm, a far-off sighing wail, of cadence at first indicative of anything but malice. This voice rises and then falls and is silent for a moment. It rises again, nearer and changed in import. It dominates the mingled voices of the herd, now crowded together, their feet scuffling, their heads thrown high and confusedly. Again the storm speaks, this time very near, and as it falls a great sigh goes over the breast of Nature, the sigh for that which is to happen. It is the last warning, as useless as the others. The storm has crept on until it is sure of its prey. There is a whirring, rasping crash as the blades of the wind meet and sweep on, and then a wall of icy white smites the shivering beasts as they stand huddled and waiting for that which they know is doom!
On the narrowed horizon, leaning forward as they ride and coming to the herd as fast as their horses can bear them, are two figures, the men of the line camp nearest to this spot. If they can head the cattle into the broken country beyond perhaps they can find shelter enough to stop the drift. If they start straight down before the wind, nothing can stop them till they reach the first fences many miles below. It will be the emptying of the range! Once under the hills he-fore the drift begins, and perhaps there will he shelter enough to enable the cattle to live through the storm. Perhaps they, too, can live through it in some way; they have not paused to ponder how. Well enough they know that anything they do must be done at once. "Well enough they know, perhaps, that every human regard for their own safety would take them just the other way, back to the little dugout in the bank which they have left. But at least they will try to save a part of the herd which has formed here. They must be young men. Old hands would know that when the blizzard has set in there is no power on earth that can stop the drifting of the cattle.
And now the storm bursts with a blinding, smothering wave of white, fine snow, driven to atoms by the flat wind that hurls it on. This poudre of the north cuts like a set of knives revolving on the skin. No man, no creature can face it. The stings of the thousands of whips smite unceasingly, all this under the exhaust of the storm, which steals away the breath so that one must turn down wind to live. The air has grown icy cold at once. All around the world is now blotted out. The eye strikes a continuous dancing, glittering whirl of particles of ice, which confuse and bewilder with their incessant glinting flight. All sense of direction is lost at once. There is but one direction, and that is with the wind. The ground itself is almost gone. The mountains, the hills, the ridges, the coulees have all disappeared. Only close at the feet of the horses and cattle can one see a bit of earth,