IF there was one subject which fascinated Larry above all else, it was the cattle industry. He was never tired of hearing about it, and on warm summer evenings, when it was too hot to play polo, his uncle and the rest of the cow-punchers would stretch out on the grass under a big cottonwood near the ranch house and spin yarns of the cattle business. Such old timers as Big Bill, Long Tom, and Pony could by the hour recite tales of the old days; days of the Gilson and Santa Fe trails; of desperate fights between rival ranchmen in New Mexico and on the Panhandle. In addition to that there was the endless strife between the cattle men and the sheep men. If there was one individual in the whole world that a cattle man despised above all others it was a shepherd, and he in turn despised a goat man. Large herds of goats, however, were rarely seen in Wyoming.
Then in addition to these natural foes the cattle men had always had to fight the homesteaders, especially that drifting portion of homesteaders known as floaters or nesters. And worst of all there was the rustler, an unscrupulous scoundrel who fattened upon other people's labors and reaped where he had not sown.
In addition to all of these menaces to the cattle industry there were the wolves and the bears, not to mention the coyotes who were not really a serious menace.
Many of the battles which the cattle men waged with their human foes were fought over the water holes, for water was most important in both the cattle and the sheep industries.
In the very early days of the industry good grazing land had been so plenty that it was not worth fighting for. In those glorious old days a cattle man had been a king indeed and he ruled with an iron hand, but gradually the homesteader had driven him farther and farther west. He had seen the best grazing land set apart by the government for homesteading and his own despotic power had gradually waned.
Up to the early '90's, however, he had been king, and no one had really questioned his authority for he always backed up his claims with force. But things had come to a head one spring morning in the early '90's when about two hundred cow-punchers, armed to the teeth, had met an equal number of sheriffs composed of homesteaders and their sympathizers. The cow-punchers had come out to eject some homesteader from land which they thought they owned. The two little armies had been drawn up face to face and a desperate encounter would have ensued had not a troop of United States cavalry intervened. This blow by the homesteaders had broken the power of the cattle men for all time.
The setting of this stirring drama of the cattle business was certainly picturesque; the broad prairies with their thousands of acres of bunch grass, the low-lying land with its bluejoint, and even the timber land where the juicy pine grass grew so plentifully, were all a veritable wonderland. It was no wonder that the cow-punchers should spin such yarns with such a background.
So, while Larry knew all the history and the tradition of the cattle business and all of its theories, yet he often found that in practice there were many exceptions to these theories and often difficulties and problems arose which he had never dreamed of.
For instance, he had never imagined that he would live to see a flock of sheep on the Crooked Creek ranch, or that they would be subjected to the menace of floaters or nesters, or even more unthinkable than either of these possibilities was the probability that they would ever suffer from rustlers, yet all three of these unforeseen possibilities came to pass under his very eyes.
One morning about the first of June, Larry had been sent by his uncle into the unfenced land of the Crooked Creek ranch which lay to the southeast. There were thousands of acres there which were used by the cow-punchers only during the winter time. It was not very good grassland for it was rather sandy and rugged, being broken with many draws and buttes, but in the winter time it was sheltered and the cattle often weathered a long hard storm in these friendly little canyons.
Hank Brodie had told his nephew to ride over the country and see how it looked and if there were any signs of nesters. It must not be imagined, however, that this territory was entirely devoid of grassland for there were several small intervales of fifty or a hundred acres each where there was good feeding.
Larry's astonishment can well be imagined, when on approaching the largest of these intervales, he found it fairly white with sheep. There were not only hundreds of them, but it seemed to Larry that there were thousands and tens of thousands, although there really were only three thousand. But in every direction as far as his eyes could reach, the grassland was white with sheep. Knowing of the hostility between the cattle men and the sheep men, Larry did not approach any of the three or four shepherds that he saw with the sheep, but contented himself with reconnoitering from a distance. When he had secured all the information that he wanted he returned in hot haste to report to his uncle.
As Larry had expected, his uncle was thrown into consternation by the news, but lost no time in bewailing the fact. He went at once to the corral to saddle his horse.
