Part 2

Following them came the boss, cursing his rope, a new "Maguey" which had fouled in his hands and was a mass of snarls and knots, which in his eager haste he only made worse instead of better. At this instant, the blue-roan turned suddenly. With a quick upward thrust of his head, he drove his nearest horn deep into the side of the pony, which was crowding him so closely, tearing a cruel gash in his side and throwing horse and rider into a confused, struggling heap on the ground.

In a moment the steer was lost in the trees, while the boss dropped off his horse to assist his companion, who was working hard to free himself from the body of the pony, which lay across his leg. The boy cleared himself from his saddle-rigging, and the pony struggled to his feet. It was very evident, however, that the animal was wounded to the death; so the boss, with tears in his eyes, drew his six-shooter and put the poor animal out of its misery.

From that day the "blue-roan outlaw" became a marked animal upon the range, and the story of how he killed "Curly Bill's" pony was told around many a campfire on the round-ups that summer.

Thus the roan outlaw added to his reputation and triumphs until his capture was the dearest hope of every cowpuncher upon that range. The word had gone out not to kill him unless absolutely necessary, but rather to capture him alive just for the satisfaction of the thing.

That fall, when the round-ups were working through the country in which he was known to be, every man was ambitious to be his captor. Around the campfires each night plans were laid for the job and stories told of his prowess and ability to escape from his hunters.

One fine morning, as the riders were working through a country covered densely with cedar and piñon trees, with occasional open glades and grassy valleys, the wagon boss and the man with him heard shouts off to their right. Pulling up their horses they waited to locate the sound, when suddenly from the thicket of trees along the valley there emerged two great animals, a black, and a blue-roan steer. It was the famous blue, together with a black, almost as much an outlaw as himself.

The wagon boss, who had just been lamenting the fact that he was riding a half-broken horse that day, was nearest to the blue, and professional etiquette, as well as eagerness to be the one to capture the noted steer, drove him straight at the big fellow. The pony he rode was a green one, but he had plenty of speed, and before the steer could reach the shelter of the cedars the rope, tied hard and fast to the horn of a new fifty-dollar saddle, was settling over the head of the outlaw. Unfortunately, however, the rope did not draw up close to the horns, or even on the neck, but slipped back against the mighty shoulders of the steer, giving him a pulling power on the rope that no cow-pony could meet. Then, to quote the words of the man with the boss, "things shore did begin to pop."

Knowing full well that if he crowded the animal too hard he would turn on him and probably kill another horse, the boss made a long throw and consequently had but little rope left in his hand with which to "play" his steer. The jerk that came, when the steer weighing twelve hundred pounds, and running slightly down hill, arrived at the end of the rope, tied to the saddle-horn, was something tremendous. As soon as the strain came on the cinches the pony threw down his head and began some of the most scientific and satisfactory bucking that was ever seen on the Hashknife range, which is compliment enough.

When the boys were gathered about the fire that evening "Windy Bob," who had been with the boss, related the affair.

"Ye see, fellers, me and Ed was a-driftin' down the wash, not expectin' anything pertickler, when out from the cedars busts the ole blue, and a mighty good mate for him.

"'The blue's mine, Windy,' ses Ed, and I, not hankerin' a bit fer the job, bein' as my shoulder I broke last fall won't stand much funny business, lets him have the big blue all right, and I takes after his mate; which was plenty big 'nuf fer me and the hoss I was a-ridin'.

"I made a good throw and, everything going first rate, had my steer on his side in half a minute, makin' a record throw and tie. Jist as I got my hoggin' rope onto his feet all safe I heered a big doin's up towards Ed's vicinity, and lookin' up seen his hoss jist a-pitchin' and a-sunfishin' like a good feller.

"Ed, he rides him fer about three or four jumps and then, as the saddle was a crawlin' up onto the pony's neck, from his cinches a-bein too loose, and it a-tippin' up behind like a old hen-turkey's tail, runnin' before the wind, Ed, he decides to unload right thar and not go any farther.

"The pony, he keeps up his cavortin' and the steer stripped the saddle right over his head. Away goes Mr. Blue into the thick timber, draggin' that new Heiser Ed got up in Denver over the rocks and through the trees, like as if it want but a picket pin at the end of a stake rope.

