Looking for Cattle

            I'm so used to this country falling off to thirty degrees or lower most summer nights, 56 degrees at daylight seems too hot. By eight o’clock, it’s up to 75 degrees. I feel like sitting out this heat wave up in the pines by Logging Camp Spring instead of putting another day's hot, dusty work into looking for cattle that don't want to be found. But Frank's up, sorting horses and tack, so I kick out of my bag and grumble over toward the cabin. Frank says, "What horse you going to ride today, Wilson?"

            "Who are you riding?"

            "Boardhead."

            "Well, I guess I'll take Roany, if he isn't in a Roany-baloney, smart-aleck mood."

            "Want me to ride him down a little for you?"

            Frank grew up on horses. Claims they had to run him into a blind chute and peel him off the horse's back to change his diapers. I believe him. Nineteen year old kid knows more about horses and mules than any sixty year old cowboy I ever met.

            Me, I didn't ride much until I hit thirty-five. Riding grew out of this ranchhand job I hold. I had to lie circles around the ranch to get the boss to let me do some of the riding. Horses never did believe what I said I already knew, but they were polite enough to wait until we rode private before they called my bluff and dumped me into the brush. When I was still alive and able to walk after the first year, I knew I was okay, as long as I didn't pick too hot a horse, and I never did. Roany was borderline.

            I had enough work without taking on riding, but a man can see more of this country from the high seat on the back of a horse, and I didn't want to live the rest of my life never discovering anything new.

            I said, "No thanks. We'll manage. Pancakes in ten minutes."

            "I'll be there in nine and fifty-five seconds. Don't feed em to the horses."

            I dropped the first stack on his plate, with a chunk of ham and two eggs, just as he bottomed the chair. I said, "Did you wash your hands?"

            "Hell no, Mama. I eat with this here fork, not my fingers. Nothing better than a little horse hair mixed in the butter and honey. I tell you mister, that's a good breakfast you put together. You're a hell of a good cook. If you wasn't so flat-chested, I'd marry you."

            "Frank, you don't have to compliment me on my cooking. You keep taking care of the horses and saddling up, and I'll keep doing the cooking. I don't know if I told you, but the one time you did cook, it took me three days squatted in the brush to get myself back in balance."

            "Shit, Wilson, I hope I don't go all delicate like that when I hit forty. When you was nineteen, could you eat the pancakes, the frying pan, and part of the campfire?"

            "No. Age didn't do it. I had an ulcer when I was twenty. Ate soda-crackers and milk until I realized the doctors didn't know their gluteus maximus from their elbow, and the only workable prescription was get out of the factory and out of the city. Listen."

            "Hoo boy. That has to be Richard. J.T. said he might send him up."

            We stepped out and got clear of the trees, where we could see. Little yellow overwing flew up the canyon about seventy miles an hour. Frank ran to the pickup and got on the radio. "Hey Richard. Are you gonna help us look?"

            Crackling back to us. "I already looked. There's a dozen head on that bald ridge above Cottonwood spring. Everything else must be holed up in timber. That was all I could see."

            He flew up on one wing, doing a high circle above us to keep radio contact.

            Frank said, "Wilson cooked a hell of a good breakfast. Won't you join us?"

            "Sure. Hold my plane for me."

            "Come low. We'll put it on the frisbee and throw it up to you."

            "Don't want nobody's thrown-up breakfast."

            "Richard. Richard. Don't leave us. We want to see what happens when you get dizzy."

            "That's supposed to be Roger, Roger. If you got anything to say, say it. I'm going to F as in Frank, W as in Wilson, Y as in Why not, fly up the river to the one I love."

            "Tell J.T. we'll get to a phone and call him when we have twenty eight pair in the corral."

            "Okay. Roger. Ten-four. Wilson, I brought you a Sunday paper. Cover your heads. Snub down the horses. Here it comes."

            Tree-top high, throttled back, he threw it out the door. It smacked through the top of a pine tree and hit the corral rail, and the horses all jumped and bucked. Richard flew away up the canyon, still too close to the black cliffs on both sides.