"You'll have to come along with me, Larry," he said, "I don't just like to take you on such an errand, but there don't seem to be anyone else around and I want a witness."
Larry was not altogether surprised when he saw his uncle buckle on two .45's. He also insisted on inspecting Larry's own gun.
"We probably won't have to use them this time, but it is always best to be prepared. These sheep men are the scum of the earth," said his uncle.
Half an hour later they arrived at the intervale where Larry had found the large herd of sheep and Hank Brodie saw that his nephew had given a faithful report of the conditions. There were four shepherds in charge, and the head cow-puncher of the Crooked Creek ranch at once sought out the foreman of the shepherds.
"What in the devil are you and your stinking sheep doing on my land?" thundered Hank.
"It ain't your land any more than its our'n," returned the shepherd coolly. "It belongs to the government and what belongs to them is as much our'n as it's your'n."
"It doesn't belong to the government," returned Hank, vigorously, "We've grazed it for twenty years and it belongs to us and there ain't no stinking sheep men going to take it away from us."
"Have you got a deed to it?" sneered the shepherd.
"That's my business," returned Hank. "It is ours, I tell you, and you have got to get out."
"We have looked up the titles down at Wyanne and it ain't no more yours than it's our'n. Here we are and here we stay," returned the shepherd.
Although Larry had heard much of the strenuousness of the cattle men and their domination of the land, yet he was amazed at his uncle's next words. He was usually a quiet-spoken man with a pleasing voice, though now: it became ominous and his words were hissed through partly set teeth. To Larry it seemed that the two men as they glared at each other were like two savage beasts fighting over some recent kill. And that is just what it really was, it was a case of primeval man asserting by force his right to the land.
"This is my last word to you," hissed Hank Brodie between his teeth. "We've got ten good cow-punchers up at the Crooked Creek ranch and they all own a .45 and some of them tote two. We've got four or five Winchesters kicking around also. We're coming down here to-morrow morning at sunup and if any of you stinking sheep men are around, we'll shoot you so full of holes that you won't be able to cast a shadow. Now take your choice, go or stay."
With this threat Hank wheeled Baldy sharply about and galloped away and his nephew had nothing to do but follow. When they had gone half a mile Hank pulled Old Baldy down to a trot and allowed Larry to come alongside.
"I ought not to get you into such a fuss as this," he said. "I should have taken one of the old hands along with me. Don't let it bother you, boy."
"Will you and the rest of the boys come down here to-morrow morning and shoot them full of holes as you said?" inquired Larry incredulously.
In spite of the seriousness of the situation Hank laughed.
"Well, it probably won't come to that. If they really stick it out we may shoot their boot heels off and stampede their sheep into Crooked Creek, but we probably won't kill any of them. We won't worry about tomorrow until tomorrow comes."
There was great excitement that evening at supper time when Hank told of the encounter and the cow-punchers of the Crooked Creek ranch were very indignant and ready to back up the head cow-puncher at any cost.
The following morning when Larry awoke, he found the bunk house empty. The alarm clock had not gone off. Old Bill had purposely turned the alarm off, and he and the rest of the men had tip-toed silently out an hour before. Larry dressed in great haste wondering what was up until he remembered the encounter with the sheep men and his uncle's threat. He hurried outside but could not find any of his brother cow-punchers. The ranch house, the saddle shed, the corral, and the stables were all deserted and an ominous silence reigned.
When he asked Mrs. Morgan what had become of the cow-punchers, she seemed strangely non-committal. So there was nothing to do but to wait developments. Larry got a book and sat under a friendly cottonwood, awaiting the return of the cow-punchers. Soon he heard them coming up the wagon trail at a brisk gallop. As they drew near he heard them laughing and jesting. They seemed in good spirits.
"It's all right, son," shouted Hank as they galloped into the yard. "The bluff worked. There ain't a sheep to be seen anywhere in the lowlands this morning. We called their bluff good and proper and they just lit out."