"When Ed hit the sod, his Winchester drops out of the scabbard, an' he grabs it up an' sets there on the ground a pumpin' lead after the blue as fast as he could pull the trigger. He never stopped the steer at all, an' when we were trailin' him up, we found the saddle where the rope had dragged between two rocks. The saddle got hung up, but the steer was a runnin' so hard that he jist busted the rope and kept on a goin' an' I reckin is a goin' yet."

"Imagine Ed's shots hit the steer, Windy?" inquired one interested listener.

"Reckon not," was the reply, "but one of them hit the saddle and made a hole clean through the tree, which didn't help matters much with the boss, I'm here to tell you. You'd orter heerd Ed talk when he sees that there new hull of his all skinned up an' a hole shot plumb through the fork." And Windy grinned at the memory of it.

Not long after this adventure, the blue-roan stood on a high ridge overlooking a valley. Out in that valley was the salt ground where great chinks of pure white rocksalt were placed, not only to satisfy the cravings of the salt-loving brutes, but to coax them out of the cedars into the open where the wilder ones could be captured.

The roan was salt-hungry and, after a careful survey of the surroundings, started down the trail for the salt grounds. Away off to the left, and quite out of his sight, half a dozen cowboys were driving a bunch of cattle down a draw between two ridges. One of them rode up on top of the ridge to take a look over the country. Some distance below him, and well out into the valley, was a single animal. It took but a short look to satisfy the rider that it was the blue-roan. The boy was riding his best rope-horse that morning and, with a wave of his hat to his comrades, he loosened the reins on old "Greyback" and tore off down the valley toward the steer.

He had not gone fifty yards before the roan saw he was pursued, and wheeling out of the trail in which he was traveling struck back towards the sheltering trees on a long swinging trot.

A couple of miles' hard run, and the boy rode his horse out of a deep wash, to see, across another valley, the blue-roan hurrying majestically up the ridge, the sheltering trees but a few hundred yards away. He spurred his horse down the rocky side of the ridge, across a flat at the bottom, and up the steep side opposite, reaching the top just as the blue was passing. His horse was winded, but the boy "took a long chance" and drove after the animal with his rope down ready for a throw. For an instant the steer hesitated, then plunged off the ridge, down the steep side, just as the boy's rope dropped over his horns. It was a fearful risk to rope a steer such as this, with a badly winded horse; but tenfold more dangerous to do it just as the great animal was starting down the steep slope. The boy knew his only hope was to keep the steer from tightening the rope, for if that happened, no horse on earth could hold the weight of the brute at the end of it, plunging down hill as they were.

"Turn the rope loose," you say? Oh no; he wasn't that kind of a cow puncher. Come what might, he meant to hang onto that steer to the bitter end.

Half way down the hill was a lone piñon tree about twenty feet high, and true to his nature the steer headed for it. The rider realized his danger and tried to keep from straddling it with his rope, but, just as the roan reached the tree, instead of passing it on the same side with the horse, he dodged around it. This brought the horse and man on one side, the steer on the other; between them a fifty foot "Tom Horn" rope fastened firmly; one end to a twelve hundred-pound steer, the other, to a saddle cinched to a thousand-pound horse.

The tremendous force of the pull, when the rope drew up on the tree, uprooted it. This prevented the rope from breaking, but there was sufficient jerk upon it to bring both horse and steer to the ground in a struggling heap.

The man who was "riding for a fall," with both feet out of the stirrups, in anticipation of just such a wreck, flew off into space, landing in a pile of rocks twenty-five feet away by actual measurement. The horse fell with his head under him in such a way that his neck was instantly broken.

When the other men who were following reached the scene, they found the man just regaining his senses, badly cut about the head, but otherwise unhurt. The blue, in falling, had landed flat on his back, his hind feet down the steep hill, both his long horns buried to the very skull in the ground. Thus he was absolutely helpless and unable to regain his feet, no matter how hard he struggled. To "hog-tie" him in this position, was the work of but a moment, and at last the blue-roan outlaw was a captive.