            "Wilson here's a Sunday paper for you. God, don't he think I know how to read?"

            "Hard to keep a secret where everybody knows everybody, in country like this."

            "You read some of this news stuff and see if the world's in any worse shape while I read the funnies, and then we'd better put our asses in the saddle."

            "We'd better read when we get back and put some ground under us before it gets hot."

            I know the secret of how to handle Roany. The instant my rear settled in the saddle, I hupped him into a gallop, and we got a half-mile under us before I let him slow down. That took enough steam out of him, he wouldn't sunfish me into the brush if I stayed alert and still pushed him along. I topped the ridge before Frank caught up with me. Boardhead likes to start the day walking and add a little steam all day. He's a real lasting horse.

            Frank said, "I'll head north and cover the south and west edge of the burn. Why don't you see if you can find anything in those thickets east of the burn? We can meet at Tophat spring in about two hours."

            I picked up four pair in the thickets, pushed them down into the horse pasture, and shut the gate on them so we could pick them up on the way back. One skinny old cow with long horns was a wild Mama, and I wished my dog hadn't got himself killed under a truck, cause I needed help. A good dog can do more cow-driving than two men on horses. Frank had Joker with him.

            I sat easy and let Roany do most of the work. Good horse that he is, he used very little guidance from me, blocked her any way she tried to run, and drove her back a step at a time until she ran through the gate. I hit the dusty dirt and shut the gate behind her, mounted again, and headed on up the draw, Roany setting his own pace at a fast walk.

            Frank waited for me at Tophat spring, sitting on the ground in the shade under some trees, Boardhead ground-tied and cropping short grass.

            I said, "What happened to Tophat?"

            "First time I ever did see this outfit go dry. Just a little bit of wet ground is all there is."

            "You see any cows?"

            "Nope. Hoof nor tail nor hide nor hair."

            "I put four pair in the horse pasture. We'd better head for Earmuff Spring. I'll take this side of the ridge."

            Hot and dusty. Isn't eight o'clock yet, but it must be 85 degrees. All the way up the draw, no cows, no fresh sign. Grass cropped short. Dust. It's going to be a long day.

            Frank rode down the draw to meet me. He said, "I been riding this country since I was big enough to climb off a corral rail onto a horse, and I never seen springs go dry like this before."

            "Earmuff is dry too?"

            "A little bit of a wet spot in the ground. We'd better head straight up for Cottonwood Spring. If it's dry, we'd better lay up in the shade through the heat of the day. Too rough on dogs and horses to go a hot day without water."

            "Might not be too easy on a man, either. First time I ever doubted this policy of carrying no water."

            "Hell. Who'd ever think these springs would go dry?"

            First time I met Frank, he was working for Gene Hale. They had a renegade Simmental bull, kept jumping the fence from Forest Service range and getting in with Gene's black angus cattle and fighting his bulls. They'd kicked him back up into Forest Service range twice, but he wouldn't stay, so they drove him down to our corrals to lock him up until the owner could come and get him and sell him for hamburger.

            Not a cooperative bull, ready to take anything, especially men on horses, so Frank moved him with a bullwhip, just kept at him steady, ribs, ribs, neck, butt, even cracked him on the testicles to keep him moving. By the time they got him into the corral, Frank and his horse were well lathered. An irrigation ditch runs right by the corral, and Frank washed his face and neck and then lay down to drink.

            I'd walked over to see what plans they had for the bull, and I said, "I wouldn't drink out of that ditch."

            He looked up at me, then went ahead and drank. Then he stood up. Tall and lean. Dark, like he might be part Indian. He said, "I know where this ditch runs. I drink some of the water everyplace I go. What gets you is if you're not used to the water and you drink it, and there's some little bug in it you never had in your gut before. Then you might get sick. If you drink it all the time, your belly gets used to filtering out what needs to be filtered, so you never do get sick.

