CHAPTER III
THE FIGHT IN THE COULEE
When, a few days later, Wilbur found himself standing on the platform ofthe little station at Sumber, with the cactus-clad Mohave desert abouthim and the slopes of the Sierra Nevada beyond, he first truly realizedthat his new life was beginning. His journey out from Washington hadbeen full of interest because the District Forester had accompanied himthe greater part of the way, and had taken the opportunity to explainhow varied were the conditions that he would find in the Sequoia forestto which he had been assigned. In large measure the District Forester'sespecial interest, Wilbur realized, was due to the fact that Masseth hadtold him of the boy's intention to go to college and thence through theYale Forestry School, having had beforehand training as Guard, andpossibly later as Ranger.
But, as the train pulled out of the station, and Wilbur looked over thesage-brush and sparse grass, seeming to dance under the shimmeringheat-waves of the afternoon sun, he suddenly became conscious that theworld seemed very large and that everything he knew was very far away.The strange sense of doubt as to whether he were really himself, acurious feeling that the desert often induces, swept over him, and hewas only too ready to enter into conversation when a small, wiry man,with black hair and quick, alert eyes, came up to him with the rollingwalk that betokens a life spent in the saddle, and said easily:
"Howdy, pard!"
The boy returned a friendly "Good-afternoon," and waited for thestranger to continue.
"She looks some as if you was the whole pack on this deal," was the nextremark.
"Well," replied Wilbur, looking at him quizzically, "I wasn't consciousof being crowded here."
The range-rider followed the boy's glance around the immediateneighborhood, noting the station agent and the two or three figures infront of the general store, who formed the sum of the visiblepopulation, and nodded.
"Bein' the star performer, then," he went on, "it might be a safe betthat you was sort of prospectin' for the Double Bar J."
"That was the name of the ranch," said the boy. "I was told to go thereand get a couple of ponies."
"An' how was you figurin' on gettin' to the ranch? Walkin'?"
"Not if I could help it. And that," he added, pointing to the desert, "Ishould think would be mean stuff to walk on."
"Mean she is," commented Wilbur's new acquaintance, "but even s'posin'that you did scare up a pony, how did you dope it out that you would hitup the right trail? This here country is plumb tricky. And the trailsort of takes a nap every once in a while and forgets to show up."
"I didn't expect to find my way alone," said the boy. "If nobody hadbeen here, I'd have found somebody to show me--"
"Hold hard," said the cowboy, interrupting, "till I look over thatlayout. If you hadn't ha' found anybody, you'd ha' found somebody?Shuffle 'em up a bit, pard, and try a new deal."
"But," continued Wilbur, not paying any attention to the interruption,"I fully expected that some one from the ranch would be here to meetme."
"If all your conjectoors comes as near bein' accurate as that same,"said the other, "you c'd set up as a prophet and never call the turnwrong. Which I'm some attached to the ranch myself."
"I thought you were, probably," said Wilbur, "and I'm much obliged toyou, if you came to meet me."
"That's all right! But if you're ready, maybe we'd better startinterviewin' the scenery on the trail. How about chuck?"
"Thanks," said the boy, "I had dinner on the car."
"An' you're thirsty none?"
"Not especially. But," he added, not wishing to offend his companion,"if you are, go ahead."
"Well, if you don't mind," began the other, then he checked himself. "Iguess I c'n keep from dyin' of a cracked throat until we get there," headded. "C'n you ride?"
"Yes!" said Wilbur decisively.
The cowboy turned half round to look at him with a dubious smile.
"You surely answers that a heap sudden," he said. "An' I opine that'ssome risky as a general play."
"Why?" asked the boy.
"Bein' too sure in three-card Monte has been a most disappointin'experience to many a gent, an' has been most condoocive to transfers ofready cash."
"But that's just guessing," said Wilbur. "I'm talking of what I know."
"Like enough you never heard about Quick-Finger Joe?" queried thecowboy. "Over-confidence hastens his exit quite some."
"No," answered Wilbur quickly, scenting a story, "I never even heard ofhim. Who was he?"
