Silver Moon by Sigmund Brouwer

Author:Sigmund Brouwer [Brouwer, Sigmund]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sigmund brouwer, sam keaton
Publisher: Sigmund Brouwer
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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This appeared no different from dozens of other fall roundups I’d seen. In the bowl of a small valley, hundreds of cattle were milling in a large, dusty circle, the result of a a week’s hard work by a couple dozen ranch hands.

Spring or fall, the roundup process was the same. Ranch hands fanned out to all points of a compass, gathering steers, bulls, cows and yearling calves, then driving the cattle in small bunches to this common meeting place.

Once here, when the cattle were moving in a tight circle, the frenzied bawling of the calves and the bellowing of the bulls would subside some, and it only took a few men riding the outer edges of the circle to keep the herd grazing together as more cattle were driven in from the outer edges of the range.

In the spring, it was a time to separate new calves from their mothers for branding, to rope and castrate and dehorn, to sort one ranch’s cattle from another. In the fall roundup, the marketable steers were cut from the herd and readied for a drive to the railhead.

As I rode down the small hill into the center of the valley, a maverick yearling broke loose from the herd. Within seconds, a cowhand began to gallop in pursuit, making sure to keep the yearling between his horse and the herd. He matched his horse’s speed to the yearling’s, and galloped alongside, edging closer and closer until it forced the maverick back to the herd. It was something that happened more than occasionally, and exhausted not only the horses, but the men.

I looked for the trail boss, and decided he was the man sitting on a horse nearby the remuda, the three or four horses per man that the outfit would supply to keep the cowboys on fresh animals. If this man wasn’t the boss, he was at least far enough away from the herd that I wouldn’t have to chew dust as I talked.

I drew near, and he acknowledged me with a nod of the head.

“Afternoon,” I said, speaking loudly to be heard above the bawling of cattle. “You mind directing me to the whereabouts of Clayton Barnes?”

“Not at all,” he said. His dirt-smeared face was drawn. Cowboys took what little sleep they could snatch between guard duty, and any foreman worth his salt didn’t make exceptions for himself. “You won’t mind me asking the reason? I ain’t a prying man, but he is part of this outfit, and I can’t afford trouble.”

“No trouble,” I said. “He turned in a dead man’s horse a few days ago. As marshal, I’d like to ask him a few questions, is all.”

“Marshal?”

I opened my vest and showed him the badge that I had pinned inside.

“You’re the snake-shooter,” he said. “I heard about it.”

“Couple of lucky shots.”

He nodded. We’d both said enough on that subject. “Marshal, you’ll find Barnes working a draw maybe three miles northeast. It’s a tangle of scrub brush, and there’s a least a dozen of the wildest cattle of the bunch holed out there.

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