CHAPTER IV

OLD FRIENDS

It was almost sunset when Powell and Jack rode over the hill and saw the round-up camp in the valley, far below them. There was a big bunch of cattle still scattered out and feeding, but about them were the four or five riders who were keeping them together, and who a little later, and before dark, would bring them up into a close bunch, to bed them down. Off to one side was the cávaya, or horse bunch, which contained the strings of the different riders, six or seven or eight horses to a man, and the work horses that were used on the chuck and bed wagons. Lounging around the camp were the men, apparently waiting for supper, which the cook announced just before Powell and Jack reached the camp. The men hurried up to the tent; each one supplied himself with plate, cup, knife, fork and spoon, and went over to the cook-stove and helped himself to food. When Powell and Jack stopped close to the camp, it was a boisterous crowd of full-mouthed men who shouted and waved their hats to them. Every one knew Powell, and half a dozen recognized Jack, who as a little fellow had been known to most of them. Jack was glad to see them all, but his eye roved about, looking especially for Hugh, who, after the first outbreak, rose from the ground, where he had been sitting filling his pipe, and walked over to Jack and gave him a cordial hand-clasp.

"Well, son," drawled Hugh, "I'm sure glad to see you again. It's a long time since we've met, and I reckon we'll have lots to say to each other, now that we've got together again."

"You bet we will, Hugh," cried Jack; "and we can't begin too soon, according to my notion."

A moment later their talk was interrupted by Charley Powell, who, slapping Jack vigorously on the back, told him to take off his saddle and turn his horse loose, for he was going to take the horses over and turn them into the cávaya. Jack unsaddled and let his horse go, and then Hugh said to him:

"Go get your supper now, and after you've eaten, or while you're eating, come out here and set down. I want to see you and talk to you, even if your mouth is full and you can't talk to me."

Jack hurried to the cook's tent and presently returned with a plate heaped high with food, and a cup of coffee brimming over, so that the steaming fluid dripped from it at every step. He sat down and began to eat, while Hugh, whose pipe was now going well, began to talk.

"Well, son, you've surely growed a heap since we saw each other last. You're taller now, I reckon, than I am; but you ain't nigh so thick; the fact is, it looks as if it was about time for you to stop growing long, and begin to grow broad, but then I reckon there's time enough for that, maybe. Do you remember that last trip we made, when we went up over the ice in those high mountains in the main range? Do you remember the time Tony Beaulieu and his partners shot holes in the tent? And do you remember that Indian that stopped us over by the crossing of St. Mary's River and wanted whisky?"

"You bet I remember it all, Hugh," said Jack; "but I think what I remember best of all is the way you held Tony Beaulieu and how he burst out crying when he couldn't get away; and the way old Calf Robe quirted those Indians that had stopped us."

"Yes, that sure was a good trip," replied Hugh; "but, then, I don't know as it was better than a whole lot of other trips we made. That first time, when we went up to the Piegan country, when you counted a _coup_, and you and Joe found that sack of gold; that must have been a dandy trip for you, because you were so much younger, and because everything that you saw was new and strange and exciting.

"Now this summer you're going to have a mighty quiet time, I reckon, with plenty of hard work; nothing to see, except ride circle, getting in at night feeling as if your feet belonged a yard apart; then maybe going out on night herd, and serenading these cattle, if a storm comes up and they get anyways uneasy. No, you can't expect to have much happen in a cow camp."

"Oh, I don't know, Hugh," laughed Jack; "there are lots of things that can happen out in this country yet. Of course, there's not much except hard work and grief that happens in a cow camp, and yet there's some excitement in riding and roping, and there's always a chance that we may run across a bear and have some fun with him."

"Well," Hugh replied, "the country is getting pretty quiet now. Maybe it's because I'm getting old, and maybe it's because I've seen a good many things happen, but I certainly don't get excited the way I used to."

By this time Jack had finished eating. Putting his things together, he carried them back to the cook's tent, and then returned to Hugh, and sat down close beside him.

"Well, Hugh," he said, "there was something happened yesterday that I want to tell you about; though I shouldn't say anything about it to anybody else, unless it gets to be talked about. You speak about the country being in a bad way and no good any more, and sometimes I think you're right. Now something happened yesterday over at Powell's that I wouldn't have believed could have taken place in a country where there are men, and American men at that! It isn't a thing I want to talk about, but I do want to tell you about it, and to ask you whether you think what I did was right. I am not doubtful about it myself, but I'd like to have your opinion, too."

With that Jack opened his heart and told Hugh all the events of the day before.

The story finished, Hugh sat for some time without speaking, looking at his pipe which had gone out while he listened. At last he raised his eyes.