"This same Joe," began the range-rider, "is a tow-haired specimen whosemanly form decorates the streets of this here metropolis of Sumber thatyou've been admirin'. He has the name of bein' the most agileproposition on a trigger that ever shot the spots off a ten o' clubs. Hemakes good his reputation a couple of times, and then gets severely leftalone. To him, one day, while he is standin' takin' a littlerefreshment, comes up a peaceful and inoffensive-lookin' stranger, whohas drifted into town promiscuous-like in the course of the afternoon.He addresses Joe some like this:
"'Which I hears with profound admiration that you're some frolicsomeand speedy on gun-play?'
"Joe, tryin' to hide his blushes, admits that his hand can amble for hiship right smart. Whereupon the amiable-appearin' gent makes some sort ofcomment, just what no one ever knew, but it seems tolerable superfluousan' sarcastic, an' instantaneous there's two shots. When the smokeclears away a little, Joe is observed to be occupyin' a horizontalposition on the floor and showin' a pronounced indisposition to move.The stranger casually remarks:
"'Gents, this round's on me. I shore hates to disturb your peacefulconverse on a balmy evenin' like this yere in a manner so abrupt an'sudden-like. But he had to get his, some time, an' somebody'smeditations would hev to be disturbed. This hyar varmint, gents, what isnow an unopposed candidate for a funeral pow-wow, was a little tooprevious with his gun agin my younger brother. It's a case of plainjustice, gents; my brother was without weapons, and he--' pointing tothe figure on the floor, 'he knew it. Line up, gents, and give it aname!'"
"What did they do to the stranger?" asked Wilbur eagerly, dividedbetween admiration of the quickness of the action and consternation atthe gravity of the result.
"They compliments him some on the celerity of his shootin', and feels aheap relieved by Joe's perpetual absence. An' the moral o' this littletale is that you're hittin' a fast clip for trouble when you go aroundprompt and aggressive to announce your own virtoos. I'm not advancin'any criticism as to your shinin' talents in the way of ridin', pard, butyou haven't been long enough in this here vale of tears to be what youmight call experienced."
"I've ridden a whole lot," said Wilbur, who was touchy on the point andproud of his horsemanship, "and while I don't say that there isn't ahorse I can't ride, I can say that I've never seen one yet. I started into ride pretty nearly as soon as I started to walk."
"I don't want to mar your confidence none," replied the cowboy, "an' Ilikes a game sport who'll bet his hand to the limit, though I generallydrops my stake on the other side. But if some mornin' you sh'd find theground rearin' up and hittin' you mighty sudden, don't forget that Igave you a plain steer. Here's your cayuse."
Wilbur had been a little disappointed that the cowboy should not haveshown up as ornamentally as he had expected, not wearing goatskin"chaps" or rattlesnake hatbands, and not even having a gorgeoussaddle-blanket on his pony, but the boy felt partly rewarded when he sawhim just put his toe in the stirrup and seem to float into the saddle.The pony commenced dancing about in the most erratic way, but Wilburnoted that his companion seemed entirely unaware that the horse was notstanding still, although his antics would have unseated any rider thatthe boy previously had seen. He was conscious, moreover, that his climbinto his own saddle was very different from that which he had witnessed,but he really was a good rider for a boy, and felt quite at home as soonas they broke into the loping canter of the cow-pony.
"I understood," said Wilbur as they rode along, "that I should me
et theRanger at the ranch. His name was given to me as Rifle-Eye Bill, becauseI was told he had been a famous hunter before he joined the Service. Ithought at first you might be the Ranger, but he was described to me asbeing very tall."
"Which he does look some like a Sahaura cactus on the Arizona deserts,"said the range-rider, "an' I surely favor him none. But that mistake ofyours naterally brings it to me that I haven't what you might sayintrodooced myself. Which my baptismal handle is more interestin' thanuseful, an' I lays it by. So I'll just hand you the title under which Iusually trots, bein' 'Bob-Cat Bob,' ridin' for the Double Bar J."
"Not having risen to any later title," said Wilbur good-humoredly, "I'vegot to be satisfied with the one I started with. I'm generally calledWilbur."
"Which is sure unfamiliar to me. I opine it's a new brand on the range."He flourished his sombrero in salute, so that his pony bucked twice andthen tried to bolt. Wilbur watched and envied him the absolute ease withwhich he brought down the broncho to a quiet lope again.
