One Man's West by David Lavender

Author:David Lavender
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bison Books
Published: 1956-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

he locates a cave. In the loose sand of the cave’s floor he digs a hole and buries part of his grain and grub. In that dry climate supplies keep indefinitely; rats and prairie dogs cannot raid the cupboard because the fine sand slides back under their paws faster than they can dig it out.

On Harve goes, repeating the performance until he has caches scattered throughout the desert. Now he is fixed for several months of riding. When he gets hungry or wants a fresh horse he heads for one of his storehouses. The half-broken cayuses he left in the fenced canyons, seeing no one for months on end, have gone wild again. Small matter. Harve fights the brutes into submission, gnaws on some of his dried food, and, tending to the cattle as he rides, moves on.

On those nights when the herd was held at Indian Creek there was a great coming and going. About the time the full moon topped the monster butte across the canyon someone stumbled over my feet, muttered “ ’Scuse!” and disappeared through the mottled shadows. I sat up. Canvas-covered beds glimmered like patches of snow in the orchard. Here and there a bed would stir, a tousled head rear up, a pair of arms stretch sleepily. That mysterious sixth sense which wakens a cowboy with the surety of an alarm clock was rousing the night herders. They pulled on boots and jumpers, the only articles of clothing they had removed on going to bed, and tiptoed toward the corrals. A cigarette glowed; spurs jingled; a horse snorted. There was a lazy roll of hoofs, and the new watch rode off to relieve the boys who were holding the cattle. Soon the spelled crew jogged home and the performance was repeated in reverse.

Before dawn we were all out. We sliced a workable-sized bunch of cattle off one of the main herds and brought them to the cut grounds near the creek. As soon as it was light enough to see we began to segregate the animals we were going to take to the Lone Cone. We selected one, and then Scorup selected one for us. Of course we took the best we could find, and he threw us the worst. In the end the animals probably averaged the same as if we’d drawn an arbitrary line through the middle of the herd and said everything north of the line was ours. But this I-pick-you-pick method is customary; it prevents shenanigans by an unscrupulous buyer or seller, and it gives each party a chance to go home secretly feeling he’s got the best of the bargain.

We brought up another bunch of cattle and another. Dust fogged; the sun climbed; sweat-streaked horses were changed for fresh ones. Four or five men cut at a time, their wise ponies slipping back and forth through the close-packed animals. A flick of the reins, a touch with the spurs, and the horse knows which steer is to go. Slowly, so as not to excite the rest of the bunch, he crowds the yearling to the edge of the herd.

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