LITMIR.BIZ

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the trees where they rubbed necks and backs against the trunks. They were still shedding winter coats and the warming weather probably made their hides itch under the thick hair.

      Dewey set up his camp just as he’d done back in New Mexico. He placed two kyack boxes on the ground and put one on top. He stored his flour, suet, and extra pans and pots in the bottom boxes; he kept cold biscuits in the top box for any boy who might come in during working hours with a pulled shoe. A man was always hungry when he had a few minutes to breathe, and Dewey wanted meat and biscuits on tap every hour of the day. Squab gathered flat rocks for the cooking fireplace and from that job headed out to pick up dry wood. Just as Dewey turned to the fresh beef he saw the rider coming down the slope into camp. Squab said, “Indian Tom,” and dropped an armload of wood beside the rocks.

      Indian Tom was part of the crew but had just come up from the reservation. He looked Dewey over when Squab introduced them, accepted cold beef and biscuits, and wolfed the food down. He was almost six feet tall and weighed about a hundred and seventy, and he was as bald-headed as any Indian Dewey ever saw. His neck hair was plaited in thin pigtails and Tom wore the ends under his leather jacket and batwing chaps, with big tapaderos on his stirrups. Tom finished his beef, took a swig of water, and rode off without a word of good-by.

      “No talker,” Squab said. “Hard worker.”

      Dewey nodded and got to work on the beef. He lowered the four quarters and took them down to the spring and washed each one thoroughly, then got his four drawstring canvas sacks and shook them out clean. He didn’t have time to cook a roast for supper, so he put a beef quarter in each bag, laid them on a blanket, and covered them over with spare blankets and pack covers. That kept the meat fairly cool during the day, and at night he would always hang them up in the trees.

      Dewey got out the cold beef and biscuits for supper. He built up the fire and had coffee going strong just before the boys rode in from their first day’s work. From today on Dewey would follow a regular cooking schedule. He’d cut meat in the morning, cook dinner and supper together. That way he would always have meat left over from dinner to warm for supper. They never moved meat from one camp to another in this country, so when that time came Dewey would take enough meat for one meal and leave the rest for animals.

      When the boys rode in Dewey saw just how tough the job was—fresh rips in jackets and chaps, deep gouge marks on the rounded noses of the tapaderos. They ate and smoked and rolled up in their blankets, all of them dead-tired and half-morose in their weariness. Hank lingered over coffee and finally said, “Get your cuttin’ horse in the morning, Dewey, come on out and see how the work’s done.”

      “I’d like that,” Dewey said.

      “But you don’ want no part of it,” Hank said. “I’m just warning you.”

      Dewey grinned. “I’m the cook, Hank. I reckon that’s true. I might go lally-gagging out there and bust a leg. Anyway, I’ll have a nice roast day after tomorrow.”

      Next morning Dewey rode out and saw the renegade cattle tied up to trees. “We got a dozen,” Hank said, “and plenty got away. Today we’ll start things moving. You watch now, in case you ever need to help out.”

      Dewey watched, and solved the mystery of bringing so many burros along. The boys had twelve cattle, no young stuff, all old cows and bulls and steers. Driver Gobet and George Spradley came up driving twelve burros and held them on one side while Jim Thornhill and the others closed in on the first cow.

      By the time a cow had fought the tree all night, its head was pretty sore and some of the fight was soothed down. Raymond sawed off an outside horn, leaving a little stump about four inches long. During this time Driver Gobet was putting a surcingle around a burro, with a breast strap in front and britching behind. There was a four-inch steel ring braided into the right side of the surcingle, halfway down the burro’s side.

      Then Thornhill rode up to the cow and dallied off, and Driver Gobet caught the free end of Thornhill’s fifteen-foot rope and pulled it through the steel ring and led the burro up against the cow. Gobet grabbed a six-foot length of rope and tied one end to the ring and the other around the cow’s horns, anchoring the cow about three feet from the burro. Thornhill took off the long rope, and they turned cow and burro loose.

      Dewey saw that the only trouble the burro had was in the beginning minutes. If the cow tried to jab that horn nub into the burro, the burro just hauled off and kicked him in the belly about ten times, and that settled matters. The cow might fight two or three times, but no more, and then every time the burro took a step the cow went right along.

      Dewey watched the first pair fight it out, then the burro lined straight for the the main ranch where he’d been fed all that good cotton-seed cake and oats. That was the simple reason for bringing the cake and oats, and feeding the burros so good before work started. Dewey went back to camp and started dinner, but he watched operations while he cooked. It didn’t take the boys long to tie up twelve burros and cows, and after that they all disappeared into the deep brush to rope more cattle through the balance of the day.

      Squab had fresh horses ready when the boys came in for dinner. They ate fast, changed mounts, and took off again. It was routine work settling into a rough and tough pattern, and Dewey realized that day how much difference there was in this country compared to New Mexico. And he woke to the fact that, compared to these men, he was about zero so far as being a real cowboy. It made him buckle down all the harder and do his best to carry his share of the load.

      Right after breakfast Raymond and George Spradley took off for the main ranch to meet the burros coming in with their cows, where they’d turn the cows into the pasture, feed the burros good, and bring them right back to camp. That was how it worked, roping the cattle, tying them to burros, taking turns going back to the main ranch and meeting the burros. Dewey sent the boys off with a big breakfast and then got started on his roast.

      He put a twelve pound rib roast on the fire and mixed his dressing. When the roast was done he poured the dressing all around and over the meat, and set the oven in the coals for thirty minutes of browning. No flavor got away and when the boys rode in at noon and began eating, their faces made Dewey grin with pleasure.

      “By God,” Thornhill said. “You can cook.”

      “I get by,” Dewey said modestly.

      “Got enough for supper?” Hank asked.

      “It’ll stretch,” Dewey said. “You like that corn-bread dressing?”

      “Fine,” Hank said. “You New Mexico cowboys can do somethin’ right.”

      The boys went out for the afternoon work and Dewey spent the rest of the day cleaning up camp, burying refuse and burning odds and ends. He watched the burros and felt he was getting on their good side. He was always kind to them, fed them cold biscuits and pieces of beef, but he knew he’d never get one to be real friendly. They were independent and their motto seemed to be: “You let me alone and I won’t bother you.” They were not like horses, but then, they were smarter in some respects. Damned smart, Dewey decided the next morning.

      He rode out with Squab to help bring in the saddle horses for the noon change. When he got back, Benstega and the other three had ransacked camp. Old Benstega was standing out behind a tree, flour all over his face and ears, and the others were close by, giving Benstega wistful looks because he’d beaten them to the good pickings. And they had left their calling card—a pile of droppings—right beside Dewey’s bedroll. Dewey knew he’d have to recook his bread, and was just lucky they hadn’t bothered anything else because supper was on the fire and too hot to grab.

      “You thieving bastards!” Dewey shouted. “I’ll—”

      Then he sat down on his bedroll and looked at Squab, and had to laugh. He’d been warned and plumb forgot to protect stuff, and old Benstega had offered him a sample of the life burros could lead an honest man. That night after supper he got Hank talking about burros, knowing that Hank knew more about the little devils than anybody else. They lay back on the blankets, drinking coffee, and Hank told about his growing up days around Winslow and how he roped wild

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