"I'm going to join the Forest Service," the boy explained, knowing thataccording to the etiquette of the West no question would be asked abouthis business, but that he would be expected to volunteer some statement,"and my idea in coming to the ranch was to pick up a couple of horsesand go on to the forest with the Ranger. I understand the Supervisor,Mr. Merritt, is very busy with some timber sales, and I didn't knowwhether the Ranger would be able to get away."
"I kind o' thought you might be headed for the Forest Service, since youwas goin' along with Rifle-Eye," said the cowboy. "An' if you're goin'with him, you'll be all right."
"The Service looks pretty good to me," said Wilbur.
"I've no kick comin' agin the National Forests," said Bob-Cat, "we'vealways been treated white enough. Of course, there's always somesoreheads who want to stampede the range and gets peevish when they'rebalked, but I guess the Service is a good thing all round. It don'tappeal none to me, o' course. If I held all the cards, I'd rip downevery piece of barbed wire west of the Mississippi, let the sheepmen goto the ranges beside the canals o' Mars or some other ekally distantregion, an' git back to the good old days o' the Jones 'n' Plummertrail. But then, I sure enough realize that I'm not the only strikin'feature o' the landscape an' there's others that might have a say."
"I guess the present way is the best in the long run at that, for all Ihear," said Wilbur, "because every one now has a fair show. You can'thave cattle and sheep overrunning everywhere without absolutely ruiningthe forests. Especially sheep. They can destroy a forest and make it asthough it had never existed."
"I'm huggin' love of sheep none," said the cowboy, "an' my mental picterof the lower regions is a place what smells strong of sheep. But I suremiss my throw on any idee as to how they could do up a forest of bigtrees."
"They do, just the same."
"How? Open her up, pard, an' explain. I'm listenin' mighty attentive."
"This way," began the boy, remembering some of the talks he had heard atthe Ranger School. "When a dry year comes, if the sheep are allowed intothe forest, the grass, which is poor because of the dryness, soon getseaten down. Then the sheep begin to browse on the young shoots andseedlings, and even will eat the leaves off the young saplings that theycan reach, thus destroying all the baby trees and checking the growth ofthose that are a little more advanced. When this goes on for two orthree seasons all the young growth is gone. Since there are no saplings,no young shoots, and no seedlings, the forest never recovers, butbecomes more like a park with stretches of grass between clumps oftrees. Then, when these trees die, there are no others to take theirplace and the forest is at an end."
"How about cattle?"
"They're not nearly as bad. Cattle won't eat leaves unless they have to.And they don't browse so close, nor pack down the ground as hard withtheir hoofs. If there's grass enough to go round, cattle won't injure aforest much, but, of course, the grazing has got to be restricted orelse the same sort of thing will happen that goes on when sheep are letin."
"Never knew before," said the boy's companion, "why I ought ter hatesheep. Jest naterally they're pizen to me, but I never rightly figuredout why I allers threw them in the discard. Now I know. There's a heapof satisfaction in that. It's like findin' that a man you sure disagreedwith in an argyment is a thunderin' sight more useful to the communitydead than he was alive. It don't alter your feelin's none, but it helpsout strong on the ensooin' explanations."
"Are there many sheep out here?"
"There's a tidy few. But it's nothin' like Montana. You ought ter getRifle-Eye Bill to tell you of the old days o' the sheep an' cattlewar. The debates were considerable fervent an' plenty frequent, an' aWinchester or two made it seem emphatic a whole lot."
"Was Rifle-Eye mixed up in it?"
"Which he's allers been a sort of Florence Nightingale of the Rockies,has old Rifle-Eye," was the reply. "I don't mean in looks--but if afeller's shot up or hurt, or anythin' of that kind, it isn't long beforethe old hunter turns up, takes him to some shack near by and persuadessomebody to look after him till he gets around again. An' we've got alittle lady that rides a white mare in these here Sierras who's a sureenough angel. I don't want to know her pedigree, but when it comes toangels, she's It. An' when she an' Rifle-Eye hitches up to do theministerin' act, you'd better believe the job's done right. I neverheard but of one man that ever said 'No' to Rifle-Eye, no matter whatfool thing he asked."
"How was that?" asked Wilbur.