It was no trouble to roll him down the steep hillside to the level ground below, and inside of half an hour the rest of the men arrived on the scene with the bunch of cattle they had been driving.

In the bunch was a large steer which they roped and dragged up to where the outlaw lay, and, in cowboy parlance "dumped" him on top of the outlaw. They then proceeded to "neck" the two steers together with a short rope they cut for the purpose. Having done this to their satisfaction they untied the hogging ropes and allowed the steers to gain their feet. As this was done the bunch of cattle they had driven up was carefully crowded around the two animals. After a few minutes of pulling and fighting the outlaw sulkily allowed himself to be dragged along by his unwilling mate, with the rest of the cattle, and was eventually landed safely in the main herd.

Great was the rejoicing in camp that night over the capture, and the guards about the herd were cautioned not to let the two escape under any circumstances.

At the end of the week the herd had been worked down to the river for shipping. As the country was open and the herd easily handled the "twins," as the boys called them, came apart when the old rope wore out and were not necked up again.

That night one of the men, who had a family in town, hired a town kid to take his place on herd, while he went up and spent the night at home. As the boy rode his guard around the edge of the herd which lay quietly in the cool night air, he found a big blue steer standing at the very edge of the bunch looking off toward the mountains in a dreamy, meditative mood. Kidlike, he could not withstand the temptation to play the "smarty," so, instead of passing him by or gently turning him into the herd, the boy took off his hat and swung it into the steer's face.

It was a distinct challenge to the old warrior, and he rose to the occasion. Gathering himself for one mighty plunge he struck the pony the boy was riding with his powerful head, knocking him flat. Away he dashed over horse and rider, while the herd broke into a mad stampede which carried them five miles in the opposite direction before they could be "milled" into a bunch and held up again. Two men were left with them, the rest returning to camp.

Daylight showed the blue-roan missing, and the wagon boss swore a solemn oath that, if ever again he was captured, he would be necked and also have his head tied down to a foot until he was safely inside the stockyards.

Four weeks later a party of cattle men, gathering steers in the mountains, ran across the blue outlaw, right on the brink of a deep, rough cañon. He was seen, with the aid of a glass, across a bend in the cañon lying under the rim rock in fancied security. Near him were several other steers, and it was determined to make the attempt to capture the lot.

Carefully driving their bunch of gentle steers as close to the place where the outlaw was lying as they could, with the thought that, if he ran up the trail, he would see the steers and possibly go to them and stop; three men rode into the cañon some distance below and started up the trail toward where he was lying.

The instant the blue-roan saw the horsemen he jumped to his feet, hesitated a moment, and instead of taking the smooth trail out, dove down the steep, rocky sides of the cañon where neither horse nor man could follow.

Surefooted as he was, he misjudged his agility and strength, and plunged into a mass of loose rock, which gave him no foothold. The walls of the cañon were frightfully steep and in the loose rock, sliding, slipping, and rolling, he was swiftly hurried towards the edge of a cliff two hundred feet high, over which he dropped to death and destruction. Tons of loose rock followed him to the bottom, making a roar like a thousand cannons. It was the end of the road for the blue-roan.

When the men climbed down the trail to see just what had happened they found him dead and half buried in the mass of fallen rock.

The cliff was an over-hanging one, smooth and soft enough to show markings, and one of the men, taking a piece of hard flintrock, spent half an hour cutting deep into the smooth, white wall the words:

"Here died the Blue-Roan Outlaw. He was a King."

CAMPIN' OUT

_A Bit of Family Correspondence_

Camp Roosevelt, September 5th.

_Dear Daddy_: I promised to write every day, if I could, while we are on our vacation; so here goes: My, but we had a hard time getting out here. Say, Dad, did you ever pack a burro? Haven't they got the slipperiest backs? Our pack turned over about twenty times and scattered the stuff all over the country. The sugar spilled out of the bag and wasted. Billy says that don't matter, though, for we can use molasses in our coffee, like the miners up in Alaska.

He kept running into all the open gates along the road (the burro, not Billy). The way he tramped up some of the gardens was awful. Billy got so mad he wouldn't chase him out any more, 'cause once they set a dog on to him as he was chasing the burro out of a frontyard.

