LITMIR.BIZ

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wearing away the soft rock until the little stream now flowed innocently at the bottom.

      Unpacked and camp set up, Dewey crossed the creek for a look at the corrals and the wall. Squab pointed to the Indian picture cut halfway up the wall. Dewey saw the crude outlines of an eagle and snake, carved taller than a man, and the eagle had a long arrow shot through its body.

      “Indian letter,” Squab said. “Means snake shot an arrow through eagle.”

      “Oh, sure,” Dewey said.

      He wondered what it really meant. He doubted that Squab knew. But most of all, he wondered how those ancient Indians ever got down the side of that sheer cliff some three hundred feet to carve the picture. That was the wonder in his mind; that was another mystery of the west.

      “You don’t think so?” Squab asked.

      “I don’t think what?”

      “That snake shot eagle?”

      Dewey grinned. “I guess it makes no difference. But I sure know what does . . . we better get to work.”

      Then Squab grinned. “Dewey shot arrow through Squab!”

      “You damned right,” Dewey said. “Let’s get the firewood. I want dinner fixed so I can start on the broncs.”

      Just like Black Brush Camp, the boys had killed and dressed a beef before Dewey arrived. He threw together a fast dinner and, after the boys ate at noon and headed out again, got to work with the broncs.

      But first he checked up on the kitchen burros. If old Benstega figured on rifling camp while he was out, well, that old demon had another guess coming.

      “Squab,” Dewey said. “We both keep an eye on ’em. If they come sneaking in, sing out.”

      “Maybe not today,” Squab said. “Look—”

      Benstega had led the others down the creek into the cottonwood and willow trees. They were chewing at the cottonwood bark and Jim Toddy reached around and took a bite off a willow tree. That willow bark was bitter and Dewey thought he finally knew why burros never seemed to get the scours. Their droppings were always well molded, as if they were constipated, but that wasn’t true. Maybe it was because they ate such things as willow bark and dishrags.

      “I still don’t trust ’em,” Dewey said. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

      Dewey crossed the creek and got to work. He roped and hackamored two broncs. He left twenty-foot drag ropes on them, and stretched a rope between two posts to tie them up so they wouldn’t break their necks before next morning. Hank nodded approval at suppertime and said, “Before you start on ’em, ride out with us in the morning, see how it goes in case we need you.”

      “Different from the Black Brush?” Dewey asked.

      “Some,” Hank said. “But hell, nothin’ ever turns out the same. We’ll want breakfast at four-thirty.”

      That cut the night short. Dewey dished out breakfast on time, saddled the old sorrel, and rode out at five o’clock to watch the boys catch wild cattle on water. They took twenty burros, and the over-all plan was somewhat like the method used in the Black Brush.

      They topped out on a mesa not far east of camp, where a known water hole stayed filled the year round. Hank deployed everybody around the hole, and the boys began working down from all sides. If they could hold any cattle thus found they would throw the burros right into the bunch. The burros were all surcingled before leaving camp, the cinches loose, of course, until they hung beef, but ready to go. So, if this trick worked, the boys just moved around the caught bunch a couple of hours, getting the wild cattle accustomed to men and horses and burros. Then Hank put two boys in the lead, two behind, and others on the flanks.

      “We just ease ’em along,” Hank said. “Let the burros lead out. Never rush these wild cattle. If one busts past a boy, then it’s time to rope and either tie that cow to a burro or flail hell out of her. If the same cow busts loose a second time and we’re lucky enough to ketch, then we damned sure tie her to a burro. Sometimes, if we have good luck on these morning water-hole hunts, we can bring the bunch into camp by ten o’clock.”

      But they had no such luck that morning. There was one old cow at the water hole, and Dewey had to make tracks back to camp and begin dinner. Squab had the saddle horses out grazing along the creek on fresh grass, and the four quarters of beef were all cleaned and covered well with blankets and packs. The fire was built and the burros hadn’t sneaked into the flour. Dewey waved his thanks to Squab and got his beef on the fire, washed up the breakfast dishes, and began fixing a big pot of beans.

      The biggest Dutch oven was fourteen inches deep. Dewey put beans and suet in the oven, clapped the lid down tight, and put a small fire underneath, live coals on top, and covered the oven over with hot ashes. No steam got away and he never added water because he covered the beans three inches deep at the start.

      In about four hours he had tender beans, and then he tossed a few boiled potatoes into the pot. They never got mushy or came apart, probably because no fresh air reached them. Dewey didn’t salt his beans until tender, and when he did salt that morning he knew the pot was coming out fine. But watching beans and cooking dinner left no time for bronc work that day. The boys came in, ate and changed horses, and hurried out for the afternoon. Dewey just got across the creek once that afternoon, then came back in a hurry when Benstega tried a raid on the biscuits and flour. Dewey said, “The hell with it,” and let the broncs go.

      “Getting started on ’em?” Hank asked him at supper.

      “Tomorrow,” Dewey said.

      “Don’t bust a leg,” Hank said.

      Dewey grinned. “Mine or the bronc’s?”

      “Well,” Jim Thornhill said. “Them broncs is hard to find so draw your own conclusions.”

      Next morning, once the boys had saddled up, Squab took the two broncs to the rope stretched between the posts. Dewey got his dinner on, checked the burros, and went right to work.

      He followed his old routine, same as back in New Mexico. The first morning he tied up a foot while the broncs were on the stretched rope. He put a rope around their necks, got behind them, and let them drag that rope until it came between their hind legs. He picked up the loose end and went for the left hind foot if possible, running to that side and putting the rope into the loop around the bronc’s neck and pulling that left hind foot up snug against the belly.

      Then Dewey got a pack saddle, cinched it up on the bronc, and started throwing a blanket over and under him. He got the bronc mad, made him rear and fight, and in doing so naturally got the bronc pretty well sweated down. Dewey rolled a smoke and went back to camp for a look at dinner, and then returned to the bronc who was standing there on three legs, eyeballs rolling white, sweat glistening on his shaggy coat. Dewey kept up the routine for two days, the broncs being turned out at night to get their feed, and on the third morning Dewey proceeded to the next lesson.

      He saddled the broncs and turned them loose, let the left hind foot down, and allowed them to buck all they wanted while getting used to the saddle feel. That afternoon he tied the left hind foot up again, put a length of rope on the pack saddle to use as a rough stirrup, and began getting up and down on them. That was always a touchy moment, coming up close, feeling them tremble and bunch their muscles as they smelled him so nearby.

      “All right,” Dewey said. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

      He patted them between the legs, under the belly, on the neck. He talked to them, soft and easy, then gruff and sharp, he did everything they were leery of. If they came along well he led one into another corral, got his saddle, and saddled up that bronc with a hackamore and two reins. Then Dewey got up and down on him until the bronc stood and took it. If that happened fairly quick, Dewey could let the hind foot down, cheek the bronc, step on him with the foot down and see if he’d stand.

      Dewey never rushed the broncs. When he got into the saddle, he let the bronc stand a bit,

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