"It was the wind-up of one o' these here little differences of opinionon the sheep question, same as I've been tellin' you of. It happenedsomewhar up in Oregon, although I've forgotten the name o' the ranch.Rifle-Eye could tell you the story better'n I can, but he won't. It wassomethin' like this:
"There was a big coulee among the hills, an', one summer, when there'dbeen a prairie fire that wiped out a lot o' feed, a bunch o' cattle washeaded into this coulee. Three cowpunchers and a cook with the chuckwagon made up the gang. But this yar cook was one o' them fellers what'snot only been roped by bad luck, but hog-tied and branded good andplenty. He had been the boss of a ranch, a small one, but he'd fallenfoul o' the business end of a blizzard, an' he'd lost every blamed heado' cattle that he had. He lost his wife, too."
"How did she come in on it?"
"It was this way. She heard, or thought she heard, some one callin'outside, a little ways from the house. She s'posed, o' course, that itwas the men who had tackled the storm in the hope o' savin' some o' thecattle, an' she ran out o' the door to give 'em an answerin' hail so asthey could git an idee as to the direction o' the house. But she hadn'tgone but a few steps when the wind caught her--leastways, that was howthey figured it out afterwards--and blew her along a hundred feet or sobefore she could catch breath, and then she stumbled and fell. She gotup, sort o' dazed, most like, and tried to run back to the shack. But inthe blindin' snow nothin' o' the house could be seen, an' though shetried to fight up in that direction against the wind, she must have gonepast it a little distance to the left. They didn't find her until twodays after when the blizzard had blown itself out, an' there she was,stone dead, not more than a half a mile away from the house.
"The boss was near crazy when they found her, an' he never was fit formuch afterwards. There was a child, only a little shaver then, who wasasleep in the house at the time his mother run out to answer the shoutshe reckoned she heard. So, since the rancher wasn't anyways overstockedon female relations, an' he had the kid to look after, the one-time bosswent out as a camp cook an' took the boy along. He was rustlin' thechuck for this bunch I'm a-tellin' you about, that goes into the coulee.
"By 'n' by, a week or so afterward, a herd o' sheep comes driftin' intothis same valley, bein' ekally short for feed, an' the herders knocks upa sort o' corral an' looks to settle down. The cowpunchers pays 'em anafternoon call, an' suggests that the air outside the coulee is a lothealthier for sheep--an' sheepmen--an' that onless they makes up theirminds to depart, an' to make that departure a record-b
reaker for speed,they'll make their relatives sure a heap mournful. The sheepmen repliesin a vein noways calculated to bring the dove o' peace hoverin' around,an' volunteers as a friendly suggestion that the cattlemen had best sendto town and order four nice new tombstones before ringin' the curtain upon any gladiatorial pow-wow. When the cowpunchers rides back, honors iseven, an' each side is one man short.
"Now, this coulee, which is the scene of these here operations, is solocated that there's only one way out. Most things in life there's more,but in this here particular coulee, the openin' plays a lone hand. Asthe cattlemen got there first, and went 'way back to the end o' theravine, the sheepmen are nearer to what you might call the valley door.If the cowpunchers could have made a get-away, it's a cinch that they'dhave headed for the ranch an' brought back enough men with them to maketheir persuasion plenty urgent. But the herders ain't takin' any chancesof allowin' the other side to better their hand, an' when, one night, acowpuncher tries to rush it, they pots him as pretty as you please. Thecook, who's cuddlin' his Winchester at the time, fires at the flash anddisposes o' the herder, sort o' evenin' matters up. This leaves only onecowpuncher and the cook. There's still three men at the herders' camp.
"Then the cook, he indooces a bullet to become sufficient intimate withone o' the herder's anatomy, but gits a hole in the leg himself an' islaid up. The other cowpuncher runs the gauntlet an' gits out safe. Hehikes back the next day with a bunch o' boys, an' they follows up theherders an' wipes out that camp for fair, an' stampedes the herd overthe nearest canyon. Then they circles back to the coulee to pick up thecook.