About a month after the discovery of the sheep men in the lowlands below Crooked Creek ranch Larry made another discovery for it was he who was doing most of the range riding. This time he found some nesters in the intervales where he had discovered the sheep men. They must have been there for some time for they had erected a two-room log cabin, a small horse corral, and a cow corral. It looked as though they intended to stay for they had made themselves quite at home and had chopped a large pile of cord wood. They had helped themselves very generously to cottonwood and lodge-pole pines both in the construction of their corrals and cabin and for the wood pile.
Larry did not go very near their new neighbors but contented himself with reconnoitering through his field glass. He finally made out that there were eight in the family, the father, the mother, and five boys, three of whom were nearly man-grown, and a small girl perhaps eight years of age with whom Larry afterwards became quite friendly.
The new interloper was one Fritz Ganzer, an alien of German extraction. Life had become too cramped for him in the homeland and he had sought his fortunes in the new world. He had been victimized by some land sharks down at Wyanne. He imagined that he had bought a quarter section and thought that he could homestead another quarter section, making three hundred and twenty acres in all. This amount of land he had preempted.
When Larry reported to his uncle, the latter seemed much surprised.
"The sheep men were bad enough," he commented, "but this German will be worse. If a German once gets an idea in his head, there is no getting it out."
Hank Brodie never told Larry just what he intended to do and he was so slow in making the first move that his nephew thought he had forgotten about the floaters.
But one evening shortly after dark, without warning, the Ganzer family were suddenly attacked by eight or ten Indians, or at least they looked like Indians. They were generously smeared with war paint, wore sumptuous headdresses, and gorgeous blankets, and their feet were clad in moccasins, and they yelled in true redskin style.
The Ganzer family retreated to their cabin and replied in a desultory manner to the hail of bullets which spattered upon the chimney of their cabin and splintered the door posts, but did no other harm. During the melee the bars of the corral were let down and the two horses and the three cows were driven away. They were not lost permanently, but were found the following day two or three miles down Crooked Creek.
The ruse might have worked had it not been for an unfortunate episode in the attack. One of the redskin's horses was killed by a lucky shot from the little German and the rider fled in haste.
The Ganzer family found on examining the dead horse the following morning that he bore the tell-tale C C R with the encircling barbed wire fence which was the brand of the Crooked Creek ranch.
The next morning a little after sunup the little German accompanied by three of his stalwart sons appeared at the ranch house. He was very angry and sputtered away in his broken English.
"Vot in the tevil do you mean? You dress up your cow-puncher men like Indians and you come down to my place and you shoot up my ranch. I vant to be a good neighbor. I am a good man. I vant to live in America and I vant to farm this land and you do this bad thing. Vot you mean?"
"I'm not quite sure what you mean," replied Hank Brodie. "You will have to explain more fully if you want me to understand."
"Last night, me and my vife, Gretchen, and my boys, we were all eating supper when bang, bang, a lot of Indians ride out of the woods and they shoot and shoot and take down my bars and drive away my horse and my cow. Vot you mean by that?"
"You say they were Indians. I don't know anything about any Indians. It must have been some of the Sioux from the reservation. They get filled up with fire water once in a while and go on a rampage. You had better look out for they may sweep down on you some night and scalp you and your family."
"I tell you they was not Indians. It was your cow-puncher men who make up like Indians and try to drive away my cow."
"I don't know anything about any Indians," replied Hank Brodie. "You will have to look elsewhere. Go to the government, they have charge of the Indians."
But the little German could not be placated. The more Hank talked the angrier he got and the more he railed in his broken English. Finally he left but with this threat.
"I vill get even with you, Mr. Cow-puncher Man. You think you shoot up my place and drive me out of the country. But this country belongs to me as much as to you. Your government man down at Wyanne he told me so. You try to keep all of the land but I vill keep vot I got and I vill get even with you."
Although there was no further immediate hostility between the family of Fritz Ganzer and the Crooked Creek ranch, yet bad blood between the two factions continued.
A couple of weeks after this interview the German's big police dog wandered up on the ranch and was shot by the cow-punchers. This was really not an act against the German for the cow-punchers always made it a rule to shoot stray dogs thinking they would frighten the calves. But Fritz interpreted the deed as a further act of war upon him and his family.