Billy says burros is the curiest things ever.

We tried leading him (the burro, not Billy), but he wouldn't lead a single step. He ran away last night. Billy hopes he never comes back again.

We are camped under a big fir tree, with branches that come down to the ground just like an umbrella. The creek is so close to camp that we can hear it tumbling over the rocks all night. I think it's great, but Billy says it's so noisy it keeps him awake. Billy makes me tired, he does; for it takes Jack and me half an hour to wake him up in the morning to build the fire. That's his job.

We called it "Camp Roosevelt." Billy wanted to name it "Camp Bryan," because his father's a democrat, but me and Jack says nothin' doing in the Bryan name, 'cause this camp's got to have some life to it, and a camp named Roosevelt was sure to have something lively happening all the time.

We are sure having a fine time here.

Your affectionate son,

DICK.

P. S. Tell mother that tea made in a coffee pot tastes just as good as if it was made in a tea pot. She said it wouldn't.

DICK.

P. S. Pa, did you ever useto sleep with your boots for a pillow out on the plains? Cause if you did I don't see how you got the kinks out of your neck the next day.

DICK.

Camp Roosevelt, September 7th.

_Dear Pa_: My, but the ground's hard when you sleep on it all night. We all three sleep in one bed, 'cause that gives us more to put under us. I'm sorry for soldiers who have to sleep on one blanket. We toss up to see who sleeps in the middle, for the blankets are so narrow that the outside fellow gets the worst of it.

The first night the burro ran off, and next morning Jack had to walk two miles before he found him. Jack's the horse-wrangler. Isn't that what you said they used to call the fellow who hunted up the horses every morning on the round-ups?

We staked him out the next night (the burro I mean, not Jack) and we all woke up half scared to death at the worst racket you ever heard in all your life. And what do you think it was? Nothing at all but that miserable burro braying.

Say, Pa, you know that quilt mother let me bring along, the one she said you and she had when you first got married? Well, do you s'pose she'd care if it was tore some? You see, on the way out the burro ran along a barb wire fence and tore it, the quilt I mean. Lots of the stuffing came out, but it don't show if you turn the tore place down.

This morning I woke up most froze, 'cause Billy crowded me clear off the bed and out on to the ground. It's sure great to sleep out of doors and see the stars and things. We put a hair rope in the foot of the bed last night. Gee, but Jack jumped high when his bare feet hit it. He thought it was a tarantula.

My, I wish we could stay here a year.

Lovingly,

DICK.

P. S. The little red ants got into our condensed milk and spoiled it; leastways there's so many ants we can't separate the ants from the milk. Billy left the hole in the top of the can open.

Camp Roosevelt, September 9th.

_Dear Pa_: You know Billy's dog Spot? Well, Billy said there was a wildcat about camp, 'cause he saw the tracks. So I went down to a house below on the creek and borrowed a steel trap they had. It was a big one with sharp teeth on the jaws.

I wanted to set it on the ground, but Billy he says, "No, sir; set it on the log acrost the creek, 'cause the cat would walk on the log and couldn't help getting caught.

Besides, he said if we set it on the log and fastened it, when the wildcat got caught he'd fall off into the creek and get drownded and then we wouldn't have to kill him. Billy says that's the way trappers catch mushrats, so they can't eat their feet off, when they get caught, and get away.

Well, sir, we set the trap and tied Spot up so he wouldn't get into it.

In the night we heard the awfulest racket ever was and the biggest splashing going on in the water. It even woke Billy up, and that's going some, as Uncle Tom says.

It was 'most daylight and I sat up in bed, and there in the water was something making a dreadful fuss. Billy he looks at it a minute and says: "Why, it's Spot. Who let him loose?" Then we all jumped up, and sure enough there was poor old Spot in the trap by one front-foot. The chain to the trap was just long enough so he didn't drown, but was hanging in the water by one leg.