"When they gits there, they surely finds themselves up against evidencesof a tragedy. The cook, he's lyin' on the floor of the shack, dead as anail, an' near him is the kid, who's still holdin' a table-knife in hishand, but who's lyin' unconscious from a wound in the head. The way theydopes it out, there's been a free-for-all fight in the place between thetwo remainin' herders an' the wounded cook, an' it looks some as if thekid had tried to help his dad by jabbin' at the legs o' the herders witha knife and been booted in the side o' the head to keep him quiet."
"How old was the youngster, then, Bob-Cat?" asked Wilbur.
"Seven or eight, I guess, maybe not so much," replied the other, "anice, bright little kid, so I've heard. But there was somethin' broke, Ireckon, by the blow he had, an' he never got over it. The boys took himback to the ranch an' doctored him the best they knew how, but they wasbuckin' fate an' had to quit, lettin' the kid git better or worse as itmight turn out."
"But where does Rifle-Eye come in?"
"This way. Just before round-up, Rifle-Eye comes along, showin' he hasthe whole story salted down, though where he larned it gits me, andproposes that sence it was the sheepmen that injured the lad, it's up tothem to look after him. At first the boys objects, sayin' that the kidwas a cowpuncher's kid, but Rifle-Eye convinces 'em that the youngster'slocoed for fair, that he's likely to stay that way for good an' all, andsence they agrees they can't ever make anythin' out of him, they letshim go.
"Then Rifle-Eye, he takes this unfortunate kid to the man that ownedthe sheep. He's a big owner, this man, and runs thirty or forty herds.The old hunter--this was all before he was a Ranger, you know--he putsit right up to the sheep-owner, who's a half-Indian, by the way, an'tells him that he's got to look after the boy. The old skinflint says'No,' and this here, as I was sayin', is the only time that any one everturned down old Rifle-Eye."
"And what happened to the boy?" queried Wilbur.
"The old hunter tries to shame this here sheep-owner into doin' theright thing, but he didn't have any more shame in him than a turkeybuzzard; an' then he tries to bluff him an' says he'll make him keep thekid, but the old sinner jest whined around an' wouldn't give any sort o'satisfaction at all. So Rifle-Eye, he shakes the dust o' that houseoff'n his feet so good an' hard that he mighty nearly shakes the nailsout of his boot-heels, an' hunts up a legal shark. Then an' there headopts this half-witted youngster, an' has kep' him ever sence."
"How long ago was this?"
"Fifteen years an' more, I reckon. The kid's big now, an' strong as abull moose, but he's a long way from bein' right in his head. He livesup in the woods, a piece back here, an' I reckon you'll find Rifle-Eyethere as often as you will at his own cabin further along the range,although he never sleeps indoors at either place."
"Never sleeps indoors?"
"That's a straight string. He's got a decent enough shack where the boyis, but as soon as it gits dark, old Rifle-Eye he jest makes a pile o'cedar boughs, builds up a fire, an' goes to sleep. For fifty years heain't slept under a roof summer or winter, an' when once he was in atown over-night, which was about the boy, as I was tellin' ye, he had toget up an' go on the roof to sleep. Lucky," added Bob-Cat with a grin,"it was a flat roof."
"Fifty years is a long time," commented the boy.
"Old Rifle-Eye ain't any spring chicken. He shouldered a musket in theCivil War, an' durin' the Indian mix-ups was generally found floatin'around wherever the fun was thickest. He was mighty close friends withthe Pacific scout, old 'Death-on-th'-Trail,' who handed in his time atPortland not long ago."
"Handed in his time?" questioned Wilbur, then, as the meaning of thephrase flashed upon him, "oh, yes, I see, you mean he died."
"Sure, pard, died. You ought ter git Rifle-Eye Bill to spin you someyarns about 'Death-on-th'-Trail.' He'll deny that he's any shakeshimself, but he'll talk about his old campmate forever."
The cowboy pointed with his hand to a long, low group of buildings thathad just come within sight.
"See, Wilbur," he said, "there's the Double Bar J."
HOW YOUNG FORESTS ARE DESTROYED.
Showing the way in which sheep and goats, having cropped the grassclose, will attack undergrowth.
_Photographs by U. S. Forest Service._]
WHERE SHEEP ARE ALLOWED.
Example of meadow stretches in midst of heavily forested mountainslopes.
_Photograph by U. S. Forest Service._]