A week or two later while the Ganzer family were peacefully sleeping the bars of their corral were once more let down and the stock driven away. This time it took them half a day to recover it.
But no matter what the cow-punchers of the Crooked Creek ranch did to the family of the little German they still stayed by their guns and went on with their preparations for homesteading.
Just what form his revenge upon the Crooked Creek ranch would have taken is problematical had not nature played into his hands. The summer was a very dry one. There had been no rain for weeks. The feed upon the ranch which was usually of the best became brown and crisp. Leaves upon some of the trees even curled up. The land which was usually well watered became thirsty as a dry sponge and all the ranch especially the lower plateau was like a tinder box.
Under such conditions as these one can well imagine the consternation into which the cow-punchers were thrown one morning about the middle of July when one of their number came galloping in from the lower plateau shouting that the mesa was on fire in half a dozen places.
The lower plateau was perhaps four miles long and two miles wide. Crooked Creek which came down through Piñon Valley from the mountains above, skirted it on two sides and then continued on its way into the lowlands. Hank Brodie at once marshalled his little army to fight the fire and to extricate the six thousand head of badly frightened cattle from the dilemma in which they had been placed. The fire had apparently been kindled with diabolical skill so as to entrap the herd. It was later learned that Fritz Ganzer and one of his boys had been seen to leave the mesa that very morning and several brands which had been used in kindling the fires were afterward discovered.
Pandemonium reigned on the mesa. Calves and yearlings were dashing about with tails up while the younger cows were greatly excited over their calves.
It was so dry that great clouds of dust rose above the excited herd and this, added to the dense clouds of smoke, obscured the summer sun. Hank saw at once by acting quickly that the better part of the herd could be driven into Piñon Valley and thence to the upper plateau. But the cattle were not as tractable as usual; they were unreasonable and the cow-punchers had great difficulty in making them go in the right direction. It was desperate work for the air was filled with smoke and dust and since the sun and the distant mountains were hidden from sight they were not always sure of the direction. After half an hour of desperate work they had managed to pilot four thousand head safely into Piñon Valley and start them on the way to the upper plateau. But the other two thousand head seemed trapped. The narrow strip of grass along which they had driven the rest of the parada was now burning feverishly.
Hank Brodie at once sized up the situation. There _13.png)
was but one thing to do and he at once gave the order. "Cut the fence along Crooked Creek and stampede the rest of the herd across Crooked Creek into the timber on the side of the mountain."
The head cow-puncher knew very well that this was a dangerous thing to do for if the fire ever jumped the creek and caught the tall trees on the steep slopes the forest would prove a veritable fire trap, but it was the only chance so they shouted and waved their camp blankets at the cattle until they got them started across Crooked Creek. And none too soon for when the last head had crossed the river the cow-punchers themselves had to ride for their lives to escape the flames.
But the fire did its work very quickly and in two hours from the time it was first discovered it had spent its fury and only a smoldering ember here and there told of how fiercely the flames had burned an hour before. As soon as the earth would permit of the passage of cattle over it the two thousand head on the side of the mountain were driven back over Crooked Creek and headed for Piñon Valley and thence to the upper plateau. It was sundown when the parada of the Crooked Creek ranch had finally been made secure.
A madder set of cow-punchers than Hank Brodie's men could hardly have been found in Wyoming as they came in. Their expletives against Fritz Ganzer and his family were picturesque and wholly outside the domain of print.
Immediately after supper the cow-punchers saddled their broncs and started to interview the German. Hank insisted that they leave their guns behind and he himself carried but one which he had concealed under his vest. They intended to make a thorough job of the Ganzer family this time and run them out of the country.
But the wary little German had foreseen this move and when they arrived at the cabin they found it forsaken. He had driven away his horses and cattle and moved all his furniture and they saw every evidence that he had left the country for good, so the cow-punchers returned to the ranch house without wreaking their vengeance upon the man who had so nearly destroyed the parada of the ranch, but this much had been accomplished, they had apparently got rid of him for the present.