Billy, it being his dog, crawled out on the log, unfastened the chain and tried to pull Spot up. Some way he lost his balance and fell into the creek right on top of the dog. Billy was real mad 'cause me and Jack laughed so hard we couldn't help him a bit, Spot was pretty mad too, for he grabbed Billy's leg in his teeth and tore a big piece out of them--out of Billy's pajamas I mean.

Then Billy let go of the chain, and Spot climbed out of the water on to the bank and tried to run off with the trap. Billy waded ashore too, and we just laid down on the ground and hollered like real wild Indians. Billy he said it wasn't any laughing matter and to come and help him get Spot out of the trap.

Say, Dad, did you ever try to open a big steel trap--especially one with a spotted dog in it? Spot wouldn't let us come near him. Billy coaxed and coaxed, but, no siree, he wouldn't do anything but just snap at us like a sure enough wild cat. Meantime Spot he howls something dreadful.

Then Jack he remembers how once in a storybook a man caught a mad dog, so he runs to the bed and gets a blanket, and while Billy and me talks nice to Spot from in front, Jack he sneaks up behind and throws it over him. Then Jack grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around the dog's head so he couldn't bite, and we both stood on the trap spring and managed to get it open wide enough so Billy got his foot out (Spot's foot I mean, not Billy's).

Has he come home yet? 'Cause he's gone from here. My goodness, but camping out's sure fun.

Your loving son,

RICHARD.

P. S. Billy says he don't care anyhow, for Spot had no right to chew the rope in two and get loose so as to get into the trap.

DICK.

P. S. The wasps are thick here. One stung Jack on the neck and he hollered awful over it. I made a mud poultice for it like you told me once you used to do on the plains.

Camp Roosevelt, September some time.

We forget what day it is.

_Dear Pa_: It rained last night real hard. We didn't get much wet, and anyhow Jack says camping out wouldn't be any fun unless you slept in wet blankets once, like the cowboys and soldiers do on the plains. Billy says his Uncle John says a wet bed is a warm bed, but I don't believe him, for we 'most froze.

Pa, what makes the red come out of the quilts where they get rained on? Jack says we belong to the improved order of Red Men now, and if my face looks as funny as his does, with red streaks all acrost it, I'd be afraid to go home.

You'd ought to see the fun we had drownding out a chipmonk what ran into a hole in the ground. We packed the water in our hats from the creek. Bimeby, the chipmonk, came out, and I ran after him. He was so wet he couldn't run fast and I made a grab at him and caught him--no, he caught me for he bit my finger horrible hard and I couldn't let go, or else he wouldn't, I'm not sure which.

Billy and Jack laughed at me as if it was a good joke, but I couldn't see where it was so very funny.

Do chipmonks have hydryfoby? Billy says he bets they do.

Your son, DICK.

P. S. Jack dropped the box of matches out of his shirt pocket into the creek, and I had to go to a house about a mile away to get some more.

P. S. You can't make a fire with two sticks of wood, for we tried it for an hour. All we got was blisters on our hands. The Indians must of had lots of patience if they ever did it.

Camp Roosevelt, Thursday.

The man told us.

_Dear Daddy_: If the burro comes home please shut him up in the lot. He's gone somewhere and we can't find him. Anyhow it don't make much difference, for Jack says he'd rather carry his share of the stuff on his back than bother with a pack burro again. There ain't going to be much grub to take back anyhow. The man down the creek gave us some more bacon for what the hogs ate up and said we were welcome to all the green corn we wanted from his field. We had just corn for supper last night and breakfast today. The salt all got wet in the rain and melted up, so we didn't have any, but Billy says lots of times on the plains people didn't have any salt for weeks at a time. I'll bet they didn't have nothing but green corn to eat, though.

Please tell mother that I burned a hole in one of my shoes trying to dry them out by the campfire. Also about six inches off the bottom of one leg of my pajamas. They were hanging on a stick by the fire drying while we made the bed. Billy said he smelt cloth a-burning, but we never saw where it was till the harm was done.

If mother won't mind I'm sure I won't, for Billy says no soldier or cowboy ever wore pajamas. It was my old pair of shoes anyhow, and they always hurt my heel when I walked, so they don't matter either.

Camping out's sure lots of fun.

Your loving son,

DICK.