Cowpoke Justice by William Hopson

Author:William Hopson [Hopson, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Criminals & Outlaws, Rich & Famous, Social Science, Ethnic Studies, American, Native American Studies, History, United States, 19th Century
ISBN: 9781839740220
Google: aYC7DwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Pickle Partners Publishing
Published: 2019-11-01T05:25:06+00:00

CHAPTER XIV

MANY miles south of Antelope Basin the next afternoon, the trail herd foreman, Senor Miguel Gonzales, sat his wet saddle beside a stream and swore beautifully, steadily, with all the Spanish oaths in a large and well chosen vocabulary. He ran out of Spanish and switched over to good American without wasting breath. The object of his vituperation—about one hundred and fifty head of them—stood closely bunched at the edge of the stream, refusing To venture across. They Had been in that spot for more than two Hours.

“Look at them!” yelled the Senor Gonzales at the top of His lungs, switching back into Spanish again.

He gazed disgustedly at the steers and the steers gazed disgustedly back at the Senor Gonzales. The encircling ring of wet punchers, most of them in their underwear, grinned at each other. Frank Kennedy chuckled at Jeff Irwin as the Senor Gonzales shook a helpless fist. Kennedy was as bald as an onion.

“He shore can spout Her off beautiful-like,” he marveled, a bit of awe in his tone. “Purtittt cuss words I ever Heard. Must take a plumb pile of studyin’ to learn such hifalutin swearin’.”

“Mebbe yuh should try ‘em in French, Mig,” snickered Irwin to the majordomo. Irwin was the gent who had, at a trail town a few hundred miles back, tied a young burro colt by its four feet and sneaked it into Miguel’s bed while the latter was playing poker in a local bistro.

Miguel shook his fist again. “For eight long months we’ve fought them across every mud puddle between here and Texas. And now, Mother of God, we come to the last one; but do they cross? No, by God! They stand like a bunch of jackasses in a tin barn! Look at them!” he yelled.

“What the hell do yuh think I’m doin’?” said Pete Chavers the slow-witted. “Singin’ ‘em a lullaby? What’re yuh goin’ to do with ‘em?”

“Do? We’ll put them across.”

“It’s gettin’ late in the afternoon,” said Pete, shifting his barrel body over and resting its weight on the other bare foot in the stirrup. “These cayuses are purty well played out fightin’ ‘em and the others across. And the rest of the herd has scattered to feed for two or three miles ahead. Let’s lay off for a while.”

He waved a rope-calloused hand toward the distant dots, spread out for several miles in a wide swale bordered on each side by heavy timber. Some of the outfit would have to splash over to the wagon two hundred yards away, dress and get fresh mounts from the remuda, and throw them back before it got too dark. Miguel looked toward the distant herd and then focused his gaze on a movement among the trees bordering the other side of the stream some hundred yards down.

“Looks like we got company,” said Kennedy to the others.

A mounted man leading a packhorse had emerged from the fringe of willows and was riding toward them; and the eyes of the trail crew went to the newcomer.

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