            "As many springs and streams as there are in this country, carrying water is dead weight. Water in a canteen gets spit-warm by mid-morning. You're never more than half a mile from water in this country, wherever you ride."

            When I started working with Frank, I adopted part of his policy. I didn't carry water. I wouldn't drink out of streams, because cattle range everywhere, and they don't walk away from the streams before they defecate or urinate. I'd drink out of most springs though, because upstream is all underground, and that keeps the water clean.

            Hot. Really hot. The horses lather just at an uphill walk. Joker suffered. A dog can die of heat stroke if he doesn't have some water and has to keep moving in the heat.

            But Cottonwood Spring still ran a good, full pipe of water out of the box built around the spring, with a little pool below, where the horses drank and Joker drank and lay down in the water to cool off.

            Frank peeled out of his saddle, hit the ground, splashed himself with water, and took a long drink before I even got my right foot clear of the stirrup. I'd never been there before, so I looked the place over. I always want to see where my drinking water comes from, so I took the cover off the spring box just as Frank finished his fourth and longest drink. He looked up at me, with water dripping from his hair and face, shirt soaked, "Well, how's it look?"

            "Looks real good, except for this dead wood rat floating in here."

            "Ha. You liar."

            I tried to pick it up by the tail, but its tail pulled apart. I got it by the front feet and threw it out onto the ground.

            Frank said, "I thought it tasted a little funny. Didn't notice it at first, but that last drink was a little funny."

            "If you ever need a drink where there's dead rats in the water, you're already used to it."

            "Boy. Now that I know about it, I can smell it on the water." He sniffed the water coming from the pipe. About a minute later, he started that deep, resonant HAW, HAW, HAW he gets into when something's double funny to him. "Now Wilson, why the hell did you go take the lid off there in the first place?"

            "I like to see where my drinking water comes from."

            "You should leave well enough alone and not go asking too many questions. HAW HAW HAW HAW." Off into another gale of laughter, literally rolling on the dusty ground. "Cause you know why? HAW HAW HAW. I got me a belly full of water. The horses got a belly full of water. Joker got a belly full of water, and what we didn't know didn't bother us, but I bet you go dry for a long time yet this day. Phew. You know, moving that rat around stirred him into the water. This stuff really stinks now."

            We threw the rat way off away from the spring, and I waited a while to see if the smell would clear, but it didn't. Frank said, "You know, the ideas you got in your mind are dangerous, not the stink in the water. Look at Joker. He's getting hisself another drink. If that rat was floating right there by him in the water, he'd still drink. Dogs might not be smarter than people, but a lot of ways, they're more sensible. You could die of thirst waiting for clean water."

            "Takes days for people to die of thirst. No big deal."

            But in the heat and dust of that day, it did get to be a fairly big deal, though I wouldn't have admitted that to Frank for anything in this material world.

            We picked up sixteen pair under the trees at the edge of the bald ridge above the spring, where Richard said he'd seen a dozen. Joker sniffed out three pair and a lone cow in the brush and brought them out to us. Frank said, "That cow lost her calf a while back. She's going dry, but she ain't clear dry. We won't find the calf now unless we find it dead."

            The cattle were reluctant to move through the heat of the day. They wanted to lay up in the shade, but we got them moving and kept after them all the way down the ridge. We picked up the four pair at the horse pasture. The long-horned cow headed up the first brushy draw, taking her calf at heel.

            Frank put Boardhead to a gallop and got ahead of her, and Joker cut in front of her and nipped at her nose. She tried to horn the dog into the dust, but he jumped and dodged and went after her nose again, and Frank and Boardhead moved down close, and she turned back into the herd.

            Next draw, same thing, but from the other side, so Roany and I cut above her while Joker worked close, and we got her headed back and into the herd in a cloud of hot dust. Roany gets serious about his work and doesn't think about brush and tree branches that might cause problems for his rider, so I had to watch for them at the same time I directed energy toward a mad cow with long, sharp horns. "Don't get too awful close to those sharp horns, Roany." But he worked and didn't pay a lot of attention to what I complained about. That horned cow never hooked closer than about a quarter of an inch, because Roany was thinking about his own flesh, too, but it gave me moments of excitement as she stirred a sharp wind against my leg with a passing, polished horn.