"Well, son, I think that what you did was the wisest possible thing to have done. Of course you didn't have much choice in the matter. You were bound to do whatever Mrs. Powell and little Bess said that they wanted done, but as it happens what they wanted done was the best thing that could have been done. It surely would have been mighty uncomfortable for those two women--as nice women as I ever saw--to have a man lynched on their account, as you might say, right close to the house. It was up to you to help them out of that scrape, and you did it sensibly and well. I'm not a mite surprised at Bessie's killing that man. She's a mighty smart little girl; thinks quick and acts quick. I expect if she hadn't shot as she did, there's no telling what amount of deviltry those two men might have been up to."

"You're right, Hugh, she's plucky and a good shot, and she must have been mighty quick to think what to do; but, I tell you, it made her feel mighty bad to be obliged to do it, and for a while after she had shot she looked as white as a ghost."

"Davis?" reflected Hugh. "I am trying to see if I can't recollect that name. What sort of looking fellow was the one that got killed?"

"He looked like 'most anybody else, except that he had a more or less hooked nose, and a black mustache. Mrs. Powell said that his eyes looked sharp and snappy, and sort of cruel; but of course I didn't see his eyes."

"I was wondering," said Hugh. "Years ago, down in old Nebraska, I used to know a cow puncher named Bill Davis, and he might have been this man. The description fits him well enough, but I don't know as it makes much difference, seeing he's dead. You say you didn't find any letters or papers on him."

"Nothing; nothing except a pipe and tobacco and matches, and a little small change."

"Of course, you don't know anything of what become of the other fellow?"

"Nothing more than what I have told you," said Jack. "He started for the railroad, and that's the last I saw of him."

"I don't believe you ever will see him; unless he writes you for the fifteen dollars you owe him. He may do that; but, somehow, I think likely he'll be too scared even to do that."

"I don't know," replied Jack; "he seemed mightily afraid of the business end of the six-shooter, but he didn't seem very much afraid of me; he seemed kind of sorry rather than afraid. Well, it's Powell's business, and not mine, and I am not going to say anything about it. If he wants to speak of it, all right."

"I've heard of mighty few people getting into trouble by keeping their mouths shut," said Hugh, "but of a whole lot that have come to grief from talking too much. You'll be all right, I think, to keep quiet."

Jack stood up.

"I guess I'll go over and speak to Mr. McIntyre, and get my work laid out for the next two or three days," he said. "He may want me to go on night herd to-night. I suppose there are plenty of fellows who will be mighty glad to get off."

Jack's guess was a good one. The round-up foreman was glad to see him, of course--glad to get a new hand, and a fresh hand. He told Jack that the best thing he could do now would be to go out and catch up a horse and take his turn at night herd until 10 o'clock. Then he could come in and get five or six hours' sleep before they started to ride in the morning. The cávaya had just been brought in; and Jack, taking his rope, went out and caught one of his string and brought it in and saddled it. Pawnee would have been the horse chosen, but Pawnee had already carried him from Powell's to the round-up, and Jack thought the horse entitled to a little rest.

The night was calm and pleasant, and there seemed no reason to suppose that anything would disturb the cattle, so only two boys were sent out to ride around them at present, relieving the four or five who had had charge of them during the latter part of the day, who had now brought them together and waited until they had finally lain down and were peacefully chewing the cud under the stars, just then coming out.

Tulare Joe was Jack's companion: a new acquaintance, but a nice looking fellow, whose name suggested that he came from somewhere in California. He was a man eight or ten years older than Jack, quiet, pleasant, soft-voiced, and apparently a rider. As the two approached the cattle they separated and began to ride around them; and one by one the other riders, as they met them, exchanged a word or two and turned their horses in the direction of the camp. Presently from the other side of the herd, Jack caught the sound of Joe's voice droning out a song, the words of which he could not hear; but later, when they were relieved by other boys, and were riding back to camp, he asked Joe to teach him the song. Joe said that he knew only one verse, which ran like this:

"Oh! the cowboy's life is a dreary one, He works from dawn till the setting of the sun, And then his work is left undone, For his night herding then comes on.

"Sing, who-o, who-o, whoop; cows away; He works all night and he works all day. Whoop-i-wo; whoop-i-way; For very poor chuck and darned poor pay; Sing, whoop-i-whoa who-ay."

After a few days Jack caught the air of this, and thereafter often sang it when on night herd.

"I don't know why it keeps the cattle quiet," said Joe, "it certainly ain't the sentiment; and I don't believe it's the tune. I suppose like as not it gives them something to think about and keeps them from looking around, hunting for things to get scared at. Maybe, too, it gives them confidence when they think that the men and the horses are right close to 'em all the time. Anyhow, I've always heard about singing to the cattle ever since I first forked a horse, and I've seen sometimes, when cattle were mighty nervous and uneasy, when the singing seemed to keep them from breaking away."

Jack slept soundly that night and the call to grub came all too soon the next morning.