6
One Friday afternoon, an old pal of mine shows up at our home ranch where I am breaking colts: Ray Rice, whose father is one of the best cowmen in the business and has a big ranch on the Platte River many miles from our home ranch. Ray is one of my closest friends, a peach of a rider and an all-around cowhand.
We don’t agree about breaking horses, as Ray just wants to throw and saddle and ride, which scares a horse to death and in my book is a lousy way to treat a horse. This is about the only thing we don’t agree on, so we leave the breaking of horses out of our conversation.
I know from past experience my friend has something on his mind, so I call it a day and we go in to prepare our dinner. While dinner is cooking we partake of a couple of liberal portions of Yellowstone, which Brother Bud gave me on my last visit to the village we call home, and my friend spills his mission, or plan, even before we eat.
It seems Ray met a gal at a dance in our town. Evidently she has what it takes to make a cowpuncher ride a hundred miles, for on Saturday night just thirty miles from our home ranch a bunch of sheepherders are giving a dance, and my pal Ray has promised his new girl he’ll be there.
That sheep men have to live, there is no doubt, for they can always be found on the fringe of a good cattle range where the damned sheep spoil the range by grazing the grass too close. Then, there is the smell. No respectable horse or cow will ever eat or drink where a sheep has been. The cow business and sheep business simply don’t mix, and I know we have no business going over to a sheep camp to dance. This friend of mine is nuts just because a silly dame has asked him over to a dance where there are nothing but sheep men who hate our guts even before they see us. Going into a hostile camp to see any gal is not for me, so I refuse and he shuts up on the subject until breakfast Saturday morning.
Away we go again. He is not only back on the subject, he wants to ride one of our best horses. If I will go with him, we will stay only a short time and then back to our ranch, thirty over and thirty back. And there is nothing over to the big sheep ranch I can’t do without.
I offer to go to town and put the bite on Brother Bud for some dough and take a train to Sidney, Nebraska, where the boys have open shop and a fellow can get a suitcase full of booze if necessary. This doesn’t interest my pal, so by three in the afternoon, I agree to loan him one of our best horses and go along for the trip, providing he and his girl make love fast and we get the hell out because I don’t like the smell of sheep and neither do my horses.
I give Ray Keno, one of our best horses, and take War Whoop for my mount, and we start out on two of the best trained and toughest horses on our ranch. With plenty of time we hit a leisurely gait to Ray’s vision of a sheepherder’s delight. On two top horses the thirty miles of open range go fast. Then we reach a fence with sheep wire on the bottom and we know whatever is going to happen will not be long in coming. The night is dark as the proverbial black cat. Which way to a gate? We guess and guess right, for in about a mile we not only find a gate but see a dim light in the distance. This, Ray says, is home sweet home to the sheep men and is where we will find peace and contentment and his new doll. Taking it easy toward the light where we won’t strike a wire fence, we are pretty safe, for our horses can both see better than we can at night and a fence is something they know all about. Getting closer to our light we can see, off to the left, some haystacks and sheep corrals. So, riding to a spot not too far from the house, we drop the reins of our horses. I know they will be there no matter what happens. Come hell and high water, they will be waiting. Ray is all dolled up like Puss Irwin’s butler. He even has on a tie. Me, I’m in my cowboy working clothes. I throw my big pair of angora chapps over the saddle and we sally forth to rescue Ray’s dame — if she needs rescuing.
Here we find she needs rescuing less than any gal we know, at least that is the way it turns out. Keeping my eye cocked to know my way back to our horses without running into anything, I hear much shouting and laughing, when the door opens, giving us a view of a house full of females. But what attracts my attention most is the seven men heading for the sheep corrals.
As though we owned the joint, or were a special celebrity of these parts, Ray knocks on the door and we are in the midst of a bunch of gals. Ray’s virgin of doubt was there and looked pretty good. So did the gal she introduced me to, who is her best pal. They had a couple of fiddles and a beat-up piano for music, so the dance was on. We were introduced to two or three men, who showed no signs of fainting from the honor of our acquaintance.
Then the line of men returned from the sheep corrals. These fellows showed more of the same enthusiasm when we were introduced. This didn’t worry me much, as we hadn’t made a thirty-mile ride to see any men and certainly Ray was going strong, quite oblivious to any cool feeling with the male members. And the little dame is trying to show me a good time, and she don’t smell nothing like sheep. She smells real good and interesting. Ray gets me off in one corner with the news that the boys who were breaking toward the sheep corrals have their drinking whiskey hidden there, and his gal has told him just how to find the jug. As long as we’re not invited to have a drink, it’s customary to help oneself, so let’s go. I ask if his girl is going with us. Apparently not, for she had been there before. She would come later when everybody was real tight. Slipping out a side door, the way to the sheep corral and refreshments is a new path, but I watched the way the first contingent had traveled, so I lead to the low fenced corral where Ray takes over. The gal told him right. The jug is there and over three-fourths full. You would think they would offer a fellow a drink, but they hadn’t, so here goes, and I take two big swallows before I hand the jug to Ray. He is downing his first gulp when all hell breaks loose. Over the fence like a bunch of sheep come the sheep’s masters. Before I can turn around, I am knocked flat. It is so cockeyed dark a fellow can hardly see, but I could feel. I’m on my feet but quick, and not at all happy, so I do a little punching on my own when some big clown says, “I’ll teach you to make love to my wife,” and boom I hit the dirt again.
I have discovered by now it’s high time to get to our horses. I plant one in the big boy’s belly, duck out under another fellow and, running low and making time to the fence, I see a shadow going over the top. Pal Ray has had enough. He is not going to say goodbye to his gal and, as he spots me, he remarks, “Those fellows are real mean. Where are the horses?” The poor sap doesn’t even know where our horses are. This I do. As it is so dark, there is no rush. I think they are still fighting each other back in the corral. I hope they are, but good. Our horses are where we left them, and so are my hat and the chapps with a big forty-four in the right-hand pocket. Glad I brought it along for the ride. We are through the gate to the open range and I am close enough to see Ray is carrying something when he says, “Let’s have a swig.” He has escaped with the jug, three-fourths full of booze. The guy is smart. He put the jug up in front of him for a shield. Every time a sheepherder swung he hit the jug. I bet there are several broken hands among our recent hosts. My left hand feels like I had hit the jug. It’s all swollen and hurts like nobody’s business, and my left eye I know is a pip. It’s always my poor left eye that gets popped.
“And Ray, did you hear the big calf crying about his wife? Evidently this dame your recent girlfriend introduced me to was married. No wonder she wanted to hit a haystack, married to that guy!”
What a wonderful time we have had when we reach home. We have traveled sixty miles to get beaten up and acquire a jug of booze. When will I ever learn? I have the rest of the night and Sunday to put a poultice on my eye and soak my hands for Monday. Bud is bringing some horse buyers out to buy some of our wild horses. Corralling this bunch of wild babies is real work, and if my hand is no good Bud will have to do all the roping, which isn’t going to make him very happy. When he sees my eye, I know I’m going to catch hell for going near a sheepherder’s whiskey. It has finally dawned on Ray that his girl told the gang where we were. She wasn’t so hot for my friend or had found it safer to cry wolf. Anyway he is through with girls. Nuts to him and his love affairs.
So I now have a bad eye and an awfully sore hand and may have a damned sore brother on Monday morning when he takes one look at me. This is about par for the course. He should be used to me by now. Come Monday I’ll know. Lady Luck, stay with me.