            She headed up on Frank's side again. He uncoiled his whip and popped her nose. She bled like a bull-whipped cow for a bit, but she stuck with the program after that. Frank looked at me like he thought I might say he was too ready with the whip, but I said nothing. The heat and dust was rough on men and animals, and I was ready to accept a lot to keep progress down the mountain.

            The heat eased up just a little when the sun dropped behind the western trees. We ran the cattle into Cow Camp pasture, unsaddled, brushed the horses and watered them and gave them some grain. Before we did all that business with Boardhead and Roany, I took some short drinks of cold water, then a long one.

            Frank said, "My backbone's rubbing holes in my belly. My stomach thinks my throat is cut. We could drive to town and get us some of them big hamburgers with cheese and mushrooms at One-Eyed-Charlie's."

            "You go if you want to. I have an appointment with that watermelon we put up at Logging Camp Spring. Think I'll just take some bread and cheese and my guitar up there. Watch it get dark from the edge of the ridge."

            "Well, unless you need to be by yourself, come to think, I didn't lose anything in town. Town on a hot evening don't hold much for me. All the good-looking women's in the bar, and they'll kick me out of there, now they know I'm underage."

            So we drove up to Logging Camp Spring and ate, everything we found in our food boxes that didn't need cooking, followed by watermelon, rinds out on the ground for wandering deer or elk or raccoons. We walked over to the top of the bluff overlooking the hay meadows and pasture on the ranch, and we watched the sun set behind Greenhorn Mountain. Frank said, "If you're willing to drive around fast enough, you can see three or four sunsets every evening up here."

            I took my guitar out of its case, sat down on a big rock and checked its tuning, then set out a couple of tunes. I kept everything in the key of F, because that's the harmonica Frank brought, and the third tune, he found that thing in the bottom of one of his pockets and pulled it out and commenced the old blow, draw, blow routine, until he had it about regular, and I sang right up on top of everything else. Frank, he's getting acceptable on that little harmonica. We stayed up there long after the moon climbed into the sky and outshone the nearest stars.

            It's a different way to live, in these modern times, kind of lonely sometimes, but I've been lonelier in towns and cities.

             The highway lies six or eight miles off across the valley from us. Once in a while, we hear a big truck coming down on its jacob brake, navigating the long downgrades. Beyond that, we could be the only people in a thousand miles.

            We stop all the music and just listen to the night around us for a while. Coyotes sing us a song from down at the edge of the timber, and we crank out a couple of songs for them in exchange. Couple of owls talk back and forth above us on the mountain. Frank says, "I can't remember what people call that kind of owl, but I know what they look like and what they sound like and how they fly."

            I said, "That's a great grey owl, that real deep tone, and usually in sets of three, whoo-hoo-hoo, or sometimes just the one whoo, booms right out, sounds kind of like it's in the bottom of a big water-tank, more tone to it than a great horned owl."

            "Two more times you telling me what people generally call that owl, I'll remember. I never wanted to know before, but I see we can talk about them easier if we call them the same name." "They must like the music okay. They keep moving closer to us."

            "Well, let's do a couple more for 'em before we quit for the night then."

            We do a couple more, and then we just sit quiet for a long time.

            It might be midnight when Frank says, "Somewhere in hundreds of square miles of high meadows and timber, there's still eight pair of J.T.'s cattle."

            I'd been sitting there, drifting into sleep, with dreams moving in and replacing the night all around us. Dreams flee, and I see the sky, the stars, the moon, the meadows and forest below us, cool and darkly shadowed in moonlight, Frank silhouetted against the meadow far below us. I say, "I don't care if we don't find them for a while, but I'm going to start carrying two canteens and a bigger lunch."