Wells Brothers

A WINTRY CRUCIBLE

The dreaded winter was at hand.  Scarcely a day passed but the harbingers of air and sky sounded the warning approach of the forthcoming siege.  Great flights of song and game birds, in their migration southward, lent an accent as they twittered by or honked in mid-air, while scurrying clouds and squally weather bore witness of approaching winter.

The tent was struck and stored away.  The extra saddle stock was freed for the winter, and located around Hackberry Grove.  The three best horses were given a ration of corn, and on Dell’s return from the railroad, the cattle were put under herd.  The most liberal freedom must be allowed; with the numbers on hand, the term close herding would imply grazing the cattle on a section of land, while loose herding would mean four or five times that acreage.  New routes must be taken daily; the weather would govern the compactness and course of the herd, while a radius of five miles from the corral was a liberal range.

The brothers were somewhat familiar with winter on the plains.  Cold was to be expected, but if accompanied by sunshine and a dry atmosphere, there was nothing to fear.  A warm, fine day was usually the forerunner of a storm, the approach of which gave little warning, requiring a sleepless vigilance to avoid being taken unaware or at a disadvantage.

The day’s work began at sunrise.  Cattle are loath to leave a dry bed, and on throwing open the corral gates, it was often necessary to enter and arouse the herd.  Thereafter, under normal conditions, it was a matter of pointing, keeping up the drag cattle, allowing the herd to spread and graze, and contracting and relaxing as occasion required.  In handling, it was a decided advantage that the little nucleus had known herd restraint, in trailing overland from Texas, and were obedient, at a distance of fifty yards, to the slightest whistle or pressure of a herdsman.  Under favorable conditions, the cattle could be depended on to graze until noon, when they were allowed an hour’s rest, and the circle homeward was timed so as to reach the corral and water by sunset.  The duties of each day were a repetition of the previous one, the moods of the old and younger cattle, sedate and frolicsome, affording the only variety to the monotony of the task.

“Holding these cattle is going to be no trouble at all,” said Dell, as they rode homeward, at the end of the first day’s herding.  “My horse never wet a hair to-day.”

“Don’t shout before you’re out of the woods,” replied Joel.  “The first of April will be soon enough to count our chickens.  To-morrow is only the beginning of December.”

“Last year we shucked corn up until Christmas.”

“Husking corn is a burnt bridge with me.  We’re herding cattle this winter.  Sit straight in your saddle.”

A week of fine weather followed.  The boys were kept busy, early and late, with the details of house and stable.  A new route each day was taken with the herd, and after penning in the evening, it was a daily occurrence, before bedtime, to walk back to the corral and see that all was secure.  Warning of approach and departure, on the part of the boys, either by whistling or singing, was always given the cattle, and the customary grunting of the herd answered for its own contentment.  A parting look was given the horses, their forage replenished, and every comfort looked after to the satisfaction of their masters.  By nature, horses are distant and slow of any expression of friendship; but an occasional lump of sugar, a biscuit at noon-time, with the present ration of grain, readily brought the winter mounts to a reliance, where they nickered at the approaching footsteps of their riders.

The trust of the boys, in their winter mounts, entitles the latter to a prominent place in the line of defense.  Rowdy, Joel’s favorite, was a veteran cow horse, dark brown in color, and, under the saddle, restless, with a knowledge of his work that bordered on the human.  Dell favored Dog-toe, a chestnut in color, whose best point was a perfect rein, and from experience in roping could halt from any gait on the space of a blanket.  The relay horse was named Coyote, a cinnamon-colored mount, Spanish marked in a black stripe down his back, whose limbs were triple-ringed above the knees, or where the body color merged with the black of his legs.  Their names had followed them from the trail, one of which was due to color marks, one to disposition, while that of Dell’s chestnut was easily traceable, from black marks in his hoofs quartering into toes.

The first storm struck near the middle of December.  It was preceded by an ideal day; like the promise of spring, a balmy south wind swept the range, while at night a halo encircled the moon.

“It will storm within three days,” said Dell, as the boys strolled up to the corral for a last look at the sleeping cattle.  “There are three stars inside the circle around the moon.  That’s one of Granny Metcalf’s signs.”

“Well, we’ll not depend on signs,” replied Joel.  “These old granny omens may be all right to hatch chickens by, but not to hold cattle.  All advice on that point seems to rely on corn-fed saddle horses and little sleep.”

The brothers spent the customary hour at the corral.  From the bluff bank which encircled the inclosure, the lads looked down on the contented herd, their possession and their promise; and the tie of man and his beast was accented anew in their youthful hearts.

“Mr. Paul was telling me on one of our rides,” said Joel, gazing down on the sleeping herd, “that we know nothing of the human race in an age so remote that it owned no cattle.  He says that when the pyramids of Egypt were being built, ours was then an ancient occupation.  I love to hear Mr. Paul talk about cattle.  Hark!”

The long howl of a wolf to the south was answered by a band to the westward, and echoed back from the north in a single voice, each apparently many miles distant.  Animal instinct is usually unerring, and the boys readily recalled the statement of the old trail foreman, that the howling of wolves was an omen of a forthcoming storm.

“Let it come,” said Joel, arising and starting homeward.  “We’ll meet it.  Our course to-morrow will be northwest.”

It came with little warning.  Near the middle of the following afternoon, a noticeable lull in the wind occurred, followed by a leaden horizon on the west and north.  The next breeze carried the icy breath of the northwest, and the cattle turned as a single animal.  The alert horsemen acted on the instant, and began throwing the cattle into a compact herd.  At the time they were fully three miles from the corral, and when less than halfway home, the storm broke in splendid fury.  A swirl of snow accompanied the gale, blinding the boys for an instant, but each lad held a point of the herd and the raging elements could be depended on to bring up the rear.

It was no easy victory.  The quarter from which the storm came had been anticipated to a fraction.  The cattle drifted before its wrath, dropped into the valley just above the corral, where the boys doubled on the outside point, and by the aid of a wing-gate turned the wandering herd into the enclosure.  The rear, lashed by the storm, instinctively followed the leaders, and the gates were closed and roped securely.

It was a close call.  The lesson came vividly near to the boys.  “Hereafter,” said Joel, “all signs of a storm must be acted upon.  We corraled these cattle by a scratch.  Now I know what a winter drift means.  A dozen men couldn’t turn this herd from the course of to-day’s storm.  We must hold nearer the corral.”

The boys swung into their saddles, and, trusting to their horses, safely reached the stable.  A howling night followed; the wind banked the snow against every obstacle, or filled the depressions, even sifting through every crack and crevice in the dug-out.  The boys and their mounts were snug within sod walls, the cattle were sheltered in a cove of the creek, and the storm wailed its dirges unheeded.

Dawn broke cold and clear.  Sun-dogs flanked the day’s harbinger and sunrise found the boys at the corral gate.  The cattle lazily responded to their freedom, the course led to the nearest divide, wind-swept of snow, and which after an hour’s sun afforded ample grazing for the day.  The first storm of the winter had been met, and its one clear lesson lent a dread to any possible successors.  The herd in the grip of a storm, cut off from the corral, had a new meaning to the embryo cowmen.  The best advice is mere theory until applied, and experience in the practical things of life is not transferable.

The first storm was followed by ideal winter weather until Christmas day.  The brothers had planned an extra supper on that occasion, expecting to excuse Dell during the early afternoon for the culinary task, and only requiring his services on corraling the herd at evening.  The plan was feasible, the cattle were herd-broke, knew their bed and water, and on the homeward circle all that was required was to direct and time the grazing herd.  The occasion had been looked forward to, partly because it was their very own, their first Christmas spread, and partly on account of some delicacies that their sponsor had forced on Dell on parting at the railroad, in anticipation of the day.  The bounds of the supper approached a banquet, and the question of appetites to grace the occasion was settled.

The supper was delayed.  Not from any fault in the planning, but the weather had not been consulted.  The herd had been grazed out on a northwest course for the day, and an hour after noon, almost the time at which Dell was to have been excused, a haze obscured the sun and dropped like a curtain around the horizon.  Scurrying clouds appeared, and before the herd could be thrown together and started, a hazy, leaden sky shot up, almost due west, heralding the quarter of the coming storm.  The herd sensed the danger and responded to the efforts of the horsemen; but before a mile had been covered, it was enveloped in swirling snow and veering its march with the course of the storm.  The eddying snow blinded the boys as to their direction; they supposed they were pointing the cattle into the valley, unaware that the herd had changed its course on the onslaught of the elements.  Confidence gave way to uncertainty, and when sufficient time had elapsed to more than have reached the corral, conjecture as to their location became rife.  From the moment the storm struck, both boys had bent every energy to point the herd into the valley, but when neither slope nor creek was encountered, the fact asserted itself that they were adrift and at the mercy of the elements.

“We’ve missed the corral,” shouted Dell.  “We’re lost!”

“Not yet,” answered Joel, amid the din of the howling storm.  “The creek’s to our right.  Loosen your rope and we’ll beat these leaders into the valley.”

The plying of ropes, the shouting of boys, and the pressure of horses merely turned the foremost cattle, when a new contingent forged to the front, impelled onward by the fury of the storm.  Again and again the boys plied the fear of ropes and the force of horses, but each effort was futile, as new leaders stepped into the track of the displaced ones, and the course of the herd was sullenly maintained.

The battle was on, and there were no reserves within call.  In a crisis like the present, moments drag like hours, and the firing line needed heartening.  A knowledge of the country was of no avail, a rod or two was the limit of vision, and the brothers dared not trust each other out of sight.  Time moved forward unmeasured, yet amid all Joel Wells remained in possession of a stanch heart and an unbewildered mind.  “The creek’s to our right,” was his battle cry.  “Come on; let’s turn these lead cattle once more.”

Whether it was the forty-ninth or hundredth effort is not on record, but at some point in the good fight, the boys became aware that the cattle were descending a slope—­the welcome, southern slope of the Beaver valley!  Overhead the storm howled mercilessly, but the shelter of the hillside admitted of veering the herd on its course, until the valley was reached.  No knowledge of their location was possible, and all the brothers could do was to cross to the opposite point, and direct the herd against the leeward bank of the creek.  Every landmark was lost, with the herd drifting at will.

The first recognition was due to animal instinct.  Joel’s horse neighed, was answered by Dell’s, and with slack rein, the two turned a few rods aside and halted at their stable door.  Even then the boys could scarcely identify their home quarters, so enveloped was the dug-out in swirling snow.

“Get some matches,” said Joel, refusing to dismount.  “There’s no halting these cattle short of the second cut-bank, below on the left.  Come on; we must try and hold the herd.”

The sullen cattle passed on.  The halt was only for a moment, when the boys resumed their positions on the point and front.  Allowing the cattle to move, assured a compact herd, as on every attempt to halt or turn it, the rear forged to the front and furnished new leaders, and in unity lay a hope of holding the drifting cattle.

The lay of the Beaver valley below headquarters was well known.  The banks of the creek shifted from a valley on one side, to low, perpendicular bluffs on the other.  It was in one of these meanderings of the stream that Joel saw a possible haven, the sheltering cut-bank that he hoped to reach, where refuge might be secured against the raging elements.  It lay several miles below the homestead, and if the drifting herd reached the bend before darkness, there was a fighting chance to halt the cattle in a protected nook.  The cove in mind was larger than the one in which the corral was built, and if a successful entrance could only be effected—­but that was the point.

“This storm is quartering across the valley,” said Joel, during a lull, “and if we make the entrance, we’ll have to turn the herd on a direct angle from the course of the wind.  If the storm veers to the north, it will sweep us out of the valley, with nothing to shelter the cattle this side of the Prairie Dog.  It’s make that entrance, or abandon the herd, and run the chance of overtaking it.”

“We’ll rush them,” said Dell.  “Remember how those men, the day we branded, rushed the cattle into the branding chute.”

“They could do things that we wouldn’t dare—­those were trail men.”

“The cattle are just as much afraid of a boy as of a man; they don’t know any difference.  You point them and I’ll rush them.  Remember that story Mr. Quince told about a Mexican boy throwing himself across a gateway, and letting a thousand range horses jump over him?  You could do that, too, if you had the nerve.  Watch me rush them.”

It seemed an age before the cut-bank was reached.  The meanderings of the creek were not even recognizable, and only an occasional willow could be identified, indicating the location of the present drift.  Occasionally the storm thickened or lulled, rendering it impossible to measure the passing time, and the dread of nightfall was intensified.  Under such stress, the human mind becomes intensely alert, and every word of warning, every line of advice, urged on the boys by their sponsors, came back in their hour of trial with an applied meaning.  This was no dress parade, with the bands playing and horses dancing to the champing of their own bits; no huzzas of admiring throngs greeted this silent, marching column; no love-lit eyes watched their hero or soft hand waved lace or cambric from the border of this parade ground.

A lone hackberry tree was fortunately remembered as growing near the entrance to the bend which formed the pocket.  When receiving the cattle from the trail, it was the landmark for dropping the cripples.  The tree grew near the right bank of the creek, the wagon trail passed under it, making it a favorite halting place when freighting in supplies.  Dell remembered its shade, and taking the lead, groped forward in search of the silent sentinel which stood guard at the gateway of the cove.  It was their one hope, and by zigzagging from the creek to any semblance of a road, the entrance to the nook might be identified.

The march of the herd was slow and sullen.  The smaller cattle sheltered in the lee of the larger, moving compactly, as if the density of the herd radiated a heat of its own.  The saddle horses, southern bred and unacclimated, humped their backs and curled their heads to the knee, indicating, with the closing day, a falling temperature.  Suddenly, and as clear as the crack of a rifle, the voice of Dell Wells was heard in the lead:—­

“Come on, Joel; here’s our hackberry!  Here’s where the fight is won or lost!  Here’s where you point them while I rush them!  Come quick!”

The brothers shifted positions.  It was the real fight of the day.  Responding to spur and quirt, the horses sprang like hungry wolves at the cattle, and the gloomy column turned quartering into the eye of the storm.  But as on every other attempt to turn or mill the drifting herd, new leaders forged to the front and threatened to carry the drift past the entrance to the pocket.  The critical moment had arrived.  Dismounting, with a coiled rope in hand, Dell rushed on the volunteer leaders, batting them over the heads, until they whirled into the angling column, awakened from their stupor and panic-stricken from the assault of a boy, who attacked with the ferocity of a fiend, hissing like an adder or crying in the eerie shrill of a hyena in the same breath.  It worked like a charm!  Its secret lay in the mastery of the human over all things created.  Elated by his success, Dell stripped his coat, and with a harmless weapon in each hand, assaulted every contingent of new leaders, striking right and left, throwing his weight against their bodies, and by the magic of his mimic furies forcing them into obedience.

Meanwhile Joel had succeeded in holding the original leaders in line, and within a hundred yards from the turn, the shelter of the bend was reached.  The domestic bovine lows for the comfort of his stable, and no sooner had the lead cattle entered the sheltering nook, than their voices arose in joyous lowing, which ran back through the column for the first time since the storm struck.  Turning to the support of Dell, the older boy lent his assistance, forcing the angle, until the drag end of the column had passed into the sheltering haven.  The fight was won, and to Dell’s courage, in the decisive moment, all credit was due.  The human is so wondrously constructed and so infinite in variety, that where one of these brothers was timid the other laughed at the storm, and where physical courage was required to assault a sullen herd, the daring of one amazed the other.  Cattle are the emblem of innocence and strength, and yet a boy—­in spite of all that has been written to the contrary—­could dismount in the face of the wildest stampede, and by merely waving a handkerchief split in twain the frenzied onrush of three thousand beeves.

Dell recovered his horse, and the brothers rode back and forth across the mouth of the pocket.  The cattle were milling in an endless merry-go-round, contented under the sheltering bluffs, lowing for mates and cronies, while above howled the elements with unrelenting fury.

“We’ll have to guard this entrance until the cattle bed down for the night,” remarked Joel, on surveying the situation.  “I wonder if we could start a fire.”

“I’ll drop back to the hackberry and see if I can rustle some wood,” said Dell, wheeling his horse and following the back trail of the cattle.  He returned with an armful of dry twigs, and a fire was soon crackling under the cliff.  A lodgment of old driftwood was found below the bend, and as darkness fell in earnest, a cosy fire threw its shadows over the nook.

A patrol was established and the night’s vigil begun.  The sentinel beat was paced in watches between the boys, the width of the gateway being about two hundred yards.  There was no abatement of the storm, and it was hours before all the cattle bedded down.  The welfare of the horses was the main concern, and the possibility of reaching home before morning was freely discussed.  The instinct of the horses could be relied on to find the way to their stable, but return would be impossible before daybreak.  The brothers were so elated over holding the cattle that any personal hardship was endurable, and after a seeming age, a lull in the elements was noticeable and a star shone forth.  Joel mounted his horse and rode out of the cove, into the open valley, and on returning announced that the storm had broken and that an attempt to reach home was safe.

Quietly as Arabs, the boys stole away, leaving the cattle to sleep out the night.  Once the hackberry was reached, the horses were given free rein, when restraint became necessary to avoid galloping home.  The snow crunched underfoot, the mounts snorted their protest at hindrance, vagrant breezes and biting cold cut the riders to the marrow, but on approaching the homestead the reins were shaken out and the horses dashed up to the stable door.

“There’s the morning star,” observed Joel, as he dismounted.

“If we’re going to be cowmen,” remarked Dell, glancing at the star as he swung out of the saddle, “hereafter we’ll eat our Christmas